“Something else is happening,” said Tyrcamber. The armored ogres and the umbral elves fled, retreating to the northwest and the northeast as fast as their legs could carry them, holding Shield spells to block arrows as they ran. Why not retreat straight to the north? That was the most direct line back to the Valedictor’s host, and the diagonal path left them exposed to arrow fire for longer.
The Valedictor’s mighty black dragon loosed a terrible roar and the creature dove from the sky over the horde. For a moment, Tyrcamber thought the Valedictor was going to crash his dragon into the earth, but at the last instant the great black wings unfurled, and the dragon turned to the south, flying no more than twenty or thirty feet over the ground.
It was hurtling straight towards the ram.
Arrows, Lance spells, and more of the Guardian’s lightning flew towards the Valedictor, but the dark elven noble cast a spell, and a dozen Shield spells sprang to life, whirling around him and deflecting the attacks. The dragon’s jaws yawned wide, and a blazing gout of flame rolled across the field and swept across the dragon bone weapon. Its housing went up in flames immediately, the thick wood going up like sawdust. But the golden glow around the dragon bones shone brighter, becoming hotter and more intense. As Tyrcamber watched, the dragon bones drank the fire, soaking it up like a sponge.
Even without casting the Sense spell, Tyrcamber felt the titanic power radiating from the ram of bones.
“Sir Daniel,” said Tyrcamber. “We had better…”
He never got to finish the sentence.
There was a howling noise, and the ram exploded.
He just had time to realize what had happened. The weapon of bone had absorbed the dragon’s fire, augmented it, and then blasted it into the gates of the city.
A brilliant flash filled the world, accompanied by the howl of hot wind, and the shock wave of the blast threw Tyrcamber backward. He hit the rampart and bounced, his armor clattering, and for an awful instant, he was sure he would roll over the edge of the rampart and fall to his death in the street. He clawed at the stonework and grasped the edge of the rampart, and managed to stop himself from falling. His eyes opened, and he saw debris tumbling overhead, bits of broken stone and burning wood.
He heaved himself back to his feet and looked for the gate.
Or he tried. He couldn’t find it.
The explosion had destroyed the gate.
Tyrcamber gaped in shock. The blast of fire had shattered the gate, the watch towers, and a portion of the walls for twenty yards in either direction. A cone of fire had blasted through the gate and ripped into the New City of Sinderost, and Tyrcamber saw dozens of buildings wreathed in flame. Screams and shouts rose from the northern square, where soldiers in reserve companies waited for the call to battle. The fire would have scythed through them, killing hundreds if not thousands. Tyrcamber didn’t know if the Emperor had fallen in the explosion, or maybe even the Guardian Rilmael himself.
And a huge, yawning hole had been ripped into the wall.
The Valedictor’s dragon soared up, and the dark elven lord’s beautiful, terrible voice thundered over the battlefield, driven to colossal volume by a spell.
“My warriors!” roared the Valedictor. “Advance into the city! Slaughter every last human! Kill the men, the women, and the children! Charge!”
His army let out a roar, and the goblins and muridachs and ogres began moving in a massive rush for the shattered gate.
A blare of trumpets, ragged and uneven, rang out from the burning ruins near the gate. The Emperor was still alive, or someone was still in command, and they were calling everyone to the northern square to fight off the invasion.
Tyrcamber shared a look with Daniel.
“We have to go,” said Daniel.
“Let’s move!” shouted Tyrcamber. “Serjeants of the Order, with me.”
The serjeants of the Order of Embers moved to join Tyrcamber. The common-born soldiers of the Order were the best infantry in the Empire, drilled and trained to obedience and skill. They, at least, would follow Tyrcamber’s commands without question. But the militiamen of the city and the men-at-arms on the wall wavered, looking with horror at the broken gate. They might rout and panic, fleeing to safety. Likely the army would have to do that anyway. The host of the Empire would have to withdraw into the Old City since the New City could not be held. That would let the Valedictor prepare himself to face the armies of the western Dukes, and he might be able to repulse their attempt to cross the River Nabia.
Tyrcamber pushed the worries out of his head. That was beyond his level of responsibility. Right now, he had to get to the shattered gate, to answer the summons and help the defense. Tyrcamber reached the rampart stairs, hurried down them to the street below the wall, and led his serjeants west at a jog. More serjeants and knights rushed towards the northern square, and Tyrcamber saw men withdrawing from the wall. Some of them were fleeing, trying to get through the fires burning in the New City to reach the safety of the inner walls.
Tyrcamber tried to ignore them, though rage flared at their cowardice.
Then he and his serjeants reached the northern square, and all other thoughts fled.
A scene of destruction and carnage greeted his eyes. The blast from the dragon bone ram had ripped a huge gash into the wall and sent burning debris spraying into the city. All the buildings lining the square had been destroyed by the blast, and Tyrcamber saw dozens more houses burning to the south. Hundreds of twisted, charred corpses lay on the ground, their armor half-melted from their limbs. Heat radiated from the flagstones, and the stink of burned flesh and smoke was almost overpowering.
Already thousands of goblins rushed towards the broken gate in a tide of steel.
But Tyrcamber saw that the Emperor was still alive.
He wasn’t sure how. Perhaps Rilmael had realized what was about to happen and had saved the Emperor and as many men as he could, urging them to retreat from the rampart over the gate. Or maybe Rilmael had somehow warded the Emperor and the leaders of the army with a spell more powerful than a mere Shield, and they had survived the explosion. But regardless of the reason, Rilmael and Alarius Roland were still alive, and so were the chief nobles and the Masters of the five Imperial Orders.
But many, many other men had died in the explosion. As Rilmael had said to Tyrcamber, more than once, no matter how much the Guardian regretted it, he couldn’t always save everyone.
With the tide of goblins and muridachs and armored ogres charging towards the ruined wall, the Emperor and the nobles might join the burned dead sooner rather than later. Already goblin soldiers rushed into the northern market of Sinderost, clambering over the rubble from the blast, and the Emperor and the chief nobles fought. Lance spells snapped out in fire and lighting and ice, and Sword spells sheathed blades in magical power. Rilmael unleashed deadly volleys of magic, and his spells ripped apart goblins, sending their frozen or burning bodies tumbling through the air. Yet the goblin mob was driving them back, and Tyrcamber saw one of his father’s vassals go down with an axe through the skull even as Chilmar Rigamond cut down a goblin.
“To the Emperor!” shouted Tyrcamber. “Defend the Emperor!”
The serjeants yelled in answer, and Tyrcamber sprinted into the square, sword drawn back to strike, his shield leading on his left arm. His serjeants took the goblins in the flank, and Tyrcamber killed two of them in rapid succession. For a moment, the goblin attack wavered as more companies of men charged into the square, but the sheer number of goblins and muridachs pushed the defenders deeper into the city. Tyrcamber found himself retreating, desperately trying to keep the enemy from flanking his men, but to no avail. In short order, they were surrounded as the goblins poured into the city, even as more soldiers rushed to the defense of the Emperor. Tyrcamber had no choice but to cast both the Sword and the Armor spells at once, sheathing his body and his blade in elemental flames, fighting with all the savagery and strength he could muster.
He felt his strengt
h running out, felt waves of exhaustion pour through him, the black fingers of the Malison dancing at the edges of his thoughts, but Tyrcamber fought on. If they did retreat soon, if they did not reach the Old City, then it was all over. And with the hordes of the enemy pouring into Sinderost, even retreat seemed like a remote possibility.
Tyrcamber realized that he was likely to die here, along with the chief nobles of the eastern Empire, and perhaps the Empire itself.
Then the armored ogres stormed into the square, dozens of them.
Some of them had helped pushed the dragon bone ram to the gates. Others had come from within the host to reinforce the attack. All the ogres wore steel plate armor and carried massive shields on their left arms. In their right hands, they carried massive battle axes or heavy maces, and they pushed into the fray and began killing, swinging their heavy weapons like blacksmiths hammering at hot iron.
The ogres tore into the defenders, killing with every step. The line shivered and began to collapse in a dozen places. Tyrcamber shouted for his remaining men, urging them to come to the Emperor’s aid, but it was too late.
One of the ogres strode forward, swinging his mace for the Emperor’s head. Alarius parried with Durendal, and the ancient sword sheared through the mace without slowing. The ogre stumbled with the sudden loss of weight, its yellow eyes going wide, and the Emperor killed the creature with a quick thrust of his sword. Not even the thick steel of the ogre’s cuirass could resist the edge of Durendal, and the ogre slumped, dying.
Before the Emperor could recover his balance, another ogre stepped forward and swung its war axe.
The heavy steel blade sheared through the Emperor’s neck. Alarius Roland’s head rolled off his shoulders and hit the ground, his helmet clanging against the flagstones. Blood jetted from the Emperor’s neck, and the armored corpse fell to its knees, and then to its side, Durendal tumbling from the limp fingers.
Tyrcamber shouted and attacked the ogre. The creature twisted with fluid speed despite its size, and its axe lashed out in a sideways swing. Tyrcamber jerked back and lifted his shield, which was the only thing that saved his life. The ogre’s axe clipped his shield with terrific force, and the impact tore it to kindling. Tyrcamber fell and hit the ground hard, and the ogre lunged after him, the axe coming up for the kill.
Despite the pain, despite the exhaustion, Tyrcamber raised his left hand and worked the Lance spell. The bolt of magical fire burst from his hand and shot towards the ogre’s face. The creature saw it coming and twisted, and the bolt struck its armored shoulder. The ogre roared in a fury and stumbled, and it raised the axe again, casting a spell. White mist swirled around the blade as the ogre cast the Sword spell, sheathing the heavy weapon in magical ice.
By then Tyrcamber had gotten to his feet, every inch of his body aching, his limbs leaden with fatigue. He raised his own weapon and cast both the Sword and the Armor spells simultaneously. Anything else, and the chill from the ogre’s enspelled axe would communicate itself into his arms, numbing his fingers, and he was so tired that would be fatal.
The ogre growled and lunged at him, and Tyrcamber dodged. The axe missed his head by a few inches, and Tyrcamber felt the chill of the weapon beat against his face even through his Armor spell. He thrust and felt his sword bite into the ogre’s arm, the flames of the blade making the creature’s flesh sizzle. The ogre roared its rage, stumbled for a step, and then went into a berserk fury, slashing and hammering with its axe. Tyrcamber found himself driven back, stumbling over the slain while the battle raged all around him. The ogre was too big, too fast, too strong, and he could not get a hit on the creature.
Instead, he resorted to magic, hurling spells. He cast three Lance spells in rapid succession. The ogre worked a Shield spell of its own for the first strike, and Tyrcamber’s Lance hammered against it. But his magic, even while exhausted, was stronger than the ogre’s, and his next two spells struck its cuirass. The final one burned a molten crater in the armor, and the ogre stumbled. Tyrcamber roared and drove himself forward, his sword plunging into the creature’s chest. He heard the sizzle as his Sword spell was quenched in the ogre’s flesh, felt its heartbeat shudder up his sword hilt, smelled the mixture of burned meat and the sharp tang of ogre blood.
The creature’s cry of fury filled Tyrcamber’s ears, only to turn to a bloody gurgle as it died.
Tyrcamber ripped his sword free, releasing both his Sword and his Armor spells. The New City of Sinderost had fallen, that was plain, and the surviving defenders were falling back to the Old City. Unless Tyrcamber wanted to join the slain, he would have to flee as well.
Right about then, the final bit of resistance in his exhausted mind crumbled, and the black fingers of the Malison closed around him.
He had come close to losing himself to the Dragon Curse before, using magic in battle to the very end of his stamina.
Always before Tyrcamber had drawn back at the last minute.
But not this time.
The shadows of the Dragon Curse filled his mind, and pain exploded through his body.
***
Chapter 4: Death or Torment
Tyrcamber screamed or tried to scream, but he could not get any sound through his throat.
He stumbled and fell to his knees, in too much pain to shout or even to draw breath. Fire filled his body, and he looked at his hands to see if his fingers were indeed burning. He saw only the chain mail that covered his arms, and the leather and steel gauntlets that protected his hands. The agony felt like fire flowing through his veins, as if his heart sent liquid metal through his flesh with every beat.
The Dragon Curse had him. In another few moments at the most, he would lose himself and transform into a dragon. So close to the Valedictor, the dark elven lord would dominate him with ease, and he would turn Tyrcamber against his comrades. Tyrcamber would help kill the men of the Empire, would help sack Sinderost and turn it to ashes.
No. No, he couldn’t let that happen.
When Tyrcamber had first met Rilmael, years ago, the Guardian had warned him against using too much magic, against leaving himself open to the Malison. Tyrcamber had boasted that if he ever made that mistake, he would transform into a Dragontiarna, a man who had mastered the Malison, able to shift between human and dragon form at will. Of old, the Dragontiarna had been the great champions of the Empire, the winners of some of the Empire’s greatest victories. If Tyrcamber ever fell victim to the Malison, he had vowed, he would become one of the Dragontiarna.
What a fool he had been.
What an arrogant, stupid fool.
Nothing could resist the horrible power ripping through him, tearing apart his flesh and making it into a new form. Already Tyrcamber heard something like a strange, compelling song echoing in his mind, and somehow, he knew that was how his mind interpreted the mighty aura of the Valedictor. A human could not hear that aura, but in another few moments, Tyrcamber would no longer be human.
And once he left humanity behind and became a dragon, he would have no choice but to obey that horrible, beautiful song.
He had to kill himself. He had to kill himself right now before it was too late. The Imperial Church taught that suicide was a mortal sin, that Tyrcamber would damn himself if he fell upon his sword. That was true for mortal men, but Tyrcamber was leaving humanity behind. Perhaps he was not killing himself, but instead, the horror that he was about to become.
He hoped God would see it that way, and that the Dominus Christus would have mercy upon his soul.
His sword, where was his sword? He couldn’t remember through the pain filling his mind. Tyrcamber looked at his hands, wondering if he still held it.
Wisps of golden fire danced around his fingers, seeming to leak from his gauntlets like steam from beneath the lid of a boiling pot. But his hands were empty. His sword jutted from the chest of the ogre he had killed, the ogre that had beheaded the Emperor. Tyrcamber tried to rise, intending to seize his sword, grasp the hilt, and run himself through.
His gauntlets shuddered, and he saw dark claws sprout from his fingertips, slicing through the thick leather and steel with ease.
Frantic, Tyrcamber tried to get to his feet, but could not rise. The pain made it impossible. Burning torment filled him, and he felt his body straining against his armor, heard his boots rip as talons grew from his toes. There was a horrible tight pain at the base of his back, and he realized that a tail was growing from his spine, about to erupt from his skin like a blister.
Tyrcamber had to kill himself now, but he did not have the strength to move from this spot.
He looked around, hoping to find someone who would kill him. But with the Emperor’s death, the defense had collapsed, and the surviving soldiers in the square were retreating to the Old City. Were any of the goblins nearby? They might kill him. Or, more likely than not, they would avoid him, knowing that he would soon be enslaved to their master.
A sword, he needed a sword. Even something sharp to cut his throat. His eyes were burning, blood and tears trickling down his face, and everything looked blurry. Tyrcamber tried to force his arms and legs to move, to drag himself to one of the slain soldiers, but he was in too much pain to move.
Something made a ringing sound, and Tyrcamber turned his head to see the end of a golden staff tap against the flagstones.
The Guardian Rilmael stood before him.
Rilmael looked rather the worse for wear. His armor was stained with soot and smeared with blood, whether Rilmael’s own or someone else’s, Tyrcamber could not tell. His hair and beard had been singed, and his gray cloak was in tatters. The golden sword in his right hand was stained with blue goblin blood, and his silver eyes were bloodshot from smoke and fatigue.
Malison: Dragon War Page 5
