Malison: Dragon War

by Moeller, Jonathan

  Dazed, he walked towards the entrance and stumbled outside.

  ***

  Chapter 7: Guardian

  A searing bolt of pain went through Tyrcamber’s head as he stepped outside, and he gripped the arch for balance.

  Then the pain passed, and he felt…

  He felt pretty good.

  Tyrcamber took a few steps, staring at the sea. He could not remember the last time he had felt the wind against his skin. Not much sensation traveled through the armored scales of a dragon. The wind tugged at his sweat-sodden hair, and he ran a hand through it. It had been a long, long time since he had hair.

  He heard a cloak snapping in the wind and turned and saw Rilmael.

  The Guardian stood a few yards away around the base of the tower, his staff grasped in both hands, his tattered cloak waving behind him in the wind. There was a stone bench set into the base of the tower, and a bundle of white cloth rested atop it.

  Tyrcamber took a few steps towards Rilmael. The Guardian turned his head and gazed at Tyrcamber, his silver eyes weary.

  “Sir Tyrcamber,” he said.

  A thousand different questions warred for supremacy in Tyrcamber’s mind.

  “How?” was all he could manage.

  “How long were you in there?” said Rilmael. “It’s been just under an hour.” He looked to the north, his silver eyes going hazy as he used the Sight. “The battle for Sinderost is still in the balance.”

  “An hour?” said Tyrcamber, bewildered. “But…but it’s been…”

  “How long did the visions last?” said Rilmael.

  Tyrcamber blinked. “Visions?”

  “The Chamber of the Sight has two purposes,” said Rilmael. “I have the Sight, and I can use it to augment my power, to look farther into the flow of time and the world than I could otherwise. But if you do not possess the Sight, then the magic of the Chamber can show you visions of great power and clarity. Visions that seem like they were real.”

  “It wasn’t real?” said Tyrcamber.

  “To you, it seemed utterly real,” said Rilmael. “How long did it last?”

  “I…I don’t know,” said Tyrcamber. “Twenty thousand years? Twenty-five thousand years? I don’t know. God and the saints, I can’t remember it all.”

  Rilmael nodded. “That is not an uncommon experience. Time flows differently during the visions of the Chamber of the Sight.”

  “You…you knew,” said Tyrcamber. “You knew it would be like that.”

  “I did,” said Rilmael.

  The Malison stirred within him, rising in response to his rage. “Why didn’t you warn me? You should have killed me!”

  “I did warn you,” said Rilmael. His voice was sympathetic, but his expression was unyielding. “I told you that there were two choices. One of them was death. If you had asked it of me, I would have killed you on the spot and spared you this.” He took a deep breath. “The other was to face the Malison and see if you could master it as so few have done before.”

  “You should have warned me,” said Tyrcamber.

  “I did warn you,” said Rilmael again. “I told you that there would be pain, unlike anything you could imagine, pain that would make the trials of Job in your scriptures seem like an unpleasant afternoon by comparison.” He sighed. “Did I speak any falsehood?”

  “No,” said Tyrcamber. He shuddered at the memories, at the thousands of years of blood-drenched sights that now choked his aching head. “No, you did not.”

  “I would have spared you this if I could,” said Rilmael. “I saw the potential of this moment in the shadows of your future when we met on the Tongur road all those years ago. Every man casts a thousand different shadows before him in the stream of time, but only one of those shadows will become his future. In the shadows of your future, Tyrcamber Rigamond, I saw many potential fates. Some let to your death. Some led to your loss to the Malison and the destruction of the Empire.” Again, he drew in a long breath, and for the first time, there was something like satisfaction on his face. “And in some of them, you attained mastery. As time passed and the shadows of your future darkened, I saw that your potential paths narrowed. Either you would succumb to the Malison, become a dragon, and the Empire would fall…or you would master the Dragon Curse and have a chance to save the Empire and humanity.” He looked to the north again. “And quite possibly far more than that.”

  “I killed my sister,” whispered Tyrcamber. Rilmael looked back at him. “I killed her again and again and again. Dozens of times, I think. I don’t even remember how many times. I killed you and my father and thousands of others so many times.”

  “It was a vision,” said Rilmael. “A vision that you lived, true, but still a vision. A little over an hour has passed since we left Sinderost. Your sister, as far as I am aware, is still safe in Tamisa. Which may not last if…”

  “I know that!” screamed Tyrcamber. The unsteadiness in his voice unsettled him further. “I saw the future. I lived it. I lived it over and over for thousands of years.” He shook his head, unable to grasp the enormity of the thought. “I can’t…I can’t…”

  “This was the only way,” said Rilmael. “I am sorry, but these were the only options for you. Mastery or death. It was the same for all the others.”

  “What others?” said Tyrcamber, casting a bleary look around the hilltop.

  “The others who have walked the path you now trod,” said Rilmael. “They all had to face themselves. Some endured trials like the one you just faced inside the Chamber of the Sight. Others had to confront themselves in the depths of their minds, in struggles that lasted thousands of years to their perspectives but passed in the blink of an eye. The magic of this world was never meant to be used by anyone, Sir Tyrcamber. Not cloak elves, not dark elves, not humans, no one. It exacts a heavy price for its use, a price that you have paid and that will leave its scars upon you for the rest of your days. Since you are now one of the Dragontiarna Knights, it is up to you to decide what to do next.”

  Tyrcamber blinked. “The Dragontiarna? No. I’m…not…” The Dragontiarna were the great heroes of the Empire, those few who had fallen to the Malison only to master it.

  That wasn’t Tyrcamber. He had lost himself to the Dragon Curse, become the Valedictor’s enslaved dragon for thousands of years.

  Over and over again.

  The realization flickered at the edges of Tyrcamber’s mind just as the Malison had once done.

  “Yes,” murmured Rilmael. “You begin to understand.”

  Tyrcamber was not a Dragontiarna. The Dragon Curse had mastered him, not the other way around. But he had willed himself back to human form within the Chamber of the Sight. He felt the Malison burning through him, and he heard the Valedictor’s song inside his head, but he was in no danger of losing himself to the Malison and heeding the Valedictor’s aura.

  He had mastered them both.

  Tyrcamber had learned to master the Dragon Curse, slowly, over thousands of years of pain and blood and suffering. He knew that the Malison was his to command now, that he could become a dragon when he willed and return to his human shape.

  “The cost was hideous,” said Rilmael, “but you paid it, and you are now a Dragontiarna.”

  Tyrcamber said nothing, shivering. He remembered his boast to Rilmael on the Tongur road, uncounted thousands of years ago, how he would master the Malison, how he would become like one of the Dragontiarna who had defended the Empire and defeated the Dragon Imperator.

  What a fool he had been. What an arrogant, oblivious fool.

  “What,” whispered Tyrcamber. His voice cracked. “What should I do now?”

  “That is entirely up to you,” said Rilmael. “As it always has been. Traditionally, the Dragontiarna Knights of the Empire have been sworn to the Emperor and no one else, but the Emperor is dead, and the Empire itself might soon follow.”

  Tyrcamber frowned. The Emperor? Then he remembered. The Emperor had died in the fighting after the Valedictor’s ram
had shattered the northern gate. Tyrcamber had killed the ogre who had slain the Emperor, but in the process, his exhausted mind had drawn too much magical power into itself, and his ordeal had begun…

  He raked his fingers through his sweaty hair again, trying to get his reeling thoughts in order. Tyrcamber had seen Rilmael die, the Empire fall, and his sister burn, but none of those things had happened yet. Maybe they would never happen. The Chamber of the Sight had forced him to live through potential future after potential future.

  Potential…

  Could he avert it?

  Sinderost was going to fall. There seemed no way to avoid it. Yet in all those potential futures, Tyrcamber had been fighting under the control of the Valedictor. Now the Valedictor could no longer control him, and the Malison was Tyrcamber’s to command.

  What would happen if Tyrcamber fought against the Valedictor?

  Hate and rage rose to drown his confusion.

  His sister was still alive…and so was the Valedictor.

  The Valedictor, who had enslaved Tyrcamber for millennia. Who had forced him to burn Adalhaid, who had made him destroy and kill his own people.

  The Valedictor…who perhaps could yet be stopped.

  “What can I do?” said Tyrcamber.

  “What do you wish to do?” said Rilmael.

  “Take me back to Sinderost,” said Tyrcamber. “The Chamber of the Sight showed me one future. I will create another.”

  Rilmael nodded. “As you wish, then.” There was a glint in his eye. Tyrcamber recognized it. It was the gleam of a warrior heading to battle with an unexpected advantage. “But you can hardly charge into battle naked.”

  Perhaps Tyrcamber could, though. The Malison burned through him, and Tyrcamber knew that meant he could use magic without fear of succumbing to the Dragon Curse, for he had already fallen to it and come out on the other side. And if he took dragon form again, he would have no need of sword and armor or even clothing. A shiver of anticipation went through him, driven by his rage. For millennia he had burned and destroyed the soldiers of the Empire.

  Now he would have the chance to destroy the soldiers of his hated enemy.

  “In ancient days, long before humans ever came to this world,” said Rilmael, turning towards the bundle on the stone bench, “the Dragontiarna Knights of the cloak elves wore this armor.”

  Tyrcamber blinked. “I thought…I thought the cloak elves were immune to the Malison.”

  “They are not,” said Rilmael. “They would like humans to think so, but they are not. Anyone who uses the magic of this world is vulnerable to the Malison. The elven kindreds are more resistant to the Malison than humans, aye, but we are still vulnerable to it. I am immune to the Malison, but only because the mantle of the Guardian protects me.” He reached down and opened the bundle. “But the Dragontiarna Knights were once the most powerful warriors of Cathair Kaldran, and they needed armor forged to their needs.”

  Tyrcamber gazed at the contents of the bundle. He saw a cuirass made of overlapping plates of golden metal, similar to the battered one that Rilmael wore but more ornate. There were gauntlets of the same metal, and boots fitted with greaves. The white cloth was a cloak that seemed to somehow repel any substance other than itself, and a golden sword in a scabbard of black.

  “The armor and sword of a Dragontiarna Knight,” said Rilmael. “Forged to help channel and control your power. When you change shape to become a dragon, the armor and blade will come with you, and return once you resume human form.”

  “Thank you,” said Tyrcamber. He could not think of anything else to say.

  “It is not a gift, but something you have earned with great pain,” said Rilmael. “Get dressed quickly. Sinderost may yet be saved, but we must act with haste.”

  Tyrcamber nodded and got dressed. There were trousers and a tunic, and then a padded gambeson to support the armor. He pulled on the cuirass, donned the boots, wrapped the sword belt around his waist, and slid the gauntlets onto his hands. There was a helmet as well, with stylized eagle’s wings rising from the side, and Tyrcamber put that on his head.

  He hesitated and then drew the sword.

  The weapon’s balance was perfect, and it rested in his fingers as if it had been made to fit his hand. The blade had been fashioned of a strange silvery-blue metal, and the edges had a peculiar shimmer to them as if they had been made of crystal or perhaps gems.

  “The sword’s name is Kyathar,” said Rilmael. “It has been borne by the Dragontiarna Knights of old, and they wielded it in many battles against the armies of the Dragon Imperator. Now it is yours. You are ready?”

  Tyrcamber hesitated, sliding Kyathar back to its sheath. It was a simple question, but he felt the weight of it.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Then we will depart at once,” said Rilmael. “Hold still.”

  He stepped closer and put his free hand on Tyrcamber’s shoulder, his other gripping the dragon-headed staff. Gray light flashed around the Guardian, and the world disappeared before Tyrcamber’s eyes.

  ***

  Chapter 8: Shield of Flame

  Once more Tyrcamber felt that strange sense of dislocation, of being torn apart and cast in different directions.

  This time, though, it didn’t hurt at all.

  The gray light faded, and Tyrcamber found himself standing on a burning street. The houses on either side of the street crackled with flames. Tyrcamber realized that he was standing in the main street that led from Sinderost’s northern square to the gates of the Old City. Once more Rilmael’s magic had carried him hundreds of miles in the blink of an eye, faster than Tyrcamber could have flown in dragon form.

  “That…that didn’t hurt this time,” said Tyrcamber, looking around.

  “Magical travel is an immense strain on the human mind,” said Rilmael. “You are no longer entirely human, Sir Tyrcamber.”

  Tyrcamber turned, the white cloak swirling around him, and looked towards the Old City. He expected to see it in flames, the towers of the Imperial Palace reduced to stone shells, smoke rising from the corpses of thousands of slain soldiers. Instead, he saw that the Old City was untouched, its gates closed and unbroken.

  Yes. That was right. The city hadn’t actually fallen. Tyrcamber had experienced its fall dozens of times in the Chamber of the Sight, but it hadn’t happened yet.

  But it looked like it would happen soon.

  The northern gate of the New City was smashed, and goblins and muridachs poured into the square. Men still fought on the northern ramparts, but the goblins and troops of armored ogres pushed their way from watch tower to watch tower. Tyrcamber looked to the east and saw fighting along the entire wall overlooking the River Bellex. The men there were still holding, but it looked as if the Valedictor’s assault across the river was going well.

  Tyrcamber had expected to see the army of the Empire in full retreat to the Old City, but someone had taken command and stopped the soldiers from routing. Tyrcamber saw a defensive line forming to block the street, and he spotted his father standing behind the soldiers with Master Ruire of the Order of Embers. Beyond them, in the northern square, Tyrcamber saw goblins and muridachs forming up for an attack.

  “It seems your father is trying to hold long enough for the entire army to withdraw into the Old City,” said Rilmael.

  Tyrcamber shook his head. “That won’t work. If they do, the Valedictor will besiege the Old City and repulse the western Dukes’ army. I have seen it happen dozens of times.”

  “Then what do you suggest?” said Rilmael.

  “We attack,” said Tyrcamber, “and we kill the Valedictor.”

  He did not wait for a response but strode towards the defensive line.

  “I have serjeants from the Order holding the eastern market,” said Ruire as Tyrcamber approached. The Master’s bald gleamed with sweat, partly from the exertion of the battle, partly from the heat radiating from the burning houses.

  Chilmar Rigamond shook his head. “Better
to withdraw here. The defenders on the eastern wall are holding. If the goblins attacking from the river break past them, then the New City is lost in any event. We will have to make our stand here long enough for the rest of the men to withdraw into the Old City. Then we can await the western Dukes.”

  “We will lose the men on the eastern wall,” said Ruire.

  “We’ll lose them in any event,” said Chilmar. “We…” He trailed off and saw Tyrcamber and Rilmael approaching. “Guardian. There you are. I thought you had been slain in the northern market.” His hard eyes flicked to Tyrcamber. “Have you finally brought more cloak elves to our aid? It would be helpful if your kindred could bestir themselves from Cathair Kaldran to…” A thunderous scowl went over his face. “Tyrcamber? What the devil are you doing wearing that armor, boy? Are…”

  Master Ruire sucked in a startled breath. Chilmar’s annoyed tirade trailed off into shock. Tyrcamber wondered why.

  Oh, that was right. His eyes had turned golden.

  “It will not work,” said Tyrcamber. “I have seen the fall of the city. If you withdraw into the Old City, the Valedictor will trap you there and easily repulse the western Dukes’ attempt at a river crossing. There is only one way forward.”

  “What the devil?” said Chilmar again. “What is going on, Guardian?”

  “There has not been a Dragontiarna Knight in the Empire since the fall of the Dragon Imperator when you were a boy, Duke Chilmar,” said Rilmael. “That has changed.”

  “If we cannot withdraw into the Old City,” said Ruire, “then what do you suggest?”

  “We attack,” said Tyrcamber, “and we kill the Valedictor. I owe him a debt of torment you cannot imagine.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Chilmar. “You’re not making any sense, boy.”

  But Tyrcamber had no further need for words.

  He shoved his way through the defensive line, pushing his way past shields and spearmen and swordsmen. The serjeants and the men-at-arms cursed at him, and then fell silent when they saw his golden armor and his eyes. Once he was clear of them, Tyrcamber kept walking to the north, and he reached down and drew Kyathar from its scabbard on his belt. The silvery-blue blade let out a strange chiming noise, almost like a crystal tapped by a spoon, and Tyrcamber felt the sword draw on the inferno of the Malison that filled him. The power flowed into the sword, and the blade erupted into harsh orange-yellow flames. It was as if he had cast the Sword spell over the blade, but it was nothing Tyrcamber had done.