Dietrich laughed again. “Can the ant pronounce judgment upon the sun? Can the worm pass sentence upon the falcon? Fall to your knees and worship me, and perhaps I shall be merciful.”
Olivier spat upon the floor. “I’ve killed dragons before. Killing a madman who thinks that he’s a god won’t be that much harder.”
Dietrich’s burning eyes fell upon the dwarf-lance in Olivier’s hand.
“Be ready,” murmured Rilmael, more lightning blazing around his staff. “The only way to kill him permanently is an enspelled weapon through the brain or the heart. He’ll be able to heal anything else.”
“You think to threaten me with your little dwarven stick?” snarled Dietrich, rage filling his voice. “And you, Guardian! Whispering in ears and spinning your little webs. I know you think to use mankind as a shield against your enemies! I shall break your leashes and transform mankind into a race of dragon gods.”
“You won’t,” said Rilmael, his voice hard but calm. “No one can wield the power of the Malison. Not humans, not dark elves, not cloak elves. No one. The power destroys and corrupts all it touches, and it can only be mastered through great pain and sacrifice. Innocent people have died, Sir Dietrich. Turn aside from your path before you are destroyed irrevocably as well.”
Dietrich let out a screaming laugh. “Then you shall perish with the rest of these fools, Guardian!”
He took a step forward, the golden fire erupting from his eyes and hands, and Dietrich seemed to explode.
His body swelled to immensity, and he became a massive dragon armored in crimson scales, forty feet long from his fang-filled snout to the tip of his spiny tail. The flagstones cracked and shattered beneath the black talons of his forelimbs and his back legs, and his great wings stretched from one end of the hall to the other.
“Behold!” boomed Dietrich, and his voice filled the air like thunder. “Behold the might of a Dragonmaeloch!”
“Slay him!” shouted Faramund, and the knights and men-at-arms raised their weapons or began casting spells.
Dietrich roared, his serpentine neck coiling back, and his jaws opened wide. A stream of white-hot flame exploded from his jaws, and Tyrcamber started casting the Armor spell to protect himself.
But the Dragonmaeloch had not been aiming at the Duke and his men.
The stream of fire swept across the ceiling, and the rafters and the planks caught fire. The ceiling became a sheet of howling flame, and Dietrich leaped into the air. His bulk crashed into the ceiling, and the rafters and planks shattered.
An avalanche of burning debris poured into the hall.
***
Chapter 9: Fire and Sword
Tyrcamber flinched, and then magic exploded from the Guardian of Cathair Kaldran.
Rilmael shouted and struck his staff against the ground, and a translucent blanket of hazy white mist spread a dozen feet above Tyrcamber’s head. The mist hardened into a sheet of ice, and the rain of burning debris fell into it. Some of the rafters punched through the ice and clattered against the floor, but the ice held most of the burning wreckage at bay.
But cracks spread through the ice.
“Out!” roared Rilmael. “It will not last long. Move, move, move!”
Tyrcamber hesitated but saw Adalhaid and her nurses retreat through a side door near the dais, two of the nurses carrying the children. Satisfied that his sister and her children were going to escape the ruin of the great hall, Tyrcamber sprinted for the doors to the courtyard. The Duke and the others ran as well, the ice creaking and groaning over their heads. As they ran, Tyrcamber heard another booming roar from outside, followed by the howl of a jet of flame.
Dietrich was attacking the castle.
Tyrcamber sprinted into the courtyard, sword in hand, and kept running as the others poured out of the great hall behind him. A red shadow shot overhead, and he saw the Dragonmaeloch swooping lower over the top of the central keep. More fire leaped from Dietrich’s jaws, and the flames swept across one of the towers in the curtain wall. At once the interior of the tower went up in flames, and the dragon fire clung to the stone cylinder, transforming it into a blazing torch.
A terrible crash came to Tyrcamber’s ears, and he turned to see Rilmael’s ice shatter, the burning timbers smashing against the floor of the great hall. It looked as if everyone had gotten out of the hall alive. Several the knights and men-at-arms were supporting wounded men. Tyrcamber hoped no one had been left to burn alive inside the hall, not even the cultists.
Though they had helped transform Dietrich into a Dragonmaeloch, so it would only be fitting that they died in his fire.
“Armor spells!” shouted Faramund, pointing with his sword. “All of you, hold Armor spells against fire! Aim for the dragon’s wings! Bring him down!”
“I will get Thunder Cloud!” said Olivier, and the Knight of the Griffin raced across the courtyard, heading for the stables where he had secured his griffin. Olivier and Thunder Cloud had handled themselves well against the manticores, and perhaps they could repeat that success against Dietrich.
But a Dragonmaeloch would be a far more dangerous foe than a manticore.
Rilmael thrust his staff towards Dietrich’s circling form. Freezing mist hurtled up the length of the staff and hardened into a spike of ice as long as a ballista bolt. The spike of ice shot upward and punched through Dietrich’s left wing without slowing, leaving a hole the size of a man’s head. The dragon roared in rage and the knights and men-at-arms with skill in water magic all cast spells. A volley of ice Lances hurtled towards the Dragonmaeloch, and some shattered against his scales, but a half-dozen punched through the leathery black wings. The dragon screamed again, his wings folding, and dove. Dietrich landed atop the keep, a few stones falling from the drum tower with the force of his impact, the combination of the sky fire and the flames consuming the interior of the great hall illuminating his scales.
The dragon’s head shot forward and breathed a sweeping cloud of flames across the courtyard. Tyrcamber had already cast his Armor spell, and he braced himself as the flames rushed across him. The fire of a Dragonmaeloch was intense, more potent than anything Tyrcamber had ever encountered, but he braced himself, and the elemental power of his Armor spell turned it aside, though the black fingers of the Malison brushed at the edges of his mind.
Not all the men were as fortunate. Some worked Armor or Shield spells to protect themselves and stood fast against the fires. Others fell to their knees, screaming and thrashing, as the fires overwhelmed their magical strength and consumed them. The horrible stink of burned flesh and hair filled Tyrcamber’s nostrils, and he turned, trying to find a way to strike at the dragon.
Dietrich roared again and leaped into the air, wings flapping, and Rilmael cast a spell. This time a roiling sphere of white mist the size of a horse hurtled from his staff and struck Dietrich’s right side. The mist hardened into glittering white ice, and Dietrich’s right wing froze, stuck halfway between open and closed. The Dragonmaeloch’s roar redoubled in volume, and Dietrich fell from the air, landing with a crash against the southern curtain wall. His impact smashed a stone watchtower to broken pieces, but the jade wall of the xiatami held against his weight, and Dietrich scrabbled around to meet them, his talons ripping furrows in the earth of the courtyard.
“Take him!” said Faramund, rushing towards the Dragonmaeloch, the harsh light of his Armor spell surrounding him. “Before he can take to the air again!”
Tyrcamber yelled and joined the charge towards the Dragonmaeloch. Lance spells cracked and snapped and flashed across the distance, and some of them struck hard enough to rip through the dragon’s armored scales and bite into his flesh. Rilmael hurled a whirling globe of lightning that hit the dragon’s shoulders, and Dietrich reared back with a scream of pain as the lightning crawled up and down his flesh. Tyrcamber heard the dull twang of crossbows, and a dozen quarrels punched into the dragon’s sides. Some of the men-at-arms atop the ramparts had seized crossbows and were already rel
oading their weapons.
Dietrich shook off the effects of Rilmael’s lightning spell, but by then the knights and men-at-arms closed around him. Swords rose and fell as men hacked at the dragon’s head and sides, trying to land a telling blow. Tyrcamber did not bother with any Lance spells since the Dragonmaeloch would be able to shrug off elemental fire. Instead, he aimed a swing at Dietrich’s thrashing head, and his blade dug a furrow into the dragon’s neck. The heart or the brain, that was what Rilmael had said. Else the Dragonmaeloch could heal anything they did to him. Already Tyrcamber saw golden fire spreading across the wings, the wounds from the lance spells closing and shrinking. Tyrcamber aimed another swing at Dietrich’s neck, and the dragon bellowed. His massive head, larger than Tyrcamber’s entire body, swung towards him like a colossal mace, and Tyrcamber had no choice but to fling himself flat against the ground. He tried to stab up as Dietrich’s head passed overhead, but he could not get enough force behind his blow, and his sword point deflected off the armored scales.
The dragon surged forward with a roar, and one of its massive forelimbs descended like a hammer. Tyrcamber cursed and threw himself to the side, and the Dragonmaeloch’s massive paw struck the ground in front of his face, perhaps no more than an inch from his nose. Tyrcamber started to draw back his sword to strike, but by the time he did, Dietrich had taken back to the air. His fire swept across the courtyard, and Tyrcamber heard the screams as more men died in the flames.
Then a different cry rang out, higher and shriller, but no less full of rage.
Tyrcamber looked to the north and saw Thunder Cloud soar over the courtyard, Sir Olivier of Falconberg riding on her back with the dwarf-lance in his right hand.
At the last minute, Dietrich saw Thunder Cloud approaching and turned, and the dwarf-lance that had been aimed at his skull instead raked across his neck. The glyphs carved on the blade burned hotter, and the dwarf-lance sliced through the armored scales as if they made been made of paper.
Pain filled the dragon’s roar, and Dietrich twisted around and launched himself at Olivier and Thunder Cloud.
Tyrcamber watched the duel rage overhead, his hand tight against his sword hilt, but he could do nothing to intervene. Dietrich was as fast as Thunder Cloud, but the Dragonmaeloch was far less nimble than the griffin, and Olivier flew circles around the dragon. As he did, he slashed with the dwarf-lance, the weapon telescoping to its maximum length, and the blade bit into the Dragonmaeloch again and again. The dragon’s scales proved no defense against the dwarf-lance, and the wounds the weapon dealt healed far slower than any other damage Dietrich had taken.
The griffin and the dragon moved so fast that the men on the ground dared not throw Lance spells or loose crossbow bolts for fear of hitting Olivier. Yet Rilmael cast spell after spell and lightning bolts hurtled down from the sky fire, unfailingly striking Dietrich. The Dragonmaeloch shrugged off the lightning bolts, but the impacts made him thrash, slowing him long enough for Olivier to land a hit.
Dietrich was slowing. Tyrcamber could see it. The Dragonmaeloch could heal from nearly anything, but the combination of Rilmael’s lightning and Olivier’s dwarf-lance was slowing Dietrich. Even better, the dragon was flying lower and lower, his wings clawing at the air as he tried to maintain altitude. Just a little more, just a little lower, and Olivier could land a killing blow with his dwarf-lance.
Then Thunder Cloud was just a little too slow.
The Dragonmaeloch had dropped to almost the height of the curtain wall. Thunder Cloud swooped around him, Olivier leveling the dwarf-lance for another strike. Dietrich spun, his tail lashing like a whip, and the end of it caught Olivier across the chest. The impact ripped the Knight of the Griffin from the saddle and sent him tumbling through the air. Tyrcamber feared the strength of the blow would hurl Olivier over the curtain wall and into the city, but he struck the battlements and landed on the ramparts, the dwarf-lance clattering from his hand.
Dietrich landed in the courtyard, quivering with exhaustion and pain, and started killing. Fire lanced from his jaws, sweeping across the knights and men-at-arms. More men died as their Armor and Shield spells failed beneath the strain. Other knights died as Dietrich struck with his talons, his tail snapping back and forth like a tree-sized whip. Rilmael hit the dragon with more lightning, but without the added wounds from Olivier’s dwarf-lance, Dietrich seemed better able to shrug off the Guardian’s spells.
They needed the dwarf-lance, and Tyrcamber was near the curtain wall.
He sprinted for the stairs and raced to the ramparts. To his surprise, Olivier was still alive. Blood leaked from his nose and mouth, but his eyes kept twitching behind closed lids, his hands clenching and unclenching. The dwarf-lance lay next to him, the glyphs on the blade and the shaft glowing sullenly.
“Sorry,” said Tyrcamber, and he sheathed his dark elven blade and seized the dwarf-lance.
The weapon felt strange in his grasp. The shaft was motionless, but he nonetheless seemed to feel it vibrating. The metal simultaneously felt both hot and cold against his hands. Strange or not, he needed the weapon, so Tyrcamber whirled and sprinted down the stairs, holding the dwarf-lance in both hands.
Dietrich continued his rampage, cutting down everyone in his path. The tide was turning against Faramund’s men as the dragon’s fury overwhelmed them. Two more knights fell, torn to bloody shreds by the Dragonmaeloch’s talons, and Tyrcamber ran faster, forcing his aching, tired legs to move.
Fire glimmered to life behind the dragon’s fangs, and Tyrcamber worked the Armor spell. The black shadow of the Malison closed hard around his tired mind, but the dwarf-lance thrummed in his hand, seeming to take some of the brunt, and Tyrcamber fought off the shadowy fingers. Fire erupted from his body as the Armor spell took effect, and an instant later the dragon’s flame swept across him. The heat closed around him like a horrible burning fist, and Tyrcamber staggered, the Malison washing through his mind in a dark wave. But he held the spell against the fire, and the dragon’s head turned, seeking new foes.
And for an instant, Tyrcamber was clear.
He raced forward, drawing back the dwarf-lance to strike. At the last moment, Dietrich realized that something was wrong, his head and serpentine neck beginning to turn back towards Tyrcamber. With a final burst of speed, Tyrcamber ran towards the dragon and leaped. His left hand caught one of the spines rising from Dietrich’s neck. The spine felt as hard and as rough as stone, and terribly hot beneath his fingers. Tyrcamber heaved himself onto the back of the dragon’s neck, and in one smooth motion, raised the dwarf-lance over his head and brought the weapon hammering down with all his strength behind it.
The dragon’s skull was as hard as stone, but the dwarf-lance punched through as if the bone had been made of butter. He felt the weapon plunge deep into Dietrich’s skull, and the Dragonmaeloch screamed, his neck snapping back. Tyrcamber lost his grip on the dwarf-lance and was flung from the dragon’s neck. His lessons in horsemanship came back to him, and Tyrcamber tucked his shoulder and rolled, coming to a stop a dozen yards from the thrashing dragon. Every inch of his body ached and throbbed, but Tyrcamber dragged himself to his feet and reached for his sword, intending to join the surviving knights and men-at-arms as they attacked the Dragonmaeloch.
But golden fire covered the dragon, and even as Tyrcamber stumbled towards the other men, the creature began to shrink. The Dragonmaeloch shriveled, the golden fire blazing, and then the radiance vanished. Sir Dietrich Normand stood where the dragon had been, his expression bewildered, his clothing drenched with sweat and blood. The dwarf-lance lay next to him, the blade smoking with golden-red dragon blood.
Dietrich stepped forward and fell dead upon his face, and Tyrcamber saw that the back of his skull was a bloody ruin.
Silence fell over the courtyard, save for the crackle of flames and the groans of the wounded and the dying.
“Is it over?” Tyrcamber heard himself say.
“Aye,” said Rilmael, his voice grave. “We were vi
ctorious.”
Tyrcamber looked at the burning great hall, the smoking towers, the dead men strewn about the courtyard.
They had indeed been victorious.
But God, at what cost?
***
Chapter 10: The Burdens Of Power
Three days later, Adalhaid invited Tyrcamber to join her in another walk.
To his surprise, they went to the top of the central keep. From here Tyrcamber could see the castle’s courtyard, the jade walls and pyramids, and a good portion of the city of Tamisa itself. He also saw the charred wreckage filling the shell of the great hall and the towers that Dietrich had burned in his madness. It would be some time before the Duke would have the castle repaired. Most of the fighting men of Tamisa would be marching south, and there were not enough hands available to rebuild the great hall. The city’s defenses were intact, and that was all that mattered. Once Duke Faramund had repelled the xiatami, then there would be time and resources available to repair the damaged areas of the castle.
Tyrcamber walked with his sister along the battlements of the keep, her ladies-in-waiting and guards trailing at a respectful distance. The damaged sections of stonework where the Dragonmaeloch had landed were obvious. Some of the battlements had crumbled, and Dietrich’s talons had left long grooves in the stone.
“How are the children?” said Tyrcamber.
“Well enough,” said Adalhaid. “Young Faramund has been having nightmares. For him, I’m afraid Dietrich’s treachery will be the sort of day from one’s childhood that is never forgotten.” Tyrcamber nodded. He was a man grown, and he would never forget the terrible battle in the courtyard. “As for Donarr…well, he cried the entirety of the first night, and now he is fine. I doubt he will remember the battle at all when he grows up.”
Malison: Dragon Fury Page 12
