Dragontiarna: Thieves

by Moeller, Jonathan

  All this meant that Merovech Valdraxis had a larger army than Prince Everard and Duke Chilmar had anticipated. Merovech was falling back to Castle Valdraxis, no doubt intending to make a stand there. But he had numbers enough to send raiding parties to harass the march of the loyalists.

  And one of those raiding parties was attacking right now, no doubt intending to overwhelm a company of men-at-arms and retreat before reinforcements could arrive.

  But the enemy hadn’t reckoned on facing Tyrcamber.

  “Hold fast!” roared Tyrcamber, jumping off his horse and holding Kyathar over his head. “Shield wall! Move, move, move!”

  The men-at-arms scrambled to obey. They were somewhere in eastern Swabathia, a few days’ march west from the bank of the River Nabia. The loyalist army was in marching formation, a long column that snaked over the dusty road, with horsemen and gnollish patrols screening their flanks. Yet even with screening cavalry, a long column was vulnerable to attack, and the mountain goblins exploited that.

  The men-at-arms, perhaps two hundred strong, rushed into a shield wall. Tyrcamber stepped past them, Kyathar burning in his right hand, and looked at the enemy. An equal number of mountain goblins rushed towards them, the harsh yellow-orange light of the sky fire glinting off their weapons. About a hundred and fifty of the goblins were on foot. Forest goblins had blue skin, and desert goblins were a yellowish-green in color. The mountain goblins were larger than their relatives, their skin a bluish-gray that put Tyrcamber in mind of the lips of a drowned corpse. The mountain goblins wore chain mail and leather and adorned themselves with the bones of their foes – skulls worked into helmets, or necklaces of bones and teeth.

  The remainder of the goblins rode bloodwolves.

  The hulking creatures were rarer than horses but far more dangerous. Each bloodwolf was about the size of a pony, and the goblins rode the creatures like horses. Their fur was a dark crimson, their eyes a sulfurous yellow, and their dagger-like claws raked at the earth as they charged. The goblins riding the bloodwolves carried swords or long spears.

  Tyrcamber saw the goblins’ tactics at a glance. The fifty or so bloodwolf riders formed themselves into a wedge. They would crash into the men-at-arms, ripping and killing, and once the shield wall was broken, the goblin infantry would charge after the bloodwolves and finish the fight.

  It was a good plan, but it hadn’t accounted for Tyrcamber.

  “Stand fast!” shouted Tyrcamber again, and he took several steps forward.

  “Sir knight!” said one of the men-at-arms in alarm. “They’ll surround…”

  Tyrcamber raised his left hand and summoned magic. A torrent of burning power flooded through him, the alien energy of the Malison saturating his mind and will. Once, the Malison would have threatened him and using too much magic would have risked triggering the Dragon Curse. As a dragon, he would have descended into homicidal madness, and he would have been enslaved by the first dark elf or umbral elf to find him.

  But now he was a Dragontiarna Knight. He was, in a way, part of the Malison, and it could no longer threaten him.

  Tyrcamber drew in a tremendous amount of power and cast the Fire Stream spell.

  The magic ripped from his left hand in a bar of fire as thick as his arm. Tyrcamber swept his hand before him, and the spell slashed through the charging bloodwolves. So intense was the fire that it sliced a half-dozen of the bloodwolves in twain and set a dozen more of them ablaze, the creatures’ hunting cries changing to shrieks of pain. The charge of the bloodwolves came to a confused, panicked halt, the burning creatures thrashing and snapping about them in pain, and Tyrcamber clenched his left hand into a fist, calling more power. He shaped it into one of the secret spells of the Order of Embers. Once Tyrcamber had lacked the power for such a spell, and even Angaric Medraut, among the most powerful wizards of the Order, had barely been able to manage it.

  But now the power roared out from Tyrcamber, and a dozen fist-sized spheres of flame fell from the sky, each one quivering with leashed force. They landed amid the bloodwolves and advancing goblins, and the spheres exploded with blooms of flame. Scores of goblins died or caught fire, and their charge faltered in the chaos. A deep wave of fatigue went through Tyrcamber. He was no longer vulnerable to the Malison, but his stamina was not unlimited, and he had just cast two powerful spells in rapid succession.

  He pushed aside the fatigue. Rest could come once the battle was done…or when he died upon an enemy’s sword and could lay down his duties at last.

  “Lance spells!” roared Tyrcamber. “Now!”

  The men-at-arms in the shield wall cast the Lance spell, hurling volleys of fire and lightning and ice at the faltering goblins. The attack was not as precise and as swift as Tyrcamber would have expected from the serjeants of the Imperial Orders, but the serjeants were the best infantry soldiers of the Empire. Dozens more goblins died as the salvo of magical attacks ripped into them, and the creatures reacted, casting Lance spells of their own.

  “Shield spells!” said Tyrcamber, but the men-at-arms were already moving. The soldiers cast their Shield spells, domes of multicolored light appearing before them, and Tyrcamber leveled his left arm and worked his own Shield. It took the form of a disk of blazing flame that settled upon his left bracer, and a half-second later a goblin Lance of ice shattered against it.

  “Advance!” said Tyrcamber.

  He started running forward, his burning Shield held before him, Kyathar blazing in his right fist.

  “Siegebreaker!” shouted the men-at-arms as they charged after him. “Siegebreaker!”

  Damn it all, Tyrcamber hated that. But if the legend that had sprung up around him helped motivate the men to fight, he would use it.

  Tyrcamber attacked the remaining goblins and bloodwolves, and there was no time for thought, no time for anything except fighting and killing.

  A goblin footman stabbed a spear at Tyrcamber. He raised his left arm and caught the spear on his Shield spell, and the weapon shattered, leaving only a burning shaft in the goblin’s hand. The creature screeched in a fury, its yellow eyes wide, and started to reach for the sword at its belt. Before it could draw the weapon, Tyrcamber ripped Kyathar across the goblin’s throat.

  A bloodwolf bounded at him, flames dancing along its flanks, and the awful stink of burned bloodwolf fur and flesh filled Tyrcamber’s nostrils. He stepped into the attack and raised his Shield, and the bloodwolf’s muzzle brushed the flames. The hulking creature reared back with a roar of pain, and Tyrcamber summoned more magical power and pointed Kyathar. The Lance spell burst from the tip of the sword and blazed through the bloodwolf’s skull. The wolf-like thing thrashed and went limp to the ground.

  More goblins tried to close around Tyrcamber, but by then the men-at-arms had caught up to him and crashed into the enemy with a shout. Swords rose and fell, goblin blood spattering across the ground, and Lance spells snarled and crackled. Another goblin warrior came at Tyrcamber, raising an axe high. Tyrcamber stepped into the attack, his Shield spell before him, and the axe blade flared white hot and shattered against his magic. The goblin overbalanced as its weapon disintegrated in its clawed hand, and Tyrcamber brought Kyathar onto the creature’s head.

  He fought with fury in the heart of the battle, all thoughts of weariness and fatigue forgotten. A man-at-arms stumbled, his shield shattering under the blow of a goblin axe. The goblin wielding the axe sprang after the man, weapon raised, but Tyrcamber intercepted the creature and killed it. The soldier nodded his thanks and turned back to the attack.

  Tyrcamber killed and killed, goblin blood spattering against his golden armor. None of it seemed to stick to his white cloak, though. But nothing ever stained the strange material of that cloak.

  Then he lifted his burning blade to land another blow, only to see the goblins fleeing.

  Tyrcamber blinked sweat from his stinging eyes. The remaining goblins fled to the southwest. None of their bloodwolves had survived, he was pleased to note. The goblins us
ed horses when they could get them (though, like the gnolls, they tended to eat horses whenever possible), but the bloodwolf riders were more dangerous by far.

  “Hold!” shouted Tyrcamber as some of the soldiers began to pursue. “Hold, damn your eyes! They might try to lure us into an ambush.” This part of Swabathia was mostly cultivated fields, dotted with small patches of forest. Both the irrigation ditches of the fields and the clumps of forest made excellent hiding places for raiding parties, as the goblins and the pagan gnolls had shown again and again.

  The remaining soldiers stopped and lowered their swords.

  “Lord Siegebreaker, what should we do now?” said one of the soldiers.

  Tyrcamber dismissed Kyathar’s fire with an effort of will and returned the sword to its scabbard. “Return to your place in the line of march. Bring your dead with you,” there hadn’t been that many slain men-at-arms, thankfully, “and take the wounded to the hospital wagons.” That sent an image of Ruari, silent and pale, through his mind. She had been as diligent as Adalberga had claimed, and since they had left Sinderost, she had worked tirelessly. Wounded men who might have died were now alive because of her tremendous skill with the Heal spell. Rilmael’s estimation of her abilities had not been mistaken.

  “My lord!” said another soldier, pointing.

  Tyrcamber frowned. A man-at-arms lay on the ground. Tyrcamber’s first thought was that the man was slain, or perhaps had been wounded, but then he saw the golden fire shining beneath the soldier’s skin and in his eyes.

  No. He hadn’t been wounded. The soldier had used too much magic during the fight, more than his mind could contain, and now the Malison was surging through him.

  The transformation of the Dragon Curse was beginning.

  Tyrcamber ran to the prone soldier.

  “My lord, he’s changing!” said another man-at-arms.

  Tyrcamber nodded and looked at the glowing soldier. God and the saints, he couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen years old. The boy looked terrified, the golden fire beneath his skin brightening.

  “My lord,” said the boy, his voice shaking. “My lord, my lord, help me, help me, oh, God and the saints help me…”

  “Fight it,” said Tyrcamber. “It’s your only chance. If you fight the Malison, if you master it and make it part of you, you’ll…”

  “I can’t!” wailed the boy. “I can’t, I can’t.” He shuddered, and the skin of his face began to rip open, revealing crimson scales. His boots split apart as talons sprouted from his toes, and his eyes turned golden, his pupils becoming vertical slits. “I’ll…I’ll kill you.” He began to laugh wildly, his voice going deeper. “I’ll kill you all, I’ll burn you all, burn you all…”

  It was too late.

  The Malison had taken hold of him, and he was losing his will and transforming into a dragon. Tyrcamber understood. He had experienced it countless times in the Chamber of the Sight, and he had prayed for death just as many times.

  There was only one thing he could do for the soldier.

  “I am sorry,” said Tyrcamber, and he cast the spell.

  The Lance burned through the top of the soldier’s skull, and the boy shuddered and went limp. He lay motionless, caught halfway between human and dragon form. Had he fully transformed, his body would have dwindled back to human shape after Tyrcamber had killed the dragon. Instead, his body would remain in this halfway stage.

  Tyrcamber supposed it was a mercy. The soldier would never experience the terror of the transformation, the horror of finding himself trapped in an alien body. Nor would he experience the profound slavery of falling under the domination of a dark elven lord or another wielder of dark magic, forced to kill his comrades over and over again…

  “I am sorry,” said Tyrcamber again.

  “It was necessary, my lord,” said one of the older men-at-arms. “Once the Malison takes someone, they can’t go back.” Tyrcamber looked at him, and the soldier shrugged. “I suppose you did, my lord, but hardly anyone ever does.”

  “No,” said Tyrcamber. For a moment he felt absurdly, irrationally jealous of the dead soldier. He had been spared many horrors that Tyrcamber had known firsthand.

  But Tyrcamber was a Dragontiarna Knight of the Empire, and he had his duty.

  “No,” said Tyrcamber. “Let’s go.” He looked at the dead soldier and sighed. “Bring his body.”

  Perhaps it would be a comfort to the soldier’s family, if he had any family, to know that he had escaped the doom of the Dragon Curse.

  But Tyrcamber doubted it.

  ###

  As the sky fire faded from the harsh yellow-orange of day to the pale, dim blue of night, the army stopped its march and made camp.

  Duke Chilmar and Prince Everard summoned their chief lords and knights for a council of war.

  They met at the heart of the camp, beneath the ancient banner of the Rolands. Tyrcamber spotted the Dukes and Counts who had allied with his father and Prince Everard, along with the five Masters of the Imperial Orders. A great many of their various knights and councilors attended as well. Tyrcamber spotted Sir Charles Rhunmar, stout and bearded, and his mouth twisted with disgust for just a moment. Sir Charles was Lady Brunhilda’s seneschal, and the man had been a constant irritant in Tyrcamber’s side, presenting constant demands from Lady Brunhilda Tetrax.

  When Tyrcamber had allowed Ruari to accompany the army and oversee the hospital wagons, he had not realized that Lady Brunhilda would accompany her daughter on the march. But then Lady Brunhilda seemed to do whatever she wanted. Her son Duke Cataul agreed with whatever she said, making Tyrcamber wonder who really ruled the duchy of Carnost, and even his father was willing to meet Brunhilda halfway.

  Only Tyrcamber refused Brunhilda’s demands, which seemed to infuriate her. But after everything he had seen and endured, death seemed like a release from his duty to defend the Empire.

  Which meant one bullying, gossiping old woman did not daunt him in the slightest.

  “My lords!” said Prince Everard, Duke Chilmar at his side. “Thank you for coming.” Everard Roland was in his early thirties, tall and strong with a thick black beard. He had been a nephew of the late Emperor Alarius Roland, and after the Emperor and all his sons had fallen in battle against the Valedictor, Everard had become the logical heir to the throne. But he could not become Emperor until the Dukes elected him in formal council at Sinderost, and the patriarch of the Imperial Church anointed him with holy oil on the steps of the cathedral. Nevertheless, the nobles of the army and the masters of the Imperial Orders treated him as the Emperor in waiting.

  “We have only marched eight miles today, I fear,” said Everard. “Nevertheless, we repulsed seven raids from Duke Merovech’s forces. Each encounter was a victory for our valiant men. Let us thank God for our victories and commend the souls of the fallen to his grasp.” He was an excellent orator, his voice deep and rich, and commanded the attention of everyone at the council.

  “But we must face reality,” said Duke Chilmar, his voice harsh next to Everard’s gentler tones, but no less commanding. “If we keep up this pace, it will take us another two weeks to reach Castle Valdraxis.” Once Everard became the Emperor…if Everard lived long enough to become the Emperor…Tyrcamber suspected that his father would become the new Imperial Chancellor since the previous occupant of that office had died during the retreat to Sinderost before the Valedictor’s siege. Everard would be the inspiring Emperor, the man who rallied the lords and knights to his side, while Chilmar would be the unyielding iron fist who carried out the dirty work of enforcing the Emperor’s will. Tyrcamber suspected that was the sort of role his father would have preferred in any event.

  “We need to increase the speed of our march,” continued Chilmar. “The necromancers of the Fallen Order will not be idle while we deal with Duke Merovech.”

  “Then what do you suggest, Duke?” said one of the Counts sworn to Duke Cataul.

  “We have a plan,” said Chilmar. “M
aster Erchwulf?”

  Master Erchwulf of the Order of the Griffin stepped forward. Like many of the Knights of the Griffin, he was a spare, wiry man, making it all the easier for his griffin to carry him aloft. He had leathery skin from many hours spent flying beneath the sky fire, and a great bushy mustache the color of iron.

  “My lords,” said Erchwulf, “as you know, we have one great advantage that the traitor and apostate Merovech does not. The five Imperial Orders have remained loyal to the Empire and the true heir of the House of Roland, and so we have griffins, and Duke Merovech does not. When we resume our march tomorrow, the griffins of my Order will patrol our flanks from the skies. One griffin rider can see more of the countryside than a hundred horsemen, and we should be able to see any goblin raiders advancing towards us.”

  “Nor will we wait for them to come to us,” said Chilmar. “We have assembled forces of horsemen and gnollish mercenaries to screen our flanks, and they will meet any of Merovech’s raiders with a strike of our own. Lord Nakhrakh?”

  The gnollish chieftain stepped forward, his golden eyes glinting in the light of the bonfire at the center of the camp, the firelight throwing odd, jagged shadows across his fur and armor.

  “The gnolls fight the mountain goblins for many years,” said Nakhrakh, his voice a growl, the Frankish words just barely understandable. The gnollish language was impossible for a human throat to reproduce, but gnolls could just manage to speak comprehensible Frankish and Latin. “Old enemies. Old enemies! We are glad to fight them, and we shall feast upon their dead.”

  A few of the nobles shuddered. The gnollish custom of eating their slain foes was a hard one for many humans to accept. The gnolls, for their part, considered burying the dead wasteful, though the gnollish stomach seemed capable of digesting anything.