But Merovech was a Dragonmaeloch, with power to match Tyrcamber’s own, and Tyrcamber feared that Merovech and the Dragon Cult had other allies. Perhaps even traitors within Everard’s army.
Tyrcamber sat on his horse near the Prince’s banner, listening to Everard, his father, the Dukes, and the Masters of the Imperial Orders discuss tactics. Whatever they decided, Tyrcamber knew what his role would be. He would be the reserve, ready to bring the power of a Dragontiarna Knight into the fray where it was needed.
And if Merovech entered the battle in dragon form, it would be up to Tyrcamber to stop him.
He covered a yawn as his father and the others spoke. The army had made good time in the last few days, hoping to reach Castle Valdraxis and force Merovech to battle. That strategy had worked, but the downside was that they would now have to actually fight that battle…
“Sir Tyrcamber?”
It was Adalberga’s voice.
He turned his saddle and saw Adalberga hurrying towards him. Ruari walked a step behind, wearing her simple blue dress and leather physician’s apron.
“Ruari,” said Tyrcamber. “My lady Adalberga. You should not be here. The battle is about to start. You should be with the hospital wagons.” God knew there were about to be a lot of wounded.
“Aye, my lord,” said Adalberga, “but Ruari wished to give you something before the fighting begins.”
Ruari stepped forward, her face solemn, and something in her expression made Tyrcamber climb down from his horse. A few of the nearby lords glanced at him, but most paid attention to the discussion between Everard and Chilmar. Ruari held up her right hand, holding a strip of blue cloth in her hand.
“She wishes you to take this, my lord,” said Adalberga.
“Yes, of course,” said Tyrcamber, surprised. In the (infrequent) years when the Empire had no enemies to fight, the knights and lords held tournaments to display their martial prowess and win glory. Tyrcamber had fought in a few tournaments when he had been a squire in Sinderost and had ridden in jousts twice as a new-made knight. He had wanted to win honor and glory and renown as a knight of the Empire.
It felt like a thousand years ago.
But sometimes in a tournament a knight bore a strip of cloth tied around his arm, a sign of a lady’s favor.
Ruari tied the strip of cloth around his left arm and looked up at him. He could not quite interpret her expression. Fear? Longing?
She leaned up and give him a kiss long enough that it bordered on the bounds of public propriety, and then stepped back and produced her wax tablet. She had already written a message on it.
COME BACK TO ME. THEN I WILL HAVE THE WORDS TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH OF ME.
Tyrcamber felt his throat go dry.
Then and there, he decided, if they won the battle, after the fighting was done the wounded were treated, he was going to take Ruari to his tent and sleep with her, to finish what he hadn’t had the heart to do on the night of their wedding. He didn’t think she would regard the prospect with terror now. Maybe nervousness, perhaps, but there were worse things.
Ruari gave him a tentative smile and then looked down. Tyrcamber glanced to the side and saw Rilmael frowning at her, again looking as if she reminded him of something he couldn’t quite place. Then the Guardian turned his attention back to Duke Chilmar.
“We had best get back to the hospital wagons, my lady,” said Adalberga.
Ruari nodded, looked at Tyrcamber, and smiled again.
With that, the two women left. Tyrcamber climbed back into the saddle and settled in place. He glanced at Master Ruire, and to his surprise, the old knight winked at him. For a moment, Tyrcamber felt foolish, but he didn’t mind.
A blast of trumpets rang out from the enemy host, and all softer emotions fled from him.
A group of about a dozen horsemen rode from Duke Merovech’s lines. Instead of the banners of the duchy of Swabathia, they carried the signs of the Dragon Cult. Black banners adorned with the crimson sigil of a dragon-headed man. The lead rider carried a white banner of parley. Light shone around the heads of the knights, almost like the fires of torches…
“God and the saints,” said Duke Cataul. “Are their heads on fire?”
“No, my lord,” Tyrcamber told his brother-in-law. “Those are masks.”
Each one of the dozen horsemen wore a mask fashioned of magical flame, wrought in the shape of a roaring dragon’s head. The Dragon Cultists in Tamisa had used those masks, years ago, when Tyrcamber had encountered the Theophract for the first time and the Cult had tried to create a Dragonmaeloch. The magical masks concealed their features and permitted the cultists to breathe fire in imitation of a dragon.
“A parley?” said Everard. “Why the devil would they wish a parley?”
“Curiosity, most likely,” said Rilmael. “Also, Merovech is a madman. The transformation into a Dragonmaeloch will have disordered his mind. It is likely that he truly believes himself to be mankind’s savior, and he will try to convince us to follow him.”
“Damned cultists,” growled Master Erchwulf of the Order of the Griffin. “When this is over, if there are any survivors, we should hang the lot of them.”
The enemy horsemen reined up, and the knight with the parley banner stood in his stirrups and began to shout, a spell amplifying his words.
“Lords of the Empire!” boomed the herald. “Merovech Valdraxis, Duke of Swabathia, Lord of Castle Valdraxis, Dragonmaeloch and herald of the new order, bids Everard Roland, Prince of the Empire, to ride forth and speak with him. Let us avert bloodshed, lord Prince! Let us work together to reunify the Empire, and to set mankind on the path of transformation to eternal power and might!”
“Rubbish,” said Chilmar. “The twisted words of a Dragon Cultist. Have we not all seen the havoc wreaked by the dark power of the Malison? Save for a few like my son who can wield it, the Dragon Curse brings ruins to all who touch it. Prince Everard, I advise that we ignore this entreaty, and attack at once.”
“No,” said Everard, shaking his head. “No, I will speak with Merovech.”
A chorus of protest answered him.
“My lord, is that wise?” said Master Grimoald of the Order of Iron, a grim, stocky knight and veteran of countless campaigns. “The Dragonmaeloch may intend treachery. The Dragon Cult keeps to no oaths and follows no laws, save for the twisted doctrines set down in the Path of the Dragon.”
“I know that,” said Everard. “I know this will end in battle. But nonetheless, I must attempt this. If I am to be the Emperor, my lords, then I must act like it. I must give my enemies a chance to surrender before I make war upon them. Only then can the Empire be truly reunified.”
“If this is your will,” said Rilmael, “I will accompany you to the parley, Lord Prince. The Sight will warn me of any treachery.”
“I shall come as well,” said Tyrcamber.
Everard nodded. “If I am not safe in the company of the Guardian and a Dragontiarna Knight, Chilmar, then I am safe nowhere.”
Chilmar scowled but nodded his agreement.
Rilmael cast a spell to augment Chilmar’s voice, and the Duke and the enemy herald argued over terms for a quarter of an hour. Finally, they agreed that Prince Everard would come forth with thirty guards, and Merovech Valdraxis would do the same. Tyrcamber and Rilmael would accompany the Prince, along with a selection of the most powerful knights from the five Orders. Once again, Tyrcamber found himself riding along Sir Angaric and Sir Daniel, as he had during so many campaigns, and Sir Olivier and a dozen Knights of the Griffin took to the sky on their mounts, keeping watch for any treachery.
Another quarter of an hour and they were ready.
The guard of Prince Everard Roland and Duke Chilmar Rigamond rode from the army to the Dragonmaeloch’s herald.
At the same time, a party of horsemen emerged from the enemy army and headed towards the parley banner.
Tyrcamber scanned the enemy horsemen, his hand twitching towards Kyathar’s hilt, his will r
eaching to hold his magic ready. Nearly all the horsemen had the burning dragon masks of the Cult. One of the horsemen wore plate armor the color of blood, and golden fire burned around his hands and eyes. That had to be Merovech. A strange-looking longsword hung at his belt, sheathed in an unremarkable scabbard of leather. The sword’s hilt was black, as was its crosspiece, but fingers of crimson threaded through it, creating an odd marbled effect. Something about the sword seemed to urge Tyrcamber’s eyes to move on, to forget about it, to turn his gaze to other sights.
For there was no shortage of alarming things to see.
One of the riders wore a hooded black cloak, armor of blue dark elven steel covering his body. In his right hand he carried a black staff that was so dark it seemed like a hole cut into the air. Beneath the cowl of the black cloak, he wore a mask of blue steel wrought in the shape of a snarling dragon’s head. With a flash of insight, Tyrcamber realized that the Dragon Cultists wore their mask-spells in imitation of the cold blue mask in the black cowl.
In imitation of the Theophract, the dark elven sorcerer who had founded their cult.
The two groups of horsemen reined up about five yards from each other. The tension in the air seemed to crackle like thunder. Tyrcamber looked over the fire-masked cultists, waiting for them to attack. Perhaps they were thinking the same thing.
Then the man in the red armor laughed.
It was a deep, rasping laugh that held no trace of sanity, and the red-armored man urged his horse forward a few steps. He was big and heavy, with no trace of fat, and looked like he was somewhere in his middle thirties. His black hair and beard were close-cropped, while most nobles of the Empire preferred long hair and beards. His eyes burned with golden fire and the same golden flames twisted around his hands. The Dragonmaeloch that Tyrcamber had fought years ago in Tamisa had looked the same, the golden fire of the Malison constantly burning in his eyes and hands and through his veins.
That Dragonmaeloch had almost killed everyone in Castle Berengar and would have burned the city to the ground if Tyrcamber had not killed him.
“Well,” said Duke Merovech Valdraxis, “we can stare at each other or kill each other, or perhaps we can talk. Should we talk?” He rolled his shoulders. “I would prefer to kill everyone, but I suppose it is wise to talk first.”
“You called this parley, Dragonmaeloch,” said Chilmar, his voice cold.
Merovech glared at Chilmar, and then threw back his head and let out that unsettling rasp of a laugh again. “Chilmar, Chilmar, you never change. The same dour martinet. Have you ever had an original thought in your life?”
“Considering that your original thoughts have led you,” said Chilmar, “into apostasy and treachery and now ruin and defeat, I am hardly inclined to heed your counsel.”
“You don’t matter,” said Merovech. “You don’t understand. You don’t see! You cling to the old ways, the old faith, the old paths. They do not matter. Humanity must change. We have to grow.”
“By twisting ourselves into things like…you?” said Chilmar.
Merovech shook his head. “Shortsighted, Chilmar. Afraid of change. Mankind has changed in the past, you’ve just forgotten it, or never known. In ancient days men did not know how to forge iron, or tame horses, build towers, to sow and harvest crops. We learned these things. We changed. And now we shall change again. You are all so frightened of the Malison. The Dragon Curse, you call it. Fools! We ought to name it the Dragon Blessing. The power is there, waiting to be claimed. Why do you resist it? If we do not change, we are doomed.”
“And how many innocent lives were consumed in the spell that made you into a Dragonmaeloch, Duke Merovech?” said Everard.
The Dragonmaeloch’s burning eyes focused on Prince Everard, and then Merovech laughed. “Ah, the accident. The minor son of the House of Roland who was nothing until his cousins and uncle all died in battle. And now you think to become the new Emperor? As well might a sparrow try to rule a flight of hawks.”
“Duke Merovech Valdraxis,” said Everard. “You have torn the body of the Empire with the daggers of strife and civil war. But it is not too late to repent. Lay aside the evil of the Dragonmaeloch and renounce your dark allies.” He glanced at the Theophract, who remained motionless atop his horse, though the dark staff in his armored hand seemed to quiver with tension like a taut rope. “You can yet help rebuild the Empire from the Valedictor’s invasion.”
“Fool,” said Merovech. “The Empire cannot recover from the Valedictor’s invasion. For if the invader wasn’t the Valedictor, it would have been another dark elven noble, or the xiatami, or the muridachs, or some other threat. Mankind is not strong enough, and we must find a path to power or be crushed underfoot. The Malison offers that power. I offer that power.”
“Or,” said Rilmael, speaking for the first time, “the Theophract offers that power, and you choose to believe him.”
The Theophract’s cowled helmet turned towards Rilmael.
“Perhaps you should ask yourself what evils have befallen the Empire from heeding the counsel of the Guardian of Cathair Kaldran,” said the Theophract. The wizard had the deep, inhuman voice of a dark elf, but made hollow and metallic by the helmet. “Humans and the Frankish Empire are newcomers to these lands, late arrivals to the endless war between the dark elves and the cloak elves. What has Rilmael done but use you as a shield for Cathair Kaldran, a hedge to defend his homeland and his people?”
“And if I had done nothing, if I had not taught the first Emperor and his knights the Seven Spells,” said Rilmael, “the Malison would have consumed them, and they would have become the slaves of the Dragon Imperator and his vassals. I am surprised, Theophract, that you show yourself openly. You prefer to skulk in the shadows and flee when the light falls upon you.”
“The time for subterfuge will soon be past,” said the Theophract. “The Warden is coming, and he will break you. A new order will come to the cosmos. Should mankind embrace the wisdom of the Path of the Dragon, they will have a place in that new order. All others will be swept aside. Starting, I think, with the Guardian of Cathair Kaldran.”
“The humans have a proverb,” said Rilmael. “Best not to count the chickens until the eggs hatch.” Angaric laughed at that. “You are putting forth a great deal of effort to count your chickens.”
“The outcome has already been decided,” said the Theophract. “The Dragon Cult will triumph over you today, and Duke Merovech will become the new ruler of the Empire. No, only one matter remains to be decided today.”
“And that is?” said Everard.
“Tyrcamber Rigamond,” said the Theophract, and the snarling mask of his helmet turned in Tyrcamber’s direction. Tyrcamber was far more powerful than he had been when he had first seen the Theophract in the dungeons below the city of Tamisa. Yet he still felt a chill beneath that alien gaze.
“I have nothing to say to you,” said Tyrcamber.
“Do you not? For I remember you,” said the Theophract. “You were the one who hindered my designs in both Tamisa and Falconberg. An annoyance, I thought. Clearly, I was wrong. Much difficulty would have been averted if I had slain you then.”
“You won’t get another chance,” said Tyrcamber.
The Theophract kept speaking. “But perhaps it is as just as well. Chaos and randomness rule the cosmos, and that will end in the new order. If the Valedictor had not come within a hair’s breadth of taking Sinderost, then Duke Merovech would not have seen the truth, the necessity that mankind must evolve beyond what it is.”
“Does this speech have a point?” said Tyrcamber. “If the choice is between a battle and listening to you spout nonsensical philosophy, then I would prefer to get on with the battle already.”
Some of the lords and knights escorting Prince Everard laughed.
“You should join me, Sir Tyrcamber,” said Merovech, and the full weight of his mad gaze fell on Tyrcamber.
“I decline,” said Tyrcamber. “Unlike you, I will not betray my oaths
to God and the Empire.”
“There is no God, and the Empire is but dust upon the wind, a flower that blooms in the morning and withers in the heat of the afternoon,” said Merovech. “A mere flicker of ephemera against the river of eternity. But you…you are what we seek to create. The Dragon Cult will show mankind the path to becoming dragon gods. You are halfway there. You can transform between human and dragon shape, as I can, and you are so much stronger than any mere human.” He gave a dismissive gesture at the Prince and his escorts. “None of you can see! The Seven Spells, that is but the first step of the transformation we must undertake. You have survived that transformation, Tyrcamber. Join me, and together we will save mankind from its foes.” He gestured, and in that mad face, Tyrcamber saw the fanaticism of true belief. “In a way, Sir Tyrcamber, I am but a harbinger. A herald, you might say. A Herald of the Ruin of the old order and the dawn of the new age.”
Tyrcamber felt a deep chill. The Heralds of Ruin. The five Heralds of Ruin. Every time Tyrcamber had faced the Dragon Cult in the past, they had spoken of the five coming Heralds, the precursors of the mighty sorcerer known as the Warden of Urd Morlemoch.
“A Herald of Ruin,” said Tyrcamber.
“The ruin of the old age,” said Merovech. “But to build the new world, we must first tear down the old, to burn it to ashes. Help me in this goal, Tyrcamber Rigamond, and together we shall make men into gods.”
Tyrcamber said nothing, unsure of what to say except to throw a defiant curse into the Dragonmaeloch’s face. Yet his eyes flicked downward, to the blue cloth Ruari had tied around his left arm. He remembered her shy smile as she had done it. All these mad cults and prophets, they wanted to turn men into gods, but that was a lie. They wished to transform men into monsters like the dark elves or the lords of the xiatami. They wanted to turn mankind into creatures that felt neither love nor loyalty nor hope, only power and grim purpose.
Dragontiarna: Thieves Page 31
