Dragontiarna: Thieves

by Moeller, Jonathan

  Then the cowl fell back, and Niall found himself looking at a woman.

  She looked a great deal like Third and Selene, with the same gaunt, alien features, pale skin, and upswept, pointed elven ears. The woman had thick red hair that looked as if it had been greased back against her skull and vivid green eyes.

  Except her green eyes were glowing.

  And there were six smaller green eyes, also glowing, on her forehead and temples.

  The woman gestured, red claws an inch long topping her fingers, and cast a spell.

  She began to shout, and her magic raised her voice to a colossal volume.

  “Hear me and rejoice, men of Andomhaim!” said the woman in Latin with a thick, alien accent. “For too long, you have been sheep without a shepherd and children without a mother. Today is the day of your deliverance. Today the goddesses come to claim their wayward children! Bow down and offer prayers of thanksgiving to the seven goddesses, for the Heptarchy has come to redeem you at last. Lay down your arms and be spared! Fight, and you shall be swept aside!”

  “Men of Andomhaim!” roared Accolon, drawing his soulblade. Hopesinger began to flicker with white fire, which meant that the red-robed woman with eight eyes was a user of dark magic. “Fight! For Cintarra, for Andomhaim, for your homes! Fight!”

  His voice wasn’t nearly as loud as the priestess in the red robe, but the men nearby cheered and shouted. Niall added his voice to the cry, and for a moment, the shouts of the men of Cintarra rang over the docks.

  Then the first of the longboats reached the quay, the red orcs scrambled into the docks, and the battle for Cintarra began.

  ***

  Chapter 23: Ruinheart

  As Cintarra erupted into riots and revolt, Aeliana Carhaine jogged through the streets, the dark soulblade hanging from her belt.

  She reached the house where the Matriarch was staying. Two men with the look of mercenaries stood guard outside, swords in their hands and tense looks on their faces. The distant roar of the rioters was audible, and to the east twin plumes of smoke rose. The assassins shifted to face her, swords coming up in guard.

  “I’m invited,” said Aeliana. “The Matriarch wished for me to return.”

  The assassin on her left grunted. “One moment.”

  He turned and vanished into the front door of the house. Aeliana waited, glancing at the windows. The shutters in the upper windows were slightly open, and beyond she saw the glint of the steel heads of crossbow quarrels. She supposed it was flattering herself to think that the crossbows were for her. Neither the Matriarch nor the Red Family were ones to take chances with their security, and having triggered the riots with the murder of the priests and the forged orders from the Regency Council, the Matriarch and her assassins would be on their guard.

  About five minutes later, the door opened, and the assassin returned.

  Gregor followed him, a smile on his face.

  “Dear Aeliana,” said Gregor. He gestured in the direction of the plumes of smoke. “What do you think of our work?”

  “Like a torch thrown into a pool of oil,” said Aeliana, and one of the assassins let out a low, hard laugh. “How many priests did you kill?”

  “Eleven, all told,” said Gregor. “Given the reaction, that might have been excessive.” He shrugged. “But it got the job done, did it not? And we carry out the will of the Matriarch for the glory of Mhor.”

  “Indeed,” said Aeliana. From their perspective, Aeliana supposed, she had indeed done the work of Mhor. Cintarra would rip itself apart in a revolt…and while the city was reeling, Agravhask’s warriors would arrive on their ships and seize Cintarra and the Prince’s Palace in a lightning attack. Thousands of deaths, a worthy sacrifice of innocent blood to Mhor. Of course, Mhor was a phantasm, a delusion, and nothing more.

  The Warden’s plan was reality. The door beneath Cathair Kaldran was very real. And Aeliana would be there when he opened it and remade the cosmos.

  Assuming, of course, she survived the next hour or so.

  “Come,” said Gregor, beckoning. “The Matriarch is eager to speak with you.”

  “I’m sure she is,” said Aeliana.

  She followed Gregor into the house. The two guards fell in behind her, swords still in hand. That made Aeliana’s back itch, but she couldn’t do anything about it yet. They walked through the house and into the dining room. The Matriarch still sat on her throne, smirking at her, and a half-dozen assassins of the Red Family lined each wall.

  The assassins held crossbows, all of them.

  The itch against her back turned into a cold finger of fear.

  Maybe she had made a mistake. She felt contempt for the cowardice of the Matriarch, but a dark elven noblewoman still possessed power, knowledge, and cunning. If Aeliana had underestimated the Matriarch, or if she had overestimated the powers of her dark soulblade, she was going to die here.

  Eventually. The Matriarch would likely make Aeliana beg for death before it was done.

  And from the hungry way that Gregor was looking at her, likely he had a few ideas on how to torment her first. Again, she remembered the hot, sweaty feel of his skin against hers, and she repressed a shudder of revulsion and hate. And the hate made her remember Ridmark Arban, and the murder of her father and the torments the Matriarch had inflicted on her.

  That pushed back the fear. Aeliana would have vengeance on the Matriarch and the Shield Knight and all the world if she did not lose her nerve and her courage, as her mother had in her final meeting with Tarrabus Carhaine before her death.

  “My lady,” said Aeliana with a bow.

  “My children have done as you have asked, Aeliana Carhaine,” said the Matriarch.

  “As the Warden sent me to ask, my lady,” said Aeliana. “I would not presume to give commands to you.”

  The Matriarch’s bloodless lips twitched. “Wise. But we have done as the Warden asked, and the city is thrown into chaos. Is this satisfactory?”

  “More than satisfactory,” said Aeliana, bowing and taking another step towards the throne. “I will tell as much to the Warden when I return to Urd Morlemoch.”

  “Yes,” said the Matriarch. “When you return. Gregor?”

  Aeliana heard the metallic clicks and realized what was about to happen.

  She whirled, but it was too late. A crossbow quarrel punched into the right side of her chest, two more into her stomach, another into her leg. She would have screamed, but blood burst from her mouth, and she fell to one knee, agony rolling through her in a storm.

  “Gregor wanted you again, foolish child,” said the Matriarch. “But you betrayed me. That cannot be forgiven, not ever.” She rose and walked closer, that smirk widening on her gaunt face. “I will permit Gregor the killing blow, though. He ought to enjoy that.”

  “I shall,” said Gregor, crossing to the Matriarch’s side.

  “The Warden,” rasped Aeliana, more blood flying from her lips. Her vision was starting to darken.

  “I would like to have peace with the Warden, child,” said the Matriarch. “But…well. Like me, he understands that humans are so short-lived that they are easily replaced.” None of the Family reacted to that the insult. The Matriarch had their minds twisted around too much for that. “I look forward to meeting your replacement. Gregor?”

  Gregor drew his sword with a smile. “Any final words, Aeliana? A pity that we never had the chance to renew our acquaintance properly.”

  Aeliana forced a shuddering breath through her aching lungs, her lips pulling back from her teeth in a bloody smile.

  “You,” she rasped as she gathered her strength for one last movement, “talk too much.”

  Her hand curled around the dark soulblade’s hilt, and she lurched to her feet and drew the sword in the same motion, slashing it before her.

  The magic the Theophract had woven into the scabbard was potent, and it had concealed the dark soulblade from both Gregor and the Matriarch. The black sword ripped across Gregor’s chest, the blade
slicing through his chain mail and his chest and his ribs with equal ease. Aeliana felt the blade rip through his heart, and she gasped as the power surged down the dark soulblade and flowed into her as the weapon drank his life.

  The pain of her wounds lessened in that surge of burning strength, and she twisted and plunged the dark soulblade into the Matriarch’s chest. The dark elven noblewoman screamed and fell to her knees, her void-filled eyes going wide with pain.

  “And my final words to you, Matriarch,” purred Aeliana, both hands clenched around her sword’s hilt. “I lied. The Warden does not care what you do. For all the centuries you have spent fearing his wrath, he has thought of you perhaps once. Think about all the time you have wasted as you die.”

  She ripped the blade up, cutting the top half of the Matriarch’s body in twain, and the remnants of the founder of the Red Family fell in a pool of black blood to the floor.

  And strength beyond anything Aeliana had ever known flooded into her.

  She gasped and stumbled back. Killing humans with the dark soulblade had been one thing. Killing dark elves was something else entirely. A dark elf would live forever, barring violence and mischance, and their life force was so much stronger. And now that strength poured into her. Distantly she noticed that the color of the dark soulblade was changing, that the red was drowning out the black.

  Aeliana heard the scream of fury from the remaining assassins as they launched themselves from the wall, swords and daggers in hand. They had revered the Matriarch as a demigoddess, as the voice of Mhor, and Aeliana had just killed her in front of them.

  She had been among the best of the assassins of the Red Family, but even she could not face a dozen men in a fight at once, not even with the Mark of the Herald.

  But she felt power roaring through her link to the dark soulblade.

  Aeliana whirled to face them, the hilt in both hands, and the corrupted soulstone in the tang of the blade darkened. A ring of shadow burst from her, rolling through the assassins, and they stumbled with cries of pain, the shadows coiling around them and leaching their strength.

  The dark soulblade erupted with howling crimson flames, filling the dining room with bloody light.

  And Aeliana started killing.

  The assassins tried to fight back. But the shadows had weakened them, and Aeliana cut them down with the flame-wreathed sword. Sometimes her enemies landed hits on her, biting through her clothes to find her flesh, but she struck and killed, and the dark soulblade fed their lives into her, healing her wounds.

  Then the fighting was over, and Aeliana stood in a ring of corpses, the dark soulblade burning with bloody fire in her fists.

  She felt…

  She had never felt this strong. Not even after the Warden had given her the Mark of the Herald. He had promised her a sword greater than the one she had carried into Urd Morlemoch, and he had kept his word. She felt the dark soulblade’s hunger stirring through her link to the weapon, felt its malevolent will and yearning for destruction. Aeliana also felt its grudging acceptance of her as its bearer. She had proven herself by feeding lives to the sword, with the promise of far more to come. The dark soulblade whispered in her head, telling her of its powers.

  And with the knowledge came the sword’s name.

  The dark soulblade was called Ruinheart.

  Aeliana thought it suitable.

  Her smile widened as she considered the full range of the dark soulblade’s powers.

  Ridmark Arban was called the Shield Knight of Andomhaim.

  Perhaps Aeliana would be the Blood Knight.

  She smiled and returned Ruinheart to its enspelled scabbard. Her eyes fell over the Matriarch’s butchered corpse, and she laughed, high and wild. Partly she was giddy from the surge of power, the strength of stolen life filling her. No touch of a lover, no wine, no food, nothing, had ever given her such pleasure. And partly she was delighted with her revenge. She had heard the priests prate on about forgiveness, about how vengeance belonged to God, how it was better to forgive than to take revenge.

  They had been wrong.

  They had been very wrong.

  Still, she had work to do. Aeliana would descend into the Shadow Ways and make sure that idiot Cyprian and his collection of gullible fools opened the Great Eye without making a botch of it.

  Then she would find Ridmark Arban and kill him at last.

  There was work to do…but her work was destruction. Killing. Ruin.

  And she enjoyed it a great deal.

  Resisting the urge to laugh, she headed for the nearest entrance to the Shadow Ways, one hand grasping Ruinheart’s hilt.

  ***

  Chapter 24: Opening The Way

  “Now,” said Cyprian, raising his voice to address the entire cult at once. “Let us begin the next phase.”

  He looked around, gesturing with his ceremonial dagger. All fifty-seven of the remaining Drakocenti had gathered in the chamber housing the Great Eye, since Sir Rufinius's escape had necessitated that they begin the spell at once. All of them, men and women alike, had rolled up their right sleeves, and their Marks of the Drakocenti glowed with blue light. They stood within the ring of Dwyrstones on the artificial island, and the detritus of ancient battles lay scattered across the floor – bones, skulls, ancient armor and weapons. The ring of the Great Eye rose above Cyprian like a tower of silvery metal, and a wooden table had been set up before the Eye.

  Tywall Gwyrdragon lay on the table, secured with thick ropes, a heavy gag in his mouth to stop his constant crying and begging. His death would be the apex of the spell to open the Great Eye and summon its mighty powers. Cyprian had thought that having to kill a child to empower the spell would distress him, though it wouldn’t have stopped him. Power did not come to those afflicted with squeamishness or useless scruples.

  Nevertheless, as he stood at the climax of the spell, ready to unleash it and open the Great Eye, Cyprian found that he was looking forward to killing the boy. Perhaps the teachings of the Theophract had altered him, made him capable of taking the larger view. And Cyprian had come to realize that Tywall Gwyrdragon represented everything he loathed about Andomhaim. By what right did that sniveling boy claim to rule Cintarra? The accident of his birth? Because his father had happened to lust after his mother when the time of the month was right? Why should Cyprian, with all his intellect, courage, and ruthlessness, bow down and serve this boy prince? Especially when Cyprian had built his power and his fortune through nerve and cunning?

  The answer was, of course, that he shouldn’t.

  He would take the power of the Great Eye and be reborn as a dragon god, and then Cyprian would have both the power and the right to reorder the world as he pleased.

  The Drakocenti stood in a circle around the Great Eye, chanting and gesturing, blue light flaring from the Marks on their right forearms and flowing into their hands. Bursts of blue fire leaped from their fingers and stabbed into the Eye, and the symbols carved around its silvery length had begun to glow as well. The air felt charged with power, the dark magic growing stronger with each passing second. Individually, each of the Drakocenti were not that powerful, not even Cyprian himself. But together they could use their Marks to summon a great deal of dark magic, and that power was flowing into the Eye, priming it for the next phase of the spell.

  That was having some interesting side effects. A wind had sprung up through the cavern, and the lake around the artificial island had become a roaring, foaming river, flowing into a hidden tunnel beneath the water.

  And more importantly, the vortex of dark magic was summoning…things from the Deeps.

  Creatures of dark magic were drawn to the power.

  Already something like twenty or thirty spindly urhaalgars moved along the walls of the chamber, their claws clinging to the rock. In the growing blue light, they looked like scaled, hairless monkeys, poisoned spines jutting from their limbs. Several packs of urvaalgs moved along the causeway leading to the corridor, along with a few hulking, b
ear-like things that Cyprian had never seen before but were likely ursaars. The appearance of the creatures had alarmed the cultists, but Cyprian reassured them. The dark magic of the spell had summoned the creatures, and they would not harm the ones who summoned them.

  Unless Cyprian decided that was a good idea, of course.

  The Drakocenti called forth wave after wave of dark magic, and Cyprian caught the power and held it, shaping it into the spell as he poured into the Great Eye. Exultation filled him as he molded the dark magic. He had never felt power like this, never felt this strong. And he knew that this was just a taste of what he would enjoy when the Great Eye opened and he became a god.

  “Now!” shouted Cyprian, blue fire pouring from his free hand and into the Great Eye. “The last phase of the spell. One final effort, my brothers, and godhood shall be ours.”

  The chant of the Drakocenti cultists rose to a furious shout, and blue fire pulsed from their Marks, and Cyprian caught the power, sending it into the Great Eye.

  And as he did, Cyprian twisted the spell, unleashing the trap that he and the Theophract had prepared.

  The Theophract had agreed with Cyprian’s vision. Mankind needed to be reformed and remade. Or was that the Theophract’s vision and he had brought Cyprian around to his way of thinking? Cyprian could no longer remember, and he would not have cared if he could. Mankind would be transformed into a kindred of immortal dragon gods, but both Cyprian and the Theophract agreed that mankind needed one dragon god to lead it, one voice, one will. It had no need of dozens.

  As Cyprian cast the final spell, he reached through the web of power and activated the Marks on the arms of the cultists. The Marks blazed with harsh blue light, shining even brighter in the gloomy cavern, and the cultists began screaming. They aged before Cyprian’s eyes, well-fed men of middle years withering into ancient corpses in the blink of an eye as the Marks drained away their life force.