“If you have a better idea, I am open to suggestions!” said Angaric, casting the Fire Torrent spell again. He didn’t manage it with quite so much power this time, and he only killed five of the muridachs as they scrambled up the pillars. The muridachs fell, their fur burning as more of the old planks of the balcony caught flame.
Tyrcamber did not bother with speech, mostly because he did not have the breath to spare. He fought side-by-side with Charanis, trying to keep the muridachs from reaching Angaric as he hurled Lance spells. The air smelled of woodsmoke, and the fire climbed the walls towards the rafters of the ceiling. Tyrcamber wondered how old the mansion was, whether Rincimar had built it or if he had claimed it after the building’s previous owner had been executed as a follower of the Dragon Cult. Old, dry wood covered in varnish could go up like kindling if a fire spread.
Another roar filled his ears, and Tynrogaul sprang upon the balcony, both blades of his huge axe dancing with elemental fire. The muridach leader surged forward, swinging his axe. There was no way that Tyrcamber could block that enormous weapon, so he threw himself to the floor, the stressed planks groaning against his weight. He heaved himself back to his feet and lunged, hoping to drive his sword through a gap in the huge muridach’s armor. But Tynrogaul was too quick and too cunning for that, and he dodged to the side even as his axe came up. Tyrcamber leaped back, and Tynrogaul’s weapon blurred down in front of him, passing maybe an inch in front of his face, and the massive blade buried itself in the planks of the floor with a thunderous crack.
Tyrcamber yelled and lunged forward, and Tynrogaul started to straighten up, beginning to wrench his axe free from the floor. But he was just a half-second too slow, and Tyrcamber’s burning sword plunged into the muridach leader’s left eye and sank deep into his brain. Tynrogaul screamed and fell backward, his scream dwindling into a gurgle, and as he fell his hands locked in a death grip around the haft of his axe. He ripped the weapon free as he tumbled over the ruined railing and to the floor of the hall below, and as he did, a loud cracking sound filled Tyrcamber’s ears.
The beams of the balcony were splintering. Likely Tynrogaul’s axe blow had broken something important.
“Oh,” said Angaric. “Damn it.”
The balcony collapsed to the floor of the hall in a pile of broken and burning timbers.
Tyrcamber was thrown over the broken railing, which probably saved his life since it reduced his momentum. He hit the stone floor of the hall with a bone-jarring thump and rolled to the side, coming to a stop against a smoldering muridach corpse. The smell was hideous, but he barely noticed.
The live human rogues charging towards him demanded his full attention.
Tyrcamber heaved himself off the floor and got his sword up time to stop a blade aimed at his throat. His balance was bad, and his head was spinning, and the force of the blow knocked him back a step. The rogue grinned and drew his sword back to strike, only for one of Charanis’s arrows to sprout from his neck. Tyrcamber stabbed, finishing off the rogue, and looked to the side to see Charanis on her feet, loosing arrows, and Angaric casting another spell. The stout knight had blood dripping down the right side of his face and neck, but already magical fire danced around his fingers.
But there were too many muridachs and human rogues in the hall, and Tyrcamber took his sword hilt in both hands. Fatigue rolled through his mind, the dark fingers of the Malison dancing at the edges of his thoughts, but it didn’t concern him.
He doubted he would be alive long enough to worry about the Malison.
His eyes fell on the Theophract. The founder of the Dragon Cult stood beneath the opposite balcony, watching the melee and the spreading fire with apparent indifference. If Tyrcamber could get to him, if he could cult the dark elven wizard down, then he would win a great victory for the Empire. His own life would be forfeit, but that didn’t matter.
Tyrcamber suspected that he was about to lose his life no matter what he did. Perhaps he could take his foe with him in death.
But the muridachs and the human rogues closed around him, and Tyrcamber fought for his life. More exhaustion poured through him as he held his Sword and Armor spells in place, and Charanis and Angaric flung arrows and Lance spells. But there were simply too many muridachs to overcome. Tyrcamber gritted his teeth, preparing to fling himself at the Theophract in hopes of landing a fatal blow in his final moment.
A thunderclap rang out, and the doors the hall exploded off their hinges. They tumbled through the air and shattered against the floor, and serjeants in the red tabards of the Order of Embers stormed into the hall. With them came soldiers wearing the gold and green of Falconberg, and Karl Rincimar was at their head. The Shield leaped into the muridachs like a panther and began killing, his sword cutting down a ratman with every step. Behind them, Tyrcamber glimpsed Master Ruire and the Guardian Rilmael, and already Rilmael’s staff burned with fire.
A hiss of annoyance came from the Theophract’s helmet.
“A pity,” said the Theophract. “It would have been better for you to die today, Tyrcamber Rigamond.”
He struck the end of his dark staff against the floor and vanished in a swirl of blackness. Tyrcamber looked to see if Charanis and Angaric needed aid, but the battle was over. The militiamen and the serjeants cut down the ratmen and the remaining human rogues. Some of the smarter muridachs whirled and fled, and Ruire barked out orders, sending parties of men to sweep the mansion. Tyrcamber hoped they would hurry. The fire was spreading up the wall and touching the rafters, and already the room was so hot that sweat poured down his face and chest, and not just from the efforts of the battle.
“It’s over, Vordin!” roared Rincimar, wrenching his sword from a dead ratman. Tyrcamber looked towards the dais and saw Heinrich Vordin standing there, holding his Shield spell in place, abject terror on his face.
“You can’t stop us,” said Vordin, but his voice shook with fear.
“I always knew you were a rat,” said Rincimar, “but I never thought you’d lie down with the damned muridachs. Well, if you love the damned muridachs so much, I’ll gut you like one.”
Vordin took three quick steps back, holding his dagger raised over Sigurd’s chest. “Come any closer, and I’ll kill her, Rincimar. And her death will activate the weapon. We’ll all die then!”
“Pathetic coward!” Sigurd’s contempt filled her voice. “Hiding behind a woman. All your talk about ascending to become a dragon god, and you’re hiding behind a woman a third your age.”
“I’m not the one chained to a dragon skull,” said Vordin. Tyrcamber saw several of the serjeants taking aim with crossbows. Charanis reached for her quiver, but she was out of arrows. “You…”
It happened so fast that Tyrcamber barely followed it.
Golden light flared behind the skull, and a green-scaled dragon the size of a horse appeared.
At once Tyrcamber realized what had happened. In his dying moments, Philip Quentin had drawn on so much magic that he had embraced the Malison, and the Dragon Curse had transformed him.
Vordin started to turn his head, but he was too late. The green dragon’s head darted out and ripped out Vordin’s throat. The gaunt alderman fell to his knees, blood gushing from the enormous crater his former friend’s fangs had torn into his neck and then fell on his side.
The dragon’s head turned towards Sigurd, and she screamed as the serpentine neck drew back to strike.
But Tyrcamber was already moving. He raced up the steps to the dais, sword hilt in both hands, and lunged with all his strength driving him forward. He stabbed just as the dragon’s jaws snapped down for Sigurd’s throat, and his sword thrust into the top of the dragon’s mouth, plunged into its brain, and burst from the back of its green-scaled head.
The dragon let out a gurgling groan and slumped backward to the floor. Golden light began to wash up and down its form, and Tyrcamber knew the dragon would shrink back into the corpse of Philip Quentin. A loud crackling noise came to his ears, and Tyrcam
ber looked up to see the fire spreading across the ceiling.
God and the saints, it was getting hot.
“Come on,” said Tyrcamber, and he slashed through the ropes binding Sigurd to the dragon skull. “We need to get out of here right now.”
***
Chapter 11: The Fate of the Empire
The next morning, the Chancellor of the Frankish Empire and the First of the Republic of Sygalynon signed a treaty in Falcon Hall.
Tyrcamber stood near one of the pillars with Sir Angaric, both of them wearing clean surcoats and polished armor. Though he supposed they both looked the worse for wear. Tyrcamber had bruises on his face and chest, and his knees and hips ached from the collapse of the balcony. Angaric was beet red from the heat of the flames, and his beard had gotten singed, forcing him to trim it. Tyrcamber had to admit it improved his friend’s appearance somewhat, though Angaric had been annoyed at the necessity.
Scribes from the cathedral had drawn up the papers, and both Mhyarith and Radobertus signed and sealed the elaborate formal document. The Empire and Sygalynon agreed, more or less, to ignore each other. The umbral elves would not aid the Valedictor in his war against the Empire, and the Empire would leave the umbral elves of Sygalynon in peace unless they were attacked first.
Tyrcamber wondered if the treaty would hold. The umbral elves did not like the Empire or humans in general, but their hatred of the Valedictor and the dark elves was far stronger than their mere dislike for humans. Perhaps that would be enough.
The Shield and the surviving aldermen oversaw the ceremony. Sigurd stood with her uncle, proud and aloof in her gown despite the bruises on her face. Tyrcamber’s mind flashed back to what she had looked like without any clothes, and he rebuked himself and turned his attention back to the matter at hand.
After the ceremony, the servants began bringing in tables and benches for a celebratory feast. Tyrcamber watched the work, his mind distant.
“Sir Tyrcamber, Sir Angaric.”
He turned his head and saw Charanis join them, silent as ever in her dark clothing and green cloak.
“Battle mage.”
“I confess surprise that we are still alive,” said Charanis.
“As do I,” said Tyrcamber.
“Not me,” said Angaric. “I was entirely certain of victory. The thought of defeat never crossed my mind.”
“Yes, you had to survive, Sir Angaric,” said Charanis in a dry voice, “for without you, the whores of Falconberg would soon have been destitute.”
Angaric shrugged. “Well, a man needs something to fight for.”
Charanis’s mouth twisted. At first, Tyrcamber thought Angaric’s words had annoyed her, but then she spoke. “The skull. The…Guardian,” she filled the word with loathing, “he destroyed it?”
“Aye,” said Tyrcamber. “I saw him do it. He broke the spells on the skull and shattered it into a thousand pieces with his staff. It is incapable of harming anyone now.”
“Good,” said Charanis. She hesitated. “You have received counsel from the Guardian before?” Tyrcamber nodded. “You should be wary of Rilmael of Cathair Kaldran. He uses your Empire as a shield and your lives as swords. The Guardian only aids humanity because your Empire blocks the path to Cathair Kaldran.”
“Perhaps,” said Tyrcamber. “But even if the Empire did not lie on the path to Cathair Kaldran, the dark elves still would try to enslave and conquer us, would they not?” Charanis inclined her head to concede the point. “And if Rilmael had not taught our ancestors the Seven Spells, they would have fallen to the Malison and been destroyed or enslaved.”
“Seven spells,” scoffed Charanis. “If Rilmael truly wished to make you into his allies, he should have taught you much more than seven.”
“Should he, though?” said Angaric. “You have seen how badly humans handle what magic we have. Vordin and Quentin tried to transform themselves into the next Dragonmaeloch. If Rilmael had taught us even more spells, who knows how we would have abused them?”
“Perhaps you are right,” said Charanis. “A surprisingly thoughtful point from you, Sir Angaric.”
Angaric grinned. “I think about things other than whores from time to time. When I am not busy setting muridachs on fire.”
“A useful skill,” said Charanis. “I never thought I would say this of humans, but I am glad I met you. You fought with valor.”
“And you, battle mage,” said Tyrcamber. “Good fortune to you.”
“And to you,” said Charanis. “Perhaps one of us will catch the rogue Gantier on the road.” It still bothered Tyrcamber that Gantier had escaped, but Michael Gantier seemed the sort of man who had no qualms about abandoning his employers and allies to their fate. Perhaps Vordin and Quentin had been doomed from the moment they had hired Gantier to sneak the dragon skull into Falconberg.
Later that evening, as the feast was in progress, Tyrcamber stepped into the courtyard behind Falcon Hall. The sky fire had shifted to pale blue, throwing an eerie dim glow over everything. The mood in the hall was celebratory, even with the umbral elves present, but Tyrcamber was in a melancholy mood. He found himself thinking of the men who had died during the fighting in the Market of St. Mark, of the butchered innkeeper and his family and workers. That led him to think about the other battles he had seen.
There had been so much death.
And there would be more to come. The Valedictor was still gathering his host in the Wastes around Urd Mythruin, and soon he would launch his war against the Empire. The deaths that Tyrcamber had seen so far would be a drop in the bucket compared to the carnage the Valedictor’s invasion would bring.
He felt tired, and he felt old, which was odd because he had only seen twenty-three years.
Tyrcamber rolled his aching shoulders and decided to return to the chapterhouse. Some sleep would do him good, perhaps the dispel the grim mood that had settled over his mind. He needed the rest, anyway. Tyrcamber would accompany Master Ruire’s party on its return to the motherhouse of the Order in Sinderost, and no doubt Tyrcamber would have a new mission before him soon enough.
He turned towards the rear gate of the courtyard, intending to make his way back to the chapterhouse.
“Sir Tyrcamber?”
He turned in surprise, his hand twitching towards his sword hilt on reflex.
Sigurd walked towards him, the skirts of her gown whispering against the flagstones.
“Mistress Sigurd,” said Tyrcamber.
She stopped a few paces away and smiled. It wasn’t the vapid smile she had worn earlier or her harsh smirk. It made her look lovely, even with the bruise that marked her cheek.
“You are leaving the feast early,” said Sigurd.
“I hope that did not offend you,” said Tyrcamber. “I doubt anyone will notice I left.”
Sigurd laughed. “Well, you were one of the heroes of the hour. The man who stopped the Dragon Cult from destroying the city.”
Tyrcamber shook his head. “I wish we had been able to find the truth sooner.”
“I think you found the truth just in time,” said Sigurd. Her voice dropped. “I was so frightened. I didn’t want to show it to that toad Quentin or that dried old stick Vordin, but I was terrified.” She scowled. “And I did not enjoy having half my uncle’s soldiers see me naked.”
“At least it will be a pleasant memory for them,” said Tyrcamber.
She smiled. “Is it a pleasant memory for you, Sir Tyrcamber?”
He felt her eyes on him, and some of the moisture vanished from his mouth.
“Not really,” said Tyrcamber. “I was trying to stay alive, and we barely got out of your uncle’s house before the hall’s roof collapsed.”
“That’s disappointing,” murmured Sigurd. She stepped closer, looking up at him. “What can we do to give you a more pleasant memory of Falconberg? You did save the fair maiden from the dragon, after all.”
“I think we both know that you’re not a maiden,” said Tyrcamber.
Her
smile sharpened. “Then I think the experience will be all the more memorable.”
She stepped forward and took his left hand with her right. Her fingers felt very soft and very warm, and an involuntary shiver went through him.
“I can’t marry you,” said Tyrcamber, rallying what remained of his resistance.
Sigurd laughed. “I wouldn’t want you to.” She rubbed her thumb over his fingers, and a shadow came into her eyes. “The last few days have been dreadful. I won’t show fear, but I’ll have nightmares about this for the rest of my life. I think I would like a pleasant memory, too.”
Tyrcamber drew breath to refuse her, to turn and walk away.
But his mind was full of blood and death, and her fingers felt warm against his and made him think about something other than the shadows.
Instead, he pulled her close and kissed her long and hard.
“Come with me,” murmured Sigurd. “I know a place we won't be disturbed.”
As it turned out, it was a most memorable evening, and again in the morning.
###
The next morning, Tyrcamber rode alongside Sir Angaric as Master Ruire’s party left Falconberg and began the journey back to Sinderost.
“I do have one regret,” said Angaric.
“What’s that?” said Tyrcamber.
Angaric sighed. “I never did get to bed the Shield’s daughter.”
"A regret I’m sure you’ll bear to the end of your days,” said Tyrcamber.
“Yes, well, once we return to Sinderost, the brothels there are far superior to the ones in Falconberg,” said Angaric.
Tyrcamber nodded, listening with half an ear as Angaric launched one of his monologues.
He said nothing about Sigurd Rincimar to Angaric or to anyone else.
If he couldn’t be good…well, he could at least manage to be discreet.
Once they reached Sinderost, Tyrcamber decided, he would write to his sister Adalhaid and ask her to find a husband for Sigurd. Adalhaid enjoyed matchmaking and was quite good at it. He would suggest that Adalhaid find Sigurd a slightly older but wealthy husband, a gentle-natured man she could wrap around her finger without too much effort...
Malison: Dragon Umbra Page 15
