The Dragon's Shadow

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Mine,” hissed Marstan. “You were always mine, boy, from the very beginning.”

  The dark lake boiled around them, and the shades rose from its depths, screaming their hatred of Marstan. But they did not approach, and Marstan ignored them. Lucan struggled, trying to find the power to repel Marstan, but his former master was too strong, too skilled.

  The chill spread through his body.

  “You thought you escaped me,” said Marstan, laughing as his arms sank deeper into Lucan’s chest. “Fool, fool, fool! This was always your fate, Lucan. To come here, to summon me, and for my soul to be clothed in your flesh.”

  Lucan’s vision blurred, darkness closing around him.

  “How?” he rasped. “You died. Your soul moved on.”

  He felt his lips move in answer as Marstan took control.

  “You cannot possibly understand,” said Marstan, his voice thundering inside Lucan’s ears and his skull. “Do you think I would teach you the secrets of true necromancy? The knowledge of life eternal? You are nothing but my receptacle, boy. Your entire life, your entire purpose, is nothing but this!”

  Lucan’s head bowed, Marstan’s spirit washing around him. He barely had enough strength to hold Marstan at bay. It would be easier, so much easier, to let go. To die, to rest.

  But if he surrendered, Tymaen would die.

  And something darker rose within him, something he had learned from Marstan.

  Marstan would pay for this.

  He would pay for everything he had ever done to Lucan.

  “Do you know all the things I will do wearing your flesh?” said Marstan. “I will slay your father and brother, and claim the Grim Marches for myself. I will be like the great necromancer-lords of Old Dracaryl.” He laughed, long and mocking. “It has been long since I had a strong, young body. Perhaps I will cure your Tymaen and enjoy her as you were too craven to do!”

  The shades of Marstan’s victims spiraled around the island in a dark vortex, howling their hatred.

  Lucan shuddered, fighting the possession of his body. His will refused to yield, but it had not the means of fighting back. Even as he fought, the cold part of his mind, the part Marstan’s training and memories had created, considered the situation. It was impossible – Marstan’s soul could not be here. A soul could only remain in the mortal world if it was housed in a body of flesh, or if it had a magical anchor of some kind.

  An anchor…

  The bone wand felt like a shard of pulsing ice against fingers.

  The wand. The shades had only attacked Lucan after he picked up the wand. And they had screamed for Marstan the entire time, mistaking him for the dead necromancer.

  Because the wand held Marstan’s soul.

  He must have prepared it to anchor his soul to the mortal world in case Lucan killed him. Then it had been a simple of matter of luring Lucan to this hidden sanctuary and claiming his body.

  The truth was so simple…and he had realized it too late.

  He could not move his arms, and he could barely move his legs. Marstan had almost taken control of his body. But could he feel everything Lucan felt? Marstan had been dead for over a year. Did he remember the sensations of mortal flesh?

  Did he remember pain?

  Lucan gathered what strength he had left and shoved his legs against the stone, driving himself forward. He lost his balance, and his forehead smacked against the hard rock. A flash of white light exploded behind his eyes, followed by a roaring eruption of pain. Marstan’s shriek echoed inside Lucan’s head.

  And for a just an instant, Lucan had control of his limbs.

  He raised the bone wand and smashed it against the ground with all the force he could muster.

  The wand fractured, the splinters plunging into his palm. The sigils carved into its length flared with green light and crumbled to ash.

  “No!” screamed Marstan, and Lucan felt the tearing sensation as the invading spirit was torn from his body. Marstan reappeared over the ruined circle, his face livid with fury.

  Lucan tried to stand and only got to his knees, his head spinning.

  “Do you think that will stop me?” said Marstan. “You don’t have enough strength left to resist me!” The translucent form reached for him. “You are mine! Now and…”

  The shades fell upon them like an avalanche.

  Lucan tried to cast a ward, but the shades ignored him. They seized Marstan, his triumphant shout turning to a sudden shriek of horror. A blast of green fire from his hands disintegrated a dozen shades, but more, hundreds more, rose from the water.

  “You killed my father!” screamed a woman.

  “You slew my children for your sorcery,” said another.

  “You turned my wife into a monster!” roared a shade.

  Marstan screamed and fought, trying to break away, but there were too many shades. They dragged the necromancer towards the raging black fire in the ruined summoning circle.

  Back to the spirit world…and Marstan had no more anchors holding him to the mortal world.

  “Let me go!” roared Marstan. “I command you, let me go!”

  The shades howled in glee, dragging him to the black fire.

  Lucan staggered to his feet.

  “Lucan!” There was terror in Marstan’s voice, fear unlike Lucan had ever heard. “Help me! You have to help me! You don’t know what’s going to happen to me, what they’ll do to me! Help me! Mercy!”

  The shades dragged Marstan to the edge of the fire, and for a moment Lucan met his former teacher’s horror-stricken eyes.

  “You poisoned Tymaen,” said Lucan, “and you shouldn’t have done that.”

  Marstan’s final horrified wail filled his ears, and the shades heaved him into the black flames, shrieking with glee. There was a thunderclap, and the passageway to the spirit world vanished in a flash of green light.

  Marstan’s last scream echoed in Lucan’s ears for a long time.

  He shook himself and hobbled back to the ledge, every muscle in his body aching. He dropped to his knees before the shelves and reached for the jar Marstan had indicated. If he had lied, if it had been one final cruel trick…

  But he hadn’t lied.

  Seven withered black shadowrose petals lay at the bottom of the jar. Marstan’s tables held all the equipment and tools he would need to brew the antidote.

  Lucan stood and got to work.

  ###

  A short time later Lucan walked through the ward and into the outer cavern.

  Montigard sat against the wall, sipping from a steel flask in one hand. He looked relaxed, but his sword lay across his knees, and Lucan saw the calm readiness in his limbs.

  He got to his feet in an instant.

  “Gods above, man,” said Montigard. “You look like you need a drink.”

  Lucan held out his hand, and Montigard passed him the flask. He took a long swallow and passed it back.

  “What happened down there?” said Montigard.

  “Suffice to say,” said Lucan, “I met an old friend, and we had a…quarrel.”

  That made him laugh long and loud, just as Marstan would have.

  The thought only made him laugh harder.

  Chapter 10 - To Fight Dark Magic

  It was almost dawn by the time Lucan and Montigard reached Swordgrim’s sickroom.

  Tymaen lay unconscious in the bed. The black streaks covered her limbs, her breathing a faint rasp. An old priest tended to her, wiping her brow, and Lucan felt a surge of gratitude to the man.

  Robert would have left her to die alone in the dark.

  “My lord,” said the old priest, face grave. “I fear her time is short. I came to say prayers on her behalf as her soul joins the gods. If you have anything you wish to say to her, before the end, I urge you to do so now.”

  “Your kindness does you credit,” said Lucan, “but there is something more concrete you can do for the lady.”

  “What is that, my lord?”

  “Pinch her nose shut and
tilt her head back.”

  The priest frowned, but knew better than to disobey. He pinched her nose shut and inclined her head, her blond hair sticking to the sweaty pillow. Lucan poured the vial of black antidote down her throat, making sure every last drop drained from the glass.

  The priest lay her head against the pillow.

  For a moment nothing happened.

  Then Tymaen let out a series of long, hacking coughs, and her breathing grew slower, deeper.

  “My lord,” said the priests. “The black streaks. They are retreating. You’ve cured her, my lord!”

  “Send word to Lord Robert,” said Lucan. “Let him know he won’t need to find a third wife after all.”

  He turned, went back to his rooms without another word, and slept for the better part of two days.

  ###

  Later, a page boy came to Lucan’s rooms.

  “My lord,” said the page, hovering in the doorway, as if preparing to flee, “your lord father summons you to his solar at once.”

  Lucan nodded. “I’ll come.”

  The page fled without another word, and Lucan sighed. It would be nice, he thought, not to be feared.

  But fear was a tool he would use well.

  He dressed and went to his father’s solar. The room had high, wide windows in both the walls and the ceiling, admitting sunlight and providing a fine view of the Lake of Swords. Richard Mandragon sat at the table, reading through a stack of letters.

  “Lucan,” he said.

  “Father,” said Lucan.

  He stood in silence for a moment.

  “You paid that landless knight Montigard,” said Richard, “quite a bit for one night’s service.”

  Lucan shrugged. “I’m still alive. It was a worthy investment.”

  “I note,” said Richard, “that Lady Tymaen has recovered from her poisoning.”

  “So she has,” said Lucan.

  “The priest told me that you cured her,” said Richard, “but at my bidding he has spoken to no one else.”

  “Good,” said Lucan.

  Richard lifted an eyebrow. “Do you not want her to know that you saved her life?”

  “No,” said Lucan.

  “Surely she would be grateful,” said Richard. He fell silent for a moment. “And…if she should happen to leave Lord Robert, he would be wroth, but not unduly so.”

  “No,” said Lucan again. “I am a bad man, Father. You made me that way, and Marstan made me that way. Robert isn’t a very good man, but he is a better one than me. Better that she stay with him instead of me.”

  Richard shrugged. “As you wish. Out of curiosity, who poisoned her?”

  “Marstan,” said Lucan.

  “Marstan is dead,” said Richard. “I saw his body.”

  “Oh, he’s dead,” said Lucan. “But he left orders with Alighar, that disreputable apothecary in Sword Town. If I successfully killed Marstan, Alighar was to wait a year and a day, and then poison Tymaen.”

  “Spite, I assume?”

  “Of course,” said Lucan.

  His father didn’t need to know the whole truth.

  “And I assume,” said Richard, glancing at another letter, “that Alighar will trouble us no more.”

  “I dealt with him,” said Lucan.

  “Good,” said Richard. “I suppose this entire affair was Marstan’s doing. We are well rid of him.”

  “We would not need to be rid of him,” said Lucan, “if you had not hired him in the first place.”

  “Do you think to blame me for your misfortunes?” said Richard. “The fault lies with Marstan.”

  “Marstan tried to possess me,” said Lucan, “and kill Tymaen, after you hired him to teach me.”

  “Hiring Marstan was an…error, I admit,” said Richard. “But the result was most satisfactory.”

  Lucan laughed. “How?”

  “I am the ruler of the Grim Marches,” said Richard. “I must defend my lands and people from all threats and keep order among my vassals. And to do so, I need the aid of my sons. Marstan made you strong, Lucan. Stronger, now that you have put Tymaen behind you. And you will help me do what needs to be done.”

  Rage flushed through Lucan, and he almost turned his heel and walked out of the room. Montigard would have headed west by now. Perhaps Lucan could yet catch up with him. Wandering the realm with a landless knight would be a better life than serving as his father’s enforcer.

  Almost anything would be.

  But…Richard Mandragon was right.

  Lucan remembered the shades of Marstan’s victims. There had been so many of them. What if someone had stopped Marstan? How many lives would have been saved? There were other men and women like Marstan loose in the world. What if someone stopped them?

  What if Lucan stopped them?

  "I'll do it," said Lucan. "But not for you. I'll do it so no one else suffers from dark magic as I have."

  "Motives are irrelevant," said Richard. "Actions alone matter. Speaking of actions, the last of my vassals will arrive in another four days."

  Lucan nodded. "Did you dispatch Sir Tanam?"

  "Aye," said Richard. "He will enter Castle Cravenlock under terms of parley and abscond with Lady Rachel."

  Lucan frowned. "You'll break parley?"

  "Mitor Cravenlock is a proselyte of the San-keth and an apostate," said Richard. "He is not entitled to terms of parley. And if Sir Tanam successfully liberates Rachel, we can perhaps force an end to this conflict without any bloodshed. If your conscience will permit it, of course."

  "It will," said Lucan.

  "Your assistance would be welcome," said Richard. "One or more San-keth priests might have settled at Mitor's court, and the San-keth clerics are known for their necromancy."

  "You shall have it," said Lucan.

  "Good," said Richard. "Prepare yourself to depart."

  Lucan left the solar, deep in thought. His father was a hard and cold man, but he had kept peace in the Grim Marches for years. He would allow Lucan to do what was necessary to keep the people of the Grim Marches safe from dark magic.

  For Lucan would protect them. He would make sure no one ever suffered as he had suffered.

  No matter what it took, and whatever the cost.

  THE END

  Thank you for reading THE DRAGON'S SHADOW. If you liked the book, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter, or watch for news on my Facebook page.

  Turn the page for a look at DEMONSOULED, the first book in the DEMONSOULED series.

  DEMONSOULED bonus chapter

  Here is a sample chapter from my sword-and-sorcery novel Demonsouled, the first book in my DEMONSOULED series of sword-and-sorcery novels.

  Chapter I

  1

  The Jongleur at the Inn

  Mazael Cravenlock saw the apple trees and smiled.

  He put spurs to his horse, a sturdy old gray palfrey named Mantle, and rode for the trees, ignoring Gerald's cry of protest. The setting sun painted the grass a deep crimson, and the hot, dry wind of the Marches tugged at Mazael’s cloak and whipped at his face, but he was used to it. He had grown up here, after all.

  The apple trees rose at the shore of a clear pond, encircled by a low stone wall. Nearby stood a crumbling brick chimney and some foundation stones, all that remained of a small peasant house. The inhabitants of that house had likely been killed fifteen years past during Lord Richard Mandragon’s uprising against Lord Adalon Cravenlock. No one had claimed the land since then, to judge from the tall grass covering the old foundation.

  Mazael steered Mantle through the low wall's fallen gate and reined up beneath a tree. The apples hung heavy and red from their blossoms, and he plucked one with a gloved hand and took a bite.

  “Sir Mazael!”

  Mazael turned his saddle, chewing, and watched Sir Gerald Roland and his squire Wesson ride through the ruined gate. Gerald had inherited the aquiline feature
s, blue eyes, and muscular body of his father. His shoulder-length hair shone like gold, and he had recently grown a mustache that he attended with the fanaticism of an Cirstarcian monk. Gerald was not wearing any armor - Mazael could have thrown his dagger and killed Gerald before the younger man could react.

  Instead, Mazael reached up and took another apple. “Hungry?”

  “Certainly.” Mazael tossed the apple. Gerald cut it in half with his dagger, taking half for himself, and feeding the other to his horse. “Wesson, would you care for an apple?”

  “No, Sir Gerald,” said Wesson, a pimpled youth of eleven. “I am not hungry.”

  “Pity,” said Mazael. A single sure sword stroke would kill Wesson. “Never pass up a chance for an apple, my boy.”

  Gerald snorted. “Never pass up a chance for fresh food, you mean. An opinion I wholly favor after all these travel rations, but I could never understand why you were so mad for apples. I prefer pears, myself.”

  Mazael flicked the core aside, and picked another apple for Mantle. “I might tell you someday.” The sun's setting rays caught in the pond, and for a moment the water resembled blood. Mazael shook off the thought.

  “Shall we stop here for the night?” said Gerald.

  “No,” said Mazael. “There’s an inn two miles east of here, just before the Northwater bridge. We can get there before dark.”

  Gerald laughed. “Are you in such a hurry to reach your brother’s castle? You gave me to understand that you’d rather be elsewhere.”

  “No, I’m in a hurry to have a bed and a hot meal. Fresh food is fine, but hot food is far better." Mantle finished the apple, and Mazael turned the palfrey around and rode back to the road and their other animals. Mazael and Gerald’s war horses stood grazing alongside a pair of pack mules laden with their supplies and armor. Wesson took the animals in hand and followed the two knights as they rode eastward.

  “I would rather be elsewhere,” said Mazael, “but since I am here, I would prefer to be within castle walls. I have no great eagerness to see my brother, but should war come, I’d rather be inside Castle Cravenlock than out in the open.”