Soul of Dragons

by Jonathan Moeller

  Appropriate, really. Given what Corvad sought to find.

  She wrapped a loose brown cloak around herself, hiding the dark armor of the Skulls, and strode into the shadows.

  When she reappeared, she stood in a darkened corner of the church. Already children and women filled the church, some of them weeping. Some prayed to Joraviar the Knight to lend their husbands and brothers strength, while other prayed to Amater the Mother to deliver their sons back to them. Molly neither knew nor cared if the gods heard their prayers. But wrapped in her worn cloak, she looked like just another townswoman, and she circled around the edge of the church to the door leading to the priests' quarters.

  It was locked, of course, but the Skulls had trained her to open far more complex locks, and she slipped past it. Inside, she hurried past the closed doors of the priests' sleeping quarters and into the church’s library.

  The room was not large, but it held perhaps two hundred books of varying age on shelves lining either side of the room. Molly scanned the volumes, until her eyes came to rest on two books, stacked in the corner, the leather covers cracked with age. She opened one and paged through it. The book was written in the language of Old Dracaryl, which she could not read.

  But Corvad could.

  She picked up the books and turned to leave.

  An old priest stood in the doorway, gazing at her.

  “Good woman,” he said, shuffling towards her, “you should not be here. Come, join the others, and we shall pray for our deliverance.” He saw the books in her arms. “What...”

  Molly pulled a pad from her belt, soaked in a vile concoction the Skulls had taught her to make. She pressed it against the priest's nose and mouth, and his eyes went wide. Then they rolled up into his head, and Molly lowered him to the floor.

  He would wake up unharmed, save for a nasty headache. No reason to kill him, really. Corvad would have killed him, but Corvad enjoyed killing in a way Molly did not. If their grandfather had not come, no doubt Corvad would have remained with the Skulls, killing to slake his lust.

  But their grandfather had come, offering Corvad the chance to kill uncounted thousands.

  The only man Molly cared about killing was Mazael Cravenlock.

  She walked into the shadows, leaving the church behind.

  Chapter 8 - A Vial of Blood

  “Your timing could not have been better,” said Mazael.

  He stood with Gerald, Romaria, and Circan outside the walls as the armsmen labored to clear the field of the dead, piling the Malrag carcasses in a great heap. Rachel and some of the townswomen tended to the wounded, directing some of the townsmen to carry those unable to walk to the church.

  “Aye,” said Sir Nathan Greatheart, “but it was a close thing.” He stood with Sir Hagen and a short man clad in a long black wizard's coat, beard trimmed to a narrow point. Timothy deBlanc was Mazael's court wizard, and he had missed Timothy's sensible advice.

  Especially after Lucan had fallen.

  Sir Kjalmir Morsbane stood between them, resting both his hands on the handle of his hammer.

  “It is good you returned, my lord,” said Nathan. Despite his age, he still fought with strength and vigor. He had served as castellan in Mazael's absence, keeping watch over Mazael's lands. “And that you return with good tidings, as well. Ultorin slain and the Malrag host broken. Aye, that is indeed good tidings.”

  “And dead at your own hand, my lord,” said Hagen. Sir Hagen was Mazael's armsmaster, a reliable man with no sense of humor whatsoever. “I saw the dead women and children left in his wake. He deserved to suffer.”

  Mazael remembered Ultorin's final scream, the terror in the corrupted knight's eyes at the end.

  “Aye,” said Mazael, voice quiet, “aye, he suffered. Though he brought it on himself, the fool.”

  “Then we can rebuild,” said Timothy, “and the peasants can return to their villages, and sow new crops. It will take many years for the scars to heal, but heal they shall. Though hopefully the Grim Marches will never again face so terrible a war.”

  “It will not, if my Order has anything to say on the matter,” rumbled Kjalmir. “The Arminiars have long guarded the passes to the Great Northern Waste, keeping the Malrags at bay. When we received word that a great horde had come out of the mountains to attack the Grim Marches...my lords and knights, I expected to find only ashes and corpses in the Grim Marches. Not victory. For you to have defeated a Malrag horde led by a powerful Demonsouled...it is remarkable.”

  “Ultorin wasn't Demonsouled,” said Mazael. “He had a sword, forged in the blood of a powerful Demonsouled, that let him control the Malrags.”

  Kjalmir nodded. “The blood of the Demonsouled carries great power.”

  “Ultorin has been dead for a month,” said Mazael. “Have there been many Malrag attacks since?”

  “Some,” said Nathan. “A few warbands, coming out of the Great Southern Forest. They have been easily repelled. Fragments of Ultorin’s host, no doubt. Others have been more...difficult.”

  “How so?”

  “They are stronger and faster than normal Malrag warriors,” said Nathan. “And these Malrags are marked with crimson veins across their skins.”

  “Infused,” said Kjalmir.

  “Infused with what?” said Timothy.

  “When a Demonsouled takes control of Malrags,” said Kjalmir, “he can feed the Malrags a drop of his own blood. The Malrag absorbs the power in the blood and becomes stronger, faster, more vicious.”

  Timothy shuddered. “As if the normal Malrag warriors were not bad enough.”

  “The attacks from these infused Malrags have been unusual,” said Nathan.

  Timothy cleared his throat. “They’ve been more like...raids, my lord, rather than attacks. Previously, when the Malrags attacked a village, they slaughtered every living thing in it. Now they try to steal things, and then depart.”

  “What sort of things?” said Mazael.

  “Books,” said Timothy. “Scrolls. The Malrags attack, and some of them raid the church or the castle's chapel. Then they take the books and vanish without a trace. We've tried tracking the Malrag warbands, but it's as if they vanish into thin air.”

  Kjalmir grunted. “A mistgate, most likely.”

  “I checked. Some books were reported stolen from the town's church, during the battle” said Timothy, glancing in the direction of the church's dome.

  “Which books?” said Romaria.

  Timothy shrugged. “Histories of Old Dracaryl. One of the priests said he saw a young woman in the library who attacked him.”

  Mazael shared a look with Romaria, remembering the woman who walked through the shadows. “What did she look like?”

  “The priest didn't get a good look at her,” said Timothy. “She was wearing an old cloak, and had brown hair. That's all he remembers. She managed to drug him somehow, and escaped with the books. No one else reports seeing such a woman, my lord, or seeing a woman carrying books from the church.”

  Mazael nodded. If that was the same woman who had accompanied Corvad to the ruined castle, she could easily have escaped without anyone noticing.

  But why take books? That made no sense whatsoever. Demonsouled who gave into their darker sides turned to murder and mayhem. The weaker ones indulged in random murder, while the more powerful began building empires for themselves, as Amalric had. For Corvad to launch these attacks, only to take books, made no sense.

  Unless...

  Unless there was something in those books that would let him kill even more people.

  Something in those books, perhaps, that would let him use Lucan as a weapon?

  That thought left Mazael uneasy.

  “What are your commands, my lord?” said Nathan.

  “I fought those infused Malrags on our way north,” said Mazael. “They were led by another Demonsouled. Not one so powerful as Amalric Galbraith or Simonian. But Demonsouled nonetheless. He called himself Corvad.”

  That got Kjalmir's
attention. “I would speak with you about this Corvad.”

  “I thought you might,” said Mazael. “Nathan, Hagen, Timothy. Send word to all my knights and vassals. Warn them about Corvad and the infused Malrags, and tell them prepare for more attacks.”

  “My lord,” said Timothy, “if you'll forgive the question, where is Lucan? Did he not return? Did Malavost strike him down?” He sounded pained. Timothy and Lucan had been unlikely friends, but friends nonetheless.

  “Not...quite,” said Mazael. “We will return to the castle for now. Sir Kjalmir. You shall and your men shall be my honored guests. I suspect we have a great deal to discuss.”

  Kjalmir nodded, and Mazael and the others rode for Castle Cravenlock.

  ###

  “So Ultorin and Malavost were slain and Lucan taken by Corvad,” said Mazael. “Then we arrived at the town...and, well, you know the rest.”

  They met in the council chamber behind the castle's great hall, a small room dominated by a long table and tapestries showing scenes from the Grim Marches' history. Mazael had never much used it. Since becoming Lord of Castle Cravenlock, he had spent so much time in the field – first against the Dominiars, and then against Ultorin's Malrags.

  He was surprised how glad he was to return to Castle Cravenlock. He had never been happy here as a child, had dreamed of leaving and never returning...but now it was home.

  The meal his seneschal Cramton sent up from the kitchens might have something do with it. Mazael had spent months in the saddle, eating dried meat and hard bread. It had been a long time since he had eaten a fresh meal, and to judge from the way Kjalmir tore into his meat, it had been a long time for him, as well.

  “The Grand Master of my Order gave me two tasks when I rode south,” said Kjalmir. “The first was to investigate rumors of Malrag invasion. The Arminiars guard the frontiers along the Great Northern Waste, and few Malrag warbands ever escape the Waste to come south.” He grimaced. “But we cannot be everywhere...and vast numbers of Malrags lurk in the caverns below the Great Mountains. We had long feared that a powerful Demonsouled might take command of the Malrags of the mountains, and lead them in an attack upon the lands of men.” He grinned and took another bite of bread. “But thanks to you, my lord, I can return to my Grand Master with good news.”

  “What is your second task?” said Mazael.

  Kjalmir's face hardened. “To find and kill a Demonsouled named Corvad.”

  “What do you know about him?” said Mazael.

  Kjalmir shrugged. “Not as much as I would like. He first appeared on the borders of the Waste about a year ago, leading a company of mercenaries. Mercenaries sometimes serve with my Order for a time, in exchange for a chance to loot some of the ancient ruins in the Waste. A fool's endeavor – a man can find great treasures in those ruins, true, but he's more likely to find a slow death. Corvad was one of the more effective ones. We trusted him, as much as we ever trust a mercenary, and he rode with us several times against the Malrag warbands.”

  “How did you find out he was Demonsouled?” said Romaria. She sat at Mazael's right, spearing pieces of meat with her dagger.

  “He began creating infused Malrags,” said Kjalmir. “Only Demonsouled can do that. Even worse, he began creating Malrag warlocks. Malrag shamans that swallow a drop of Demonsouled blood become massively more powerful. They also gain the ability to conjure mistgates – portals through the spirit world that permit them to travel instantly from place to place.”

  “Corvad used a mistgate,” said Romaria, “when he escaped from our battle.”

  “Did Corvad have a woman with him?” said Mazael. “One with the ability to disappear and reappear?”

  Kjalmir shook his head. “We never saw anyone like that with him. No doubt she joined him after he fled south. We realized what he was, and attacked him. It was a sharp battle – Corvad had already gathered infused Malrags around himself. But we overcame him, though he escaped.”

  “Did he ever raise zuvembies against you?” said Mazael.

  “No,” said Kjalmir. “And we never saw him with that black diadem you described. Whatever it is, he must have found it after he left the Waste. Or perhaps he found it in the Waste, and took it south with him.”

  “Do you have any idea what he wants?” said Mazael. “Or why he has come to the Grim Marches?”

  Kjalmir shook his head. “None. And I cannot fathom why he would kidnap that wizard of yours. From what you described, it's as if one of Lucan Mandragon's spells went bad and turned on him. Why that would interest Corvad, I don’t know.”

  “That staff,” muttered Timothy. “That black staff of his had something to do with it. It was a dark source of power, I'm sure of it. I tried to warn him against it, but he laughed it off. Well, he should have listened to me, my lord.”

  Considering what had happened to Lucan, Timothy was probably right.

  “I don’t know what Corvad wants with a half-dead wizard and ancient documents,” said Kjalmir. “But whatever it is, I'll warrant it's nothing good. My lord Mazael, I suspect you want Corvad dead as much as I do. It would be best if we work together.”

  “Agreed,” said Mazael.

  “You have my aid, as well,” said Gerald. “My wife is with child, and I dare not take her on the road to Knightcastle with Corvad's Malrags on the loose. She is not fond of Castle Cravenlock, but it is certainly safer than the open road.”

  “Your aid would be welcome,” said Mazael.

  “It seems to me,” said Gerald, “our first task is to find Corvad. If Corvad can travel from place to place through his warlocks' mistgates, we'll have a devil of a time tracking him down.”

  Timothy tugged at his beard. “I, ah...I may have a solution to that, my lords.”

  They all looked at him.

  “Lucan had many enemies,” said Timothy, “and perhaps I should not repeat this, but he feared that his father or his brother would try to have him assassinated one day.”

  Mazael knew both Lord Richard Dragonslayer and Lord Toraine the Black Dragon. Lucan's fears were not unjustified.

  “He also bore the enmity of the San-keth, both from the business with Straganis and from some conflicts before he entered your service,” said Timothy. “He feared they might try to take him captive.”

  Kjalmir grunted. “But what does that have to do with finding Corvad?”

  “Lucan put a vial of his blood in my care,” said Timothy.

  Silence answered that pronouncement.

  “So you can track him,” said Circan. “Use the blood to magically discern his location.” Circan himself had done the same thing, using a vial of Aldane Roland's blood to track the stolen child.

  “Aye,” said Timothy.

  “He put a great deal of trust in you,” said Circan. “That blood could be a powerful weapon, in the wrong hands.”

  Timothy shrugged. “Lucan trusted me, as much as he trusted anyone, but he took...precautions. The vial containing the blood is warded. If anyone other than me attempts to use it, the wards will...react. Violently, I expect.”

  “But you can use it to track Lucan?” said Circan.

  Timothy nodded. “I'm certain of it.”

  “That seems the best course,” said Kjalmir. “Your wizard uses this vial of blood to track down the Dragon’s Shadow. Corvad will not be far away, and once we know his location, we can take his head.”

  “We'll have to surprise him,” said Mazael. “Catch him off-guard, before his warlocks open a mistgate to escape.”

  “The woman will be the dangerous one,” said Romaria, voice soft. “She saw me, when I followed Corvad's Malrags.”

  “She can die alongside Corvad,” said Mazael. “Or we can simply kill his warlocks. I doubt Corvad has the ability to conjure mistgates on his own. We'll take as many men as the castle can spare – knights, mounted armsmen, and militia archers on horseback. Then we'll find Corvad, defeat his Malrags, and kill him.”

  It sounded so easy. But Mazael doubted it would be
that simple.

  Battles never were.

  Chapter 9 – Shades

  Lucan trudged through the dead forest, ancient leaves crackling beneath his boots. The moaning wind followed him, tugging at the branches, making them creak and groan.

  Save for his breathing, the creak of the trees, and the rustle of his boots, he heard no other sounds.

  None at all.

  Noises filled a living forest. This forest, this maze of dead trees, was motionless and lifeless. Lucan had not seen a single living thing.

  Save for the reapers.

  Assuming they were living things, of course.

  He had not seen the reapers since the fight outside the forest. Yet from time to time he caught glimpses of them. Something that might have been a black cloak, pooled at the base of a tree. A bone-white hand, curled around a branch. Twice Lucan had loosed psychokinetic blasts, smashing a dead tree to splinters, only to realize he had been jumping at shadows.

  The reapers – if they were still following him – knew how to remain unseen.

  Lucan wished he could conjure up a screen of minor spirit creatures to act as scouts. No matter how stealthy the reapers, they could not hide from the senses of a spirit wolf or falcon. He had tried the spell a half dozen times, only to fail again and again.

  He tried once more.

  Nothing happened.

  Lucan kept walking, mind racing, eyes scanning the trees.

  He suspected the reapers were waiting for him to fall asleep. They knew his spells could harm them. But if they waited until he fell asleep, they could surge out of the darkness, reaching for him with their white hands...

  He hadn't yet seen the features beneath those black hoods, and he didn't want to.

  But sooner or later he would have to sleep. He had to find a safe place, or at least a defensible one, before that. One of the ruins he had glimpsed in the forest, perhaps?

  For that matter, he had to find something to eat and to drink. Soon. He had been walking perhaps six hours. Or had it been longer? Was that the reapers' strategy? To wait until Lucan collapsed, exhausted from hunger and thirst, and then to fall upon him?