Soul of Dragons

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Molly was here,” said Romaria.

  Mazael frowned. “Who?”

  “That woman we saw at the ruined castle, the one who could disappear and reappear,” said Romaria. “She was here, alone.”

  “What did she want?” said Mazael. “To steal a book?”

  “Aye,” said Romaria. “That, and...other things. She wants to kill you. Very badly.”

  “Any particular reason?” said Mazael.

  Romaria hesitated. “Yes. A...very particular reason. Two of them.” She lowered her voice. “I have news for you. Alone.”

  Mazael nodded. “Sir Hagen!” Hagen approached. “Keep the watch on the wall. And have some men sweep the plains around the town and castle. I doubt they'll find anything, but I'd rather not take the chance. The rest of the men can stand down.”

  Hagen nodded. “If there's any Malrags within twenty-five miles of the castle, we'll find them, my lord.”

  “Good,” said Mazael. He led Romaria from the hall.

  ###

  They went to the balcony garden jutting from the keep's wall, flowers sprouting around a mossy tree. Old Lord Adalon had built it for Mazael's mother years ago, but she had never used it. Few ever came here now, but Mazael visited it often. He had almost lost control of his Demonsouled nature here, almost killing both Romaria and Rachel in a blind rage.

  It was a reminder, and warning

  “What happened?” said Mazael.

  “I tracked down Molly,” said Romaria. “I could smell her. We fought, and she escaped.” She took a deep breath. “Mazael, does the name Elizabeth of Barellion mean anything to you?”

  Mazael blinked.

  It did.

  “Tell me,” said Romaria, voice soft. “I know you had other women, many others, before me. You were not my first, either.”

  “It was twenty years ago,” said Mazael. “Not long after Lord Adalon banished me from the Grim Marches. I had been wandering across the realm, fighting for petty lords. Sometimes I worked as a mercenary.” He shook his head. “I was in a fell mood, most of the time...but those days were carefree. I wandered and fought and drank and whored, and cared little for anything else.”

  He gazed over the darkened plains, remembering.

  “In the end, I found my way to Barellion, the king's city.” He remembered it well. Fifty thousand men, women, and children crammed within its walls, rich and poor alike. “Elizabeth...I met Elizabeth in an alley, actually. She was set upon by robbers, and I slew them. Elizabeth was a widow. She'd been married to a man thirty years her senior, a rich merchant. But he had fallen ill and died, and so she was lonely.”

  “And so you...comforted her,” said Romaria.

  “Aye,” said Mazael. It had been twenty years ago, and he had not thought of Elizabeth in years. Why was Romaria questioning him about this now?

  “Why didn't you marry her?” said Romaria.

  “I considered it,” said Mazael. “She had wealth, and would have been a fine prize for a landless knight. But I was an idle fling for her. And she was beautiful, but I did not like her. She was a fool, and a profligate one.” That hadn't stopped him from sleeping with her. “Of course, I was a fool, then...but she was too much of a fool even for me. I heard word than the lords of Castefall needed men to fight off raiders from the sea. I left Barellion, rode north, and never saw her again.”

  Romaria nodded, her face tight.

  “Why does it matter now?” said Mazael.

  She took a deep breath. “Mazael, that Demonsouled woman, the one who calls herself Molly. She claims to be the daughter of Elizabeth, and that Corvad is her brother. Her twin brother, from the look of them.”

  Mazael blinked. “So? That...”

  The understanding struck him, and he gripped the railing.

  “My children?” he said at last.

  Romaria nodded.

  Most lords, he knew, would have been pleased to have children, to have heirs to carry on their name. But not Mazael. He was a son of the Old Demon, the oldest and strongest of the Demonsouled. Any children Mazael fathered would receive the taint, the power and blood of the Old Demon.

  That explained Corvad's recovery from Romaria's lethal arrow wounds, Molly's ability to appear and disappear.

  “Gods,” whispered Mazael. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.”

  What had his foolishness wrought? He knew the horrors he had almost committed, when his Demonsouled nature threatened to devour him. He had seen the carnage and terror Amalric Galbraith brought, the subtle webs and grand plans of Morebeth Galbraith. He had known there might be children – there had been so many women. But to know that he had Demonsouled children, and they had been loose in the world for so long...

  What had they done?

  And what more might they do, if he did not stop them? The blood they shed would be on his hands. Because he had brought them into the world, and done nothing for them.

  Little wonder Molly wanted to kill him.

  “What a fool I was,” said Mazael.

  “Yes,” said Romaria. “You were. You didn't know any better, but you were still a fool. You're aren't a fool now, though.”

  “Aye,” said Mazael, raking his hand through his hair. Corvad and Molly threatened the Grim Marches, and Mazael had brought that threat upon his lands and his people. And Corvad intended something worse, something involving Lucan and the stolen books.

  Mazael would stop them.

  “Aye,” said Mazael again. “Molly might want to kill me, but I never saw her. So she came to Castle Cravenlock for another reason.”

  “She came to steal a book," said Romaria.

  “A book?” said Mazael. “Did she break into the chapel? Or into Timothy's rooms?”

  Romaria shook her head. “She came to take a book from the San-keth temple below the castle.”

  “That's impossible,” said Mazael. “The temple is sealed. I watched the workmen fill the entrance with rubble. And Lucan destroyed the temple's books. He told me so himself.”

  Romaria shook her head. “There was a mistgate in Lucan's room. A small, weak one. It led to the temple. Lucan has some sort of...workshop there. Along with quite a few books. He kept part of the temple's library, Mazael.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “Lucan wouldn't...”

  But he thought of Lucan, who hated dark magic with a passion, who wanted to make sure no one ever suffered again as he had suffered. Who did not flinch at anything, no matter how unpleasant, to defeat those who wielded dark magic.

  Including, perhaps, wielding dark magic himself?

  Perhaps Malavost hadn't left Lucan a twisted husk. Perhaps Lucan had done it to himself.

  “You told me,” said Mazael, “not to trust Lucan. Perhaps I should have listened.”

  “He aided you, aided both of us,” said Romaria. “But I think he was willing to use dark magic to fight dark magic.”

  “Did Molly take anything from the temple?” said Mazael.

  “Not that I could see,” said Romaria. “We fought and she fled.”

  “Then she found whatever she sought,” said Mazael. He made a fist. “We should look through the temple at once. See if we can discover what she wanted.”

  And whatever else Lucan had been hiding from him.

  “Mazael,” said Romaria. “Molly mentioned one other thing.”

  “What was it?”

  “Did you know a man named Nicholas Tormaud?” said Romaria.

  Mazael thought for a moment. “I do. Vaguely. He was the youngest son of Ranfast Tormaud, the Lord of Ironcastle. I met Nicholas about...eight years ago. Yes, eight years. A few years after I took service at Lord Malden's court as a household knight. Nicholas was wandering about, much as I did at his age, though he had better sense than I did. He paid a brief visit to Lord Malden and then left. Why?”

  “Molly seems to have been in love with him,” said Romaria. “And she thinks you killed him in cold blood.”

  Mazael frowned. “I haven't seen Nicholas Tormaud in eig
ht years. And if I was to kill him, I would do it fairly, in battle. I've never killed a man in cold blood, Romaria, only in a fight.”

  “I know,” said Romaria. “But Molly doesn't.”

  Mazael nodded, thinking. “Ironcastle isn't far from Northreach.”

  “So?”

  “The Knights Arminiar are the lords of Northreach,” said Mazael. “And sometimes young lords and knights ride with the Arminiars for a time, to gain skill in battle.”

  “Then we should speak to Kjalmir,” said Romaria.

  ###

  Mazael found Sir Commander Kjalmir Morsbane in the great hall, speaking with Gerald. Otherwise the hall was deserted. The knights and armsmen had returned to their posts or gone to bed.

  “It is so,” said Kjalmir, his deep voice rumbling off the walls. “The Malrags are cruel, and take delight in tormenting and slaying pregnant women. Often they will cut the child from the woman's belly and force her to watch it die before they kill her. You did well to remain at Castle Cravenlock, sir knight. Had you and your men been overwhelmed on the road back to Knightcastle, it would not have gone well for any survivors.”

  “My wife desires to return to Knightcastle before our second child is born,” said Gerald. “Nor can I blame her. Knightcastle is safer, and Malrag warbands still raid the Grim Marches. She grew up here, and Castle Cravenlock has...dark memories for her.”

  Mazael wondered how Rachel would react if she knew that Lucan had kept the temple's library, had made himself a hidden sanctuary below the castle.

  She, too, had warned Mazael not to trust Lucan Mandragon.

  Kjalmir and Gerald turned as Mazael and Romaria approached.

  “How's Rachel?” said Mazael.

  “Well enough, though she wants to return home,” said Gerald. “She is less...excitable, now. A year ago the thought of a Malrag attack would have sent her into a panic. Now in the face of danger her first thought is of Aldane.” He sighed. “And of me, I fear. It has not been easy for her, to watch me ride into battle again and again. Sometimes I wish I had left her safe at Knightcastle.”

  “If you had,” said Romaria, “she wouldn't have killed Malavost, and we would all be dead now.”

  “True,” said Gerald.

  Mazael looked at Kjalmir. “Tomorrow, sir commander, Timothy will work the spell to trace Lucan. I would like your Arminiars to ride with us.”

  “I would like that, as well,” said Kjalmir. “I wish to return north with Corvad's head on a pike. He's spilled enough Arminiar blood.”

  “Enough of anyone's blood,” said Mazael. “A question, if you'll permit.”

  “Of course,” said Kjalmir.

  “Did you know a knight named Nicholas Tormaud?”

  Kjalmir's expression darkened. “Aye, I did. He was a good man, and a capable fighter. The Lords of Ironcastle traditionally send their sons to us, for seasoning. Nicholas was already a skilled knight when he arrived in Northreach. Then he took up with some woman. No one knew her name, and she left him dead in his rooms.”

  Mazael frowned. Had Molly killed Nicholas? “She killed him?”

  “So we assumed,” said Kjalmir.

  “That woman we spoke of,” said Romaria. “She is Corvad's sister, and claims that Mazael killed Nicholas.”

  Kjalmir grunted. “So Nicholas's woman was Corvad's sister? That makes sense. Corvad fled soon after Nicholas was murdered. But she thinks Lord Mazael killed Nicholas Tormaud? Absurd. Long leagues separate Northreach and the Grim Marches.”

  “You would have been in Knightcastle, fighting the Dominiars,” said Gerald, “when Sir Nicholas was murdered.”

  “Yet Molly seems to have loved Nicholas,” said Romaria, “and claims that Mazael murdered him.”

  Kjalmir shrugged. “Perhaps she went mad, killed him herself, and blamed Lord Mazael. Demonsouled often go mad, when their corrupt nature overwhelms them.”

  “Well, mad or not, it will not matter once we find Corvad,” said Mazael. “I suggest we get some sleep. We undoubtedly have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow.”

  Both men bode him good night, Kjalmir leaving to join his men, and Gerald leaving for the guest bedroom he shared with Rachel.

  “You're not really going to bed, are you?” said Romaria once they had left.

  “No,” said Mazael, voice grim. “No. You're going to take me to this secret mistgate, and we're going to the San-keth temple. Perhaps we can find what Molly sought. And perhaps we can also find what Lucan was so keen to hide from me.”

  Chapter 13 – Mirrors

  Lucan walked through the dead forest, pieces of broken road scraping beneath his boots.

  He had found the road after leaving the ruined village. It had once been flat and broad, paved with sheets of black basalt. Yet the roots of the dead trees had cracked the stone, and it places the road had almost vanished, leaving behind only piles of lichen-spotted rubble.

  Still, it was easier than picking his way through the dead forest.

  Lucan kept walking, ignoring the tired ache in his legs. He ignored the pangs of hunger in his stomach, the dryness in his throat, the waves of dizziness that sometimes went through him.

  They weren't real.

  This was only the spirit world. His body of flesh and blood still lay in the material world, no doubt in the Garden of the Temple. Sooner or later, probably sooner, the Malrags would find it and kill it. Or it would lie overlooked as Ultorin sacked Deepforest Keep, eventually dying of thirst and hunger.

  Perhaps that was why Lucan felt so thirsty.

  If he concentrated, the hunger and the thirst went away. So did the ache in his legs. They were not real, not in this strange place, and he suspected that his mind had some control over the environment. So he concentrated, and the pain went away.

  But it was so hard to concentrate.

  He kept thinking over his mistakes.

  Lucan trudged on. The ground rose, bit by bit, the walk becoming harder. He was nearing the foothills of the mountain. The mountain itself and the black city at its crown looked much closer.

  So many mistakes.

  His father had been the first. Lucan had dreamed of becoming a knight, of winning fame and glory through great deeds. But Lucan's magical talent manifested, and his father insisted he become a wizard. Lucan should have refused, should have denied his father. But no one denied Lord Richard Mandragon the Dragonslayer.

  Lucan hated him for it.

  A hill rose on the left, rocky and steep, dotted with dead pine trees. More hills rose ahead, the outskirts of the mountain, and the road began to climb. Lucan gathered some power, preparing a spell. The hills were a perfect place for an ambush.

  Marstan had been the second mistake. Lord Richard hired a private tutor for Lucan. Marstan, skilled and powerful and wise. Marstan, who had been a necromancer of power, a student of Malavost. Marstan, who abandoned his aged and failing body, and tried to transfer his soul into Lucan's flesh. Lucan had fought off the attack, but found himself with many of Marstan's memories and abilities. At the age of eighteen, he had been transformed into a necromancer of power, a figure of fear and loathing, and everyone he loved turned against him.

  He should never have trusted Marstan.

  The road became steeper. Lucan's eyes darted back and forth, watching for enemies. He had seen no sign of the reapers, or Mattias, or of anything else, since leaving the abandoned village. But he had no doubt they were out there.

  Tymaen had been his greatest mistake.

  Even now, thinking of her still caused him pain. They had been betrothed since the age of thirteen. She had been the first girl he had kissed, the first and only to share his bed. She refused to break their betrothal, even after Lucan began training as a wizard.

  And then Marstan tried to possess Lucan. The changes in his personality horrified her and drove her away. She had wound up marrying fat old Lord Robert Highgate, and Lucan had not seen her since. He had thought himself past this. But now, thinking of her filled him with such r
age and pain that he wanted to scream.

  The road grew narrower. If the reapers planned an ambush, they would do it here.

  But perhaps the bloodstaff had been his greatest mistake of all.

  Lucan had sworn to fight dark magic, to make sure no one would ever suffer as he had suffered. Then he met Mazael Cravenlock, a son of the Old Demon. By all rights the Mazael should have been a monster, a blood-drenched warrior and iron-fisted tyrant worse than Amalric Galbraith and Ultorin put together. Yet somehow Mazael found balance within himself. Somehow he fought his inner darkness.

  And Lucan wanted that dark power for himself. So he had secretly drawn a few vials of Mazael's blood, and used them to create his bloodstaff. It had bestowed tremendous magical strength upon Lucan, augmenting his powers. Yet it also induced fits of murderous insanity, eroding at his mind. And with the natural defenses of his mind destroyed, Malavost had taken control of him, using him to kill the Elderborn Seer and shattering the bloodstaff.

  Leaving his spirit stranded here.

  Fool, fool, fool.

  Maybe he was no better than Marstan. Lucan had believed himself doing good, that his use of dark power was justified. Yet it had brought him nothing but misery. Worse than misery, if he did not find a way to escape this place...

  Something rattled ahead.

  Lucan stopped and saw the gray shape standing atop a rocky hill.

  At first glance he thought it was a Malrag. It had the same leathery gray hide, the same black veins woven into its skin. But its eyes burned with crimson fire, and a black chain hung from its right wrist, the links driven between the bones of its arm.

  The creature also had Lucan's features.

  It was the same creature he had seen chained over the coals in the ruined chapel.

  “So,” said Lucan's deformed double, speaking with Lucan's voice. “You have come. Just as the master said you would.”

  “And just who,” said Lucan, “is your master?”

  The double laughed. “You should know! You invited him in.” It gestured at the rocky hills and the ruined black city. “This is your kingdom, yet you invited my master in. And now he shall make it his own. He shall make you his own, fool wizard.”