Soul of Dragons

by Jonathan Moeller

  “I doubt that,” said Lucan. What did the creature mean? Was Mattias its master? Or the Demonsouled corruption the bloodstaff had left in Lucan's body and soul? “I shall find your master and crush him.”

  The creature laughed again. “You shall not. You are his. Your powers are his, your mind is his, and your flesh shall be his.”

  “Let him try,” said Lucan.

  “As you wish,” said the double.

  Reapers surged out of the hills. Dozens of them, racing on all four like deformed wolves. Among them were a half-dozen more deformed doubles, identical to the one standing on the hill.

  Lucan drew in his power and prepared to fight.

  Every wizard, no matter how powerful, had his limits, could only draw so much magical force through his body. But here, in the strange realm of the spirit world, Lucan had no body. Did that mean his limitations were gone, as well?

  Facing dozens of reapers, he had no choice but to find out.

  Lucan summoned power, more and more, enough power to kill him a dozen times over in the material world. The power burned within him, and the reapers raced forward, a sea of black cloaks and clawed white hands.

  Lucan threw out his hands with a yell.

  Power exploded from him, manifesting as a wall of psychokinetic force. It slammed into the reapers and the doubles, and threw them backwards like leaves caught in a storm. A few of the reapers slammed into the rocky hills and dissolved into smoke, while the rest struck the ground, stunned. They recovered quickly, and Lucan began casting again. He gestured, his hands hooked into claws, and his will reached out and ripped the dead pine trees from the hills. They floated into the air, dirt falling from their roots.

  Then he hurled them at the reapers.

  The trees shot forward like bolts fired from a ballista, and tore into the charging reapers. One tree plunged through three reapers, turning them to black smoke, while another smashed one of Lucan's doubles to the ground, its head crushed. The double dissolved into black slime, much like Malrag blood.

  Yet still the reapers kept coming.

  Lucan lashed out with his will, ripping boulders from the hills and flinging them like catapult stones at the reapers. Dozens died, crushed by the barrage, but still more surged forward. Gods and devils, there were hundreds of the things! Even without a body, Lucan felt himself tiring. He had to get away. No matter how many reapers and doubles he destroyed, more appeared to take their place, and would overwhelm him sooner or later...

  Three reapers drove at Lucan, throwing him to the ground. His head cracked against the earth, the rough stone cutting at his palms. He struggled, trying to cast another spell through the pain, but his concentration had broken. The reapers dragged him towards the doubles, and Lucan heard the clank of black iron chains. Panic filled him – they would chain him as the double in the chapel had been chained, leave him to roast over the coals...

  A droplet of blood fell from his hand and sank into the earth.

  He felt a tingle of power, and remembered how his blood had fallen upon the ground in the abandoned village, how strength had risen up to fill him.

  In desperation, he lashed his palm at a jagged rock, and his blood spilled upon the ground.

  The power surged into Lucan, filling into him like a river of molten iron. He threw the power into his next spell, lifting his hand. A sigil of crimson fire appeared on his fingers, pulsing with harsh light, and the reapers burst into flame when the light touched them. He scrambled to his feet, ready to fight. The nearest twenty or so reapers burned, but the sigil had not touched the others.

  Lucan began another spell, intending to unleash his will as a psychokinetic burst. But the burning power poured into his mind, altering his spell. The reapers attacked, and Lucan thrust out his hands.

  And instead of a psychokinetic burst, blasts of blood-colored flame erupted from Lucan's hands, turning the first wave of reapers and doubles to smoking ash. Lucan growled and attacked again and again, hurling bolts of bloody fire. The flames destroyed dozens of his foes, and soon the survivors fled in all directions, vanishing into the hills. Lucan sent blasts of flame after them, destroying more reapers, his errant attacks burning the trees to charcoal.

  “Run from me?” screamed Lucan. “I will hunt you down. I will hunt you all down! You will perish! You will die screaming...”

  The power drained away, and nausea hit him, worse than before. Lucan fell to his hands and knees, retching. It was just like the bloodstaff. The bloodstaff's power had enhanced his magical prowess, and also induced fits of rage and physical sickness. Spilling his blood here, in the spirit world, had the same effect.

  Lucan got his feet and flinched.

  Mattias leaned against one of the smoking trees, arms folded over his chest.

  “That,” he said, “was quite a show. I didn't think you had it in you, really.”

  “It's the bloodstaff,” said Lucan, “isn't it?”

  “I see no staff in your hands,” said Mattias.

  “When Malavost broke the bloodstaff,” said Lucan, “its power had to go somewhere. So it went into me. And when I spill blood upon the earth, some of that power is released.”

  Mattias lifted an eyebrow. “Almost correct.”

  “Almost?”

  “You omitted one important detail,” said Mattias, straightening up. “A price must always be paid for power. And this is the spirit world, not the material world. It's not really blood you're spilling upon the ground. You are instead feeding pieces of yourself, your spirit, to the Demonsouled power trapped within you.” He grinned. “You are letting that power consume you, piece by piece.”

  Lucan felt a chill. Using the bloodstaff had sickened him and damaged the defenses of his mind, allowing Malavost to defeat him. If the staff's power was still trapped within him...what would it do to him if he continued to use it?

  But he might not have any choice. The reapers would have slain him, had he not used the dark power in the earth. Or done worse than kill him, if those chains were any indication. And they had attacked in greater numbers than before. If such an attack came again, Lucan would have to use the Demonsouled power to survive.

  Either the reapers would overwhelm him, or the dark power would consume him.

  “There's no way out,” muttered Lucan.

  “Oh, but there is,” said Mattias, gesturing at the black city. “And you're closer to it than you ever have been.”

  “A way out?” said Lucan. “Before, you told me I would find answers there, though I might not like them. What sort of way out?”

  “Why, a way to return to your physical body,” said Mattias. “A way to escape this place, before the reapers take you.”

  “That double spoke of its master,” said Lucan. “Did it mean you?”

  Mattias laughed. “I told you, boy, that I did nothing. You brought yourself here. And you summoned the reapers and the doubles and...other things.”

  “They're manifestations,” said Lucan. “Creations of the corruption I pulled into myself.”

  “Correct,” said Mattias. He grinned. “You created them, and they hate you for it. So they will never stop hunting you. Your escape – your only escape – is to return to your physical body. And to do that, you must reach the heart of the black city.”

  “How do I know you're even telling the truth?” said Lucan.

  “Such unwarranted hostility,” said Mattias. “And I have offered you nothing but aid. Have you figured out who I am, yet?”

  “I have a suspicion,” said Lucan. “You are one of the spirit creatures I have bound in the past, now returned for revenge.”

  “No,” said Mattias with a smile, “quite wrong. Like you, I have a body of flesh. One in rather better condition than yours right now, as it happens.”

  “Then you are a mortal wizard,” said Lucan.

  “Am I? Well, I have been called such,” said Mattias, “very often. Whether or not I am actually mortal...I have not lived long enough to find out. And I have li
ved a very long time.”

  Lucan frowned. That ruled out another theory – he had wondered if Mattias was perhaps an echo of Marstan's memories. “Then you are an old enemy of mine, or perhaps of Marstan's.”

  “An enemy?” said Mattias. “That is hurtful. I have been nothing but helpful. And I was reasonably fond of Marstan. He was a most useful tool. But I assure you. We have never met in the flesh, you and I.”

  “Then have I heard of you?” said Lucan.

  For a moment Mattias said nothing, a hint of red fire glimmering in his eyes.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, voice soft, “you know of me. You have known of me your entire life, I think.”

  A suspicion rose in Lucan's mind. “Do I know any of your family?”

  “I suggest you make haste,” said Mattias. “The reapers will not stop their hunt. They owe the torment of their existence to you, and they are most eager to repay.”

  Lucan heard the rattle of falling rock and spun. One of the rocks damaged by his fire blasts tumbled down the side of the hill, breaking into pieces as it fell.

  And when he turned around, as he expected, Mattias was gone.

  Lucan shook his head. So he knew one of Mattias's family? That hardly narrowed it down.

  But he did have a suspicion.

  Lucan pushed aside the thought. Later. Mattias's advice had been sound. He had to keep moving, and he started up the hill road again.

  He wondered when the reapers would find him next, and what he would do when they did.

  Chapter 14 – Secrets

  Mazael entered Lucan's room.

  He had always wondered at its austerity. Lucan was the son of Richard Mandragon, the liege lord of the Grim Marches. Lucan had never shown any interest in wealth, but surely he would have preferred to live in more comfort than this.

  Though if he had kept had hidden sanctuary in the San-keth temple, then this room had been nothing more than a mask.

  Mazael made a fist, forced aside the anger. “Where is the mistgate?”

  “There,” said Romaria, pointing at the stone wall. She moved closer to it, and gray mist shimmered over the stone. Soon Mazael saw the familiar rippling haze of a mistgate. It was much smaller than the one Corvad's warlocks had conjured, no bigger than a small doorway.

  “I'll go first,” said Mazael, drawing Lion. No blue fire appeared around the sword's blade. The mistgate itself, at least, was not a creation of dark magic.

  He walked through the gate.

  After an instant of disorientation, he stood in a dim-lit corridor of crimson marble, the vaulted ceiling rising overhead. Ahead he saw the doors to the sanctuary proper, a faint red glow shining from within.

  The San-keth temple.

  A rush of unpleasant memories flickered through Mazael's mind. Here he had learned that Rachel and Mitor were San-keth proselytes. Here the Old Demon had revealed that Mazael was Demonsouled. And here Mazael had returned with Lion in hand, ready to slay Rachel and Mitor both.

  Lion jolted in his hand, the blade glimmering with blue light.

  There was still dark magic down here.

  The column of gray mist behind Mazael swirled, and Romaria appeared.

  She took one look at Lion's glow and drew her own sword.

  “There might still be things of San-keth necromancy down here,” said Mazael.

  “Or something new that Lucan created,” said Romaria.

  “Lucan,” said Mazael, the anger returning. “I ordered this place sealed. And he told me that the temple's library had been destroyed. What was he doing with books of San-keth necromancy?”

  “Perhaps,” said Romaria, “that explains what happened to him at Deepforest Keep. Perhaps he tried to use some dark spell against Malavost, only to have it turn on him.”

  Mazael nodded. “Let's find out.”

  He started towards the sanctuary doors, Lion raised. Here, at this very spot, he had fought against the undead warriors raised by the Old Demon's necromancy.

  He hesitated, and stepped through the double doors.

  The sanctuary beyond had been transformed into a wizard's workroom. Long tables held bottles and jars and strange instruments of bronze and glass. Shelves beneath the balcony sagged beneath the weight of hundreds of books and scrolls. Mazael scowled, his hand tight against Lion's hilt.

  The San-keth temple's library. A collection of necromantic books, which Mazael had believed destroyed. His mistakes compounded each other. He had left Elizabeth of Barellion with child. He had trusted Lucan to destroy the library, and now one of Mazael's Demonsouled children had come to raid that library for dark lore.

  What other mistakes had Mazael made?

  “Where was Molly when you found her?” said Mazael.

  “Over there,” said Romaria. “That table. She was reading a scroll.”

  Mazael crossed to the table. It held jars of powder and a device that looked like a cross between a sextant and a clock. A pile of books lay in disorder at the center of the table - no doubt Molly had left them there.

  Romaria pointed. “There. That was the scroll she was reading.”

  Mazael slid Lion into its scabbard and examined the scroll.

  It was a map. After a moment Mazael realized that it showed the Grim Marches. The rivers and the hills and the mountains were there, but many of the towns and castles were in different places. An old map, then. Perhaps old enough that the kingdom of Dracaryl had still ruled over the Grim Marches. Each town and castle had notes beneath it, written in a strange, spidery script that looked familiar...

  “Mazael,” said Romaria. “This is written in San-keth.”

  “Why would the San-keth create a map of the Grim Marches?” said Mazael. He looked at the location of Castle Cravenlock. The castle had not been built until after Dracaryl had fallen, but there was something at the location nonetheless.

  Romaria took a sharp breath.

  “What is it?” said Mazael.

  “I think,” said Romaria, “I think this shows every San-keth temple in the Grim Marches.”

  “Why the devil would the San-keth make something like that?” said Mazael. “They always strive to keep their temples secret.”

  “Some of the high lords of Dracaryl allied themselves with the San-keth,” said Romaria. “Perhaps the San-keth made the map for their allies.” She frowned, running a finger beneath some of the words.

  “You can read San-keth?” said Mazael, surprised.

  “No,” said Romaria. “But parts of it are similar to High Elderborn, and I do know that.” She gave a sharp nod. “Yes. The notes below Castle Cravenlock say both 'temple' and 'library'.”

  “Library,” said Mazael.

  Corvad and Molly had been looking for books. Secrets and lore of Old Dracaryl. They had taken Lucan for a reason. Perhaps they knew what they wanted to do, but had not yet found a way to do it.

  Something clicked.

  “That's why they're stealing books,” said Mazael.

  “What do you mean?” said Romaria.

  “They intend to use Lucan somehow,” said Mazael. “Something involving dark magic or necromancy, I'll wager. They know what they want to do, they just don't know how to do it. They need something first, some spell, some secret, some lost bit of lore. That's why Corvad has been stealing books.”

  He blinked as an idea came to him.

  “Romaria,” he said, “do any of these other temples have libraries?”

  “Let me look,” said Romaria, stooping over the map. She squinted at it for a moment, then nodded. “Here. At the edge of the hill country, about two days west of Castle Cravenlock.”

  “There's a village there,” said Mazael. “Morsen. Not a large place. Mostly goat herders.”

  “Do you think there's still a San-keth temple there?” said Romaria.

  “Possibly,” said Mazael. It might lie hidden beneath the village. Or the villagers knew about it, and worshipped Sepharivaim as proselytes. “Or it's abandoned. Either way, the temple's library could s
till be there. And that's what Corvad wants.”

  “Wait,” said Romaria. “It says something else. It says...it says the lords of Dracaryl sent gifts to that temple, including a map of their strongholds in the Great Mountains.”

  “A map of Old Dracaryl?” said Mazael. “Is that what Corvad wants?”

  But what if Corvad could use the map to find something else? The lords of Old Dracaryl had been wizards and necromancers of power, able to command both living dragons and the walking dead to serve in their armies. If Corvad sought some sort of magical relic or buried secret of Dracaryl...

  Better to let such things lie buried and forgotten.

  "Corvad's going to Morsen," said Mazael.

  “Are you sure?” said Romaria.

  “No,” said Mazael. “Timothy can find Lucan with his spell, but with the mistgates, we'll never be able to catch Corvad. We need to lay an ambush for him. This is our best chance to do it.” And a fleeting chance - Corvad could attack Morsen at any moment. “We need to leave at once.”

  “Wait,” said Romaria, sniffing at the air.

  Her tone made Mazael reach for Lion.

  “I think there's another Demonsouled down here.”

  Mazael drew his sword. Lion's blade still glimmered with azure flame, perhaps in response to the lingering aura of dark magic that hung over San-keth temple. But he knew better than to question Romaria's senses. “Where?”

  “I smelled it when I fought Molly,” said Romaria, half to herself. “I thought it was just her.” She prowled away from the table, looking back and forth. “But it's still down here. Surely she wouldn't be foolish enough to return? No. I think...here!”

  She hurried to another table, Mazael following.

  The table looked like a smith's workbench, with chisels and hammers and other tools. A pair of clamps held a foot-long length of cylindrical black metal. A book sat open before the clamps, the pages covered in San-keth writing. Next to the book sat four vials, each filled with a dark fluid.

  “It's coming from here,” said Romaria. She lifted one of the vials. “Right here. This is a Demonsouled's blood.”