Soul of Dragons

by Jonathan Moeller

  Perhaps Gaith had been telling the truth.

  Romaria turned to go, and heard the voice.

  Gaith's voice, coming up from one of the gaps in the foundation. A normal human woman would not have heard it. But Romaria had the senses of the beast, and the beast could hear Gaith with ease.

  She stooped closer to listen.

  “What shall we do, honored one?” said Gaith, his voice on the edge of panic. “Mazael Cravenlock himself is here! The archpriests have mandated his death, have required the faithful to strike at him, yet he has three hundred armed men with him. We cannot oppose him! And if he tells it true, a Malrag warband is coming to attack Morsen! We are under your protection, honored one. Help us!”

  Another voice answered. “Calm yourself, fool.”

  That voice made Romaria's lips peel back from her teeth in a snarl. The voice was a sibilant, reedy hiss, a voice spoken from a forked tongue and a mouth with poisoned fangs.

  The voice of a San-keth, one of the serpent people.

  “But honored Szegan,” said Gaith.

  “Silence!” said the San-keth, presumably Szegan. “Obviously, Mazael has discovered the temple. This talk of a Malrag attack is a pretext to destroy us. This, therefore, is what you must do. You have lured him into your house?”

  “Yes, honored one,” said Gaith. “He awaits in my hall, with only two other men.”

  “Then kill him, quickly and quietly,” said Szegan. “Take the calibah and poison the wine. That should overpower him. Contrive some story to tell his men, and then offer to feed them. Poison the food and drink, and dispose of the bodies.”

  “That is over three hundred men, honored Szegan,” said Gaith.

  “What of it? You have killed travelers and concealed their bodies before,” said Szegan. “This is only the same task on a larger scale. Attend to it at once.”

  “Yes, honored Szegan,” said Gaith.

  Romaria hurried around the side of the manor house, rage boiling inside her. Their suspicions had been correct. Gaith was a San-keth proselyte, and a black-hearted scoundrel to boot...

  Shouts rang out. Romaria reached the village square, saw the armsmen and knights running for the walls.

  Timothy caught her eye.

  “The Malrags, my lady!” he shouted. “Corvad has arrived.”

  Chapter 17 – The Battle of Morsen Village

  Molly stepped out of the mistgate and into the hill country.

  She liked the Grim Marches' hills better than the sweeping plains. The plains were too empty, too exposed. Nowhere to hide. These rugged hills offered dozens of different hiding places.

  The village of Morsen loomed over them. For a rural village, the fortifications around it were impressive, with a thick wall and a strong tower in the manor house. Corvad would lose hundreds of Malrags storming this place.

  Not that Molly cared.

  Corvad stepped though the mistgate, clad in black plate and chain, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He wore the diadem of Old Dracaryl today, the green gem flickering in the black metal. Behind him infused Malrags poured out of the mistgate, hundreds of them.

  “There are men on the walls,” said Molly.

  Corvad scowled. “I'd planned to take them unawares.”

  “You won't,” said Molly, and sudden rage flooded her. “There. There! Mazael Cravenlock's banner. He's here.”

  “How?” said Corvad. “How did he track us?”

  “I don't know,” muttered Molly. Somehow Mazael and Romaria had figured it out. “That map. I should have burned that damned map.”

  “You betrayed me,” hissed Corvad. “You sold me out to Mazael.”

  “Have you lost your wits?” said Molly. “I want Mazael dead! You want to rule the world, and I care nothing for that. But I want Mazael's head upon my sword! And I will have it. If I betray you to him, I lose my chance to see him dead”

  The rage in Corvad's eyes didn't go away, but his expression calmed. “Perhaps you are right. I should have realized that something was amiss when the warlocks couldn't open the mistgate within Morsen's walls.” He gazed at the village for a moment. “Wards. Very clever. He knew we were coming. But unsurprising. Mazael must be clever. A man couldn't live for as long as he has without being clever.”

  “Or Romaria figured it out,” said Molly. Few foes had ever come as close to killing her as Romaria Greenshield. If Molly had hesitated a heartbeat too long, if Romaria had shifted her aim a half-inch...then Molly would now lie dead in the darkness below Castle Cravenlock. “She's dangerous, maybe even more than Mazael. She put an arrow in your throat, brother.”

  In a strange way, the thought of fighting Romaria again thrilled her.

  It gave her something to look forward to other than killing Mazael.

  She rebuked herself for the thought. She loved Nicholas Tormaud, and Mazael had murdered him. She had to avenge Nicholas, had to make Mazael pay for what he had done. That was all that mattered.

  “No matter,” said Corvad. “I half-expected Mazael would find us, anyway. Just as well we prepared so thoroughly. I doubt they have the numbers to stop me. Especially with our...allies.”

  He beckoned, and the first zuvembie raced through the mistgate.

  ###

  “Our host seems nervous,” said Kjalmir.

  Mazael rose, glancing through the windows to the village square. He saw his men, moving about their tasks. A blue light shimmered around Timothy and Circan as they cast their wards. Nothing appeared amiss.

  Then why did Mazael want to reach for his sword? Gaith, even if he was a San-keth proselyte, was only one old man.

  “You can hardly blame him,” said Mazael, resting his hand Lion's hilt. “Given the grim news we bear.”

  “And he could be a proselyte, as well,” said Gerald. “That would make him nervous.”

  “If he has a brain in his head, aye,” said Mazael, looking through the window. There seemed to be some commotion...

  The narrow door next to the fireplace opened, and four young men entered, clad in garments of gray wool. The men carried trays of wine and meat and cheese. Gaith followed them, smiling.

  “My lords, please sit and eat and drink and refresh yourselves,” said Gaith. “Then we shall discuss strategies, aye? We'll find a way to defeat these Malrag devils once and for all.”

  “Your hospitality is gracious, sir knight,” said Kjalmir, reaching for a clay pitcher of wine.

  And as he did, Lion trembled beneath Mazael's fingers.

  “Stop!” said Mazael.

  Gaith flinched. “My...my lord? I don't understand.”

  Mazael drew Lion. The edges of the sword glimmered with blue fire.

  “You are a guest under my roof!” said Gaith, backing towards the door. “My liege lord you might be, but you are still a guest in my hall! And you would draw steel against your host? Men and gods both will curse...”

  “Your serving men,” said Mazael, pointing Lion, “are calibah. All of them, I think. And I wager that they poisoned the wine. One drop from their fangs into each cup of wine, that would be enough, wouldn't it?”

  “That's absurd,” said Gaith, sweat rolling down his face. “I will not stand for these lies, these slanderous accusations under my own roof! I...”

  “Silence!” shouted one of the serving men. One moment his eyes were brown. The next they had turned a venomous yellow, split in the middle by a vertical black pupil.

  The eyes of a calibah, a San-keth changeling.

  “Kill them!” he shrieked. Fangs jutted over his lips, glistening with poison. “Kill the enemies of great Sepharivaim!”

  The four calibah surged forward, while Gaith fled through the door.

  ###

  Romaria sprinted to the walls, Timothy and Circan following, long black coats flapping.

  “Your wards?” she said.

  “They will hold, my lady,” said Timothy. “Corvad will not be able to open a mistgate within the village. And we may be needed at the walls.”


  Romaria could not dispute that. Lucan Mandragon might have used dark magic, but his spells had wreaked havoc on the Malrags. If Circan could block the warlocks' attacks while Timothy unleashed his war spells upon the Malrags...

  She hurried to the ramparts, looking into the valley below the village.

  Malrags filled the valley like a mass of black flies, hundreds of them. She saw the crimson veins on their faces, and even at this distance, smelled the reek of Demonsouled corruption. Infused Malrags, then, stronger and faster than their lesser kin.

  She also caught the dusty, dry odor of long-dead flesh.

  Zuvembies moved among the Malrags. Many, many zuvembies. The sparks of green light from their empty eyes flickered among the dark mass of the Malrags. At least a thousand of the dead things waited below.

  Corvad had come prepared.

  But so had his foes. Mazael had Lion, and Lion's fire could spread to the weapons of his men. With that blue fire, the knights and armsmen could stand against the zuvembie horde.

  Romaria looked over her shoulder, frowning.

  Just where the devil was Mazael?

  He hadn't come out of the manor house.

  With a chill she realized she had failed to warn him of Gaith's impending treachery.

  Below, the zuvembies began to move.

  ###

  The calibah yanked daggers from their belts, the blades glistening with poison. One scratch would be enough to kill a grown man.

  And Gerald and Kjalmir were still seated at the heavy table, weapons at their belts.

  “Ware!” yelled Mazael. “The daggers are poisoned!”

  He grabbed the edge of the table and threw himself over it, his armor gouging the wood. His boots slammed into the chest of the first calibah, knocking the changeling down. The others scrambled to reach him, and Mazael heaved himself to his feet, Lion in azure blur before him.

  One of the calibah fell, blood spurting from a torn throat. Gerald and Kjalmir shoved away from the table, Gerald drawing his sword with a steely hiss, Kjalmir hefting his massive war hammer. Mazael blocked a dagger's descending blow with Lion, caught another stab on the steel of his left bracer. Calibah poison could not kill him, not with his Demonsouled nature. But it would slow him, weaken him, perhaps enough to let the calibah swarm him.

  And one scratch from the daggers would kill either Kjalmir or Gerald.

  The calibah Mazael had stunned climbed back to his feet, murder in his yellow eyes, while the other two fanned out around him. Gerald and Kjalmir stood at either side of Mazael, shields raised.

  Three on three. That should be simple enough.

  Even as the thought crossed Mazael's mind, the door burst open, and two more calibah raced into the hall, short swords in their hands.

  ###

  For an agonizing moment, Romaria hesitated. Mazael had gone into that manor house, a manor house ruled by a San-keth cleric and his proselytes. No doubt they were trying to kill him even now. She wanted to run to his aid, to put an arrow through Gaith's throat...

  But Kjalmir and Gerald were both with him. There was no one left to take command of the men. And with the force of Malrags and zuvembies gathered below the village...

  Mazael could take care of himself.

  He had to take care of himself.

  “Stand fast!” shouted Romaria. “Crossbowmen, ready your weapons. Swords, spears, stand ready!”

  She looked at the Malrags, mind racing. No doubt Corvad would repeat his earlier tactics. A wave of zuvembies to wear them down, followed by an assault from the infused Malrags. At the ruined castle in the Great Southern Forest, they had repulsed the attack easily, aided by Mazael and Lion's flame.

  But without Lion's fire, the men had no weapons that could hurt the zuvembies.

  ###

  “I hope this is worth it,” said Molly, looking at the skeletal ranks of the zuvembies.

  Corvad had spent the better part of two days preparing. They had traveled through mistgate after mistgate, jumping from ruined village to ruined village. Ultorin's attack had destroyed dozens of villages, leaving them littered with the dead.

  Corpses that Corvad's diadem could raise as zuvembies.

  “Oh, it will be,” said Corvad. Over a thousand zuvembies waited at the base of the hill. “If it wasn't for that damned sword of Mazael's, I would have butchered his men.” He grinned. “And even with that old sword, he'll have a hard time fighting off a thousand zuvembies. Especially combined with the Malrags and the Ogrags.”

  He beckoned, the green gem in the black diadem flaring.

  The zuvembies surged forward, racing up their hillside.

  ###

  The two calibah ran through the door, moving to join their three brothers. In another few seconds they would encircle Mazael, Gerald, and Kjalmir.

  So Mazael charged.

  He crashed into the nearest calibah, driving the changeling into the wall. He stabbed, Lion's blade sinking into the calibah's gut. Mazael sidestepped, ripping Lion free, the burning blade smoking and sizzling beneath a coat of green-tinted blood. The four remaining calibah attacked, leaping over the bodies of their companions, and Mazael backed away, Lion whipping back and forth as he blocked their stabs and thrusts.

  He sidestepped another blow and lashed out, Lion's point opening a calibah's throat.

  ###

  “Timothy!” shouted Romaria.

  The wizard hurried to her side, watching the zuvembies with narrowed eyes. There were at least a thousand of the things. And from the way their claws dug into the rough hillside, Romaria suspected they could scramble right up the village's walls.

  “My lady,” said Timothy.

  “Your fire spell,” said Romaria. “Can you cast it?”

  Timothy's eyes widened in understanding. “Yes, of course.” He opened his coat, and Romaria saw four copper tubes hanging there, their ends topped in cork.

  “Crossbowmen!” said Romaria. “Your quarrels. Ignite them!”

  Mazael had insisted, for years, that his armsmen keep the necessary materials to set their quarrels aflame. The newer men grumbled, but the veterans understood. Magic and fire were the only things that could destroy a zuvembie.

  And Timothy had access to both.

  Small fires crackled along the ramparts as the crossbowmen lit torches. Timothy climbed onto the battlements, coat flapping behind him, copper tube grasped in his right hand. He tugged the cork free and began to wave the tube in a specific pattern, chanting all while. Pale flickers of orange-yellow flame danced around the end of the tube.

  The zuvembies scrambled closer, halfway up the hill.

  “Release on my command!” said Romaria, as the crossbowmen loaded their weapons.

  Timothy thrust the tube at the zuvembies and shouted the final word to his spell.

  And a raging gout of billowing flame exploded from the copper tube, rolling down the hill, the heat of it pounding against Romaria's face. The wave of fire slammed into the zuvembies, who went up like dry kindling. A wall of flame erupted from the front rank of the charging zuvembies, and the green fire vanished from their eyes as the creatures collapsed into piles of smoldering bone.

  Timothy wobbled, and Romaria caught him as he almost fell.

  “That...always tires me out more than I expect,” said Timothy, wiping sweat from his eyes.

  “Could you manage another blast?” said Romaria, watching the conflagration. There wasn't much brush on the hill, and it was burning out faster than she would like.

  “Possibly,” said Timothy, breathing hard. “I think.”

  “Hold it in reserve,” said Romaria. The front rank of zuvembies had burned to coals, but smaller packs broke away from the main band, circling around the fires.

  She lifted her composite bow and stuck a rag-rapped arrow into a torch.

  “Crossbowmen!” she said, drawing the bow. “Choose your targets! Fire!”

  The crossbowmen ignited their quarrels and fired as one. A storm of flaming
streaks shout from the walls, hammering into the scattered zuvembies. Dozens of zuvembies went up in flame, collapsing into piles of charred bone and glowing coals. Romaria loosed arrow after arrow, and every arrow found a mark, setting withered flesh and yellowed bone ablaze.

  Yet more zuvembies hurried up the hill, circling around the fires.

  ###

  Molly expected Corvad to fly into a rage when the flames exploded, but her brother remained calm.

  “Clever,” he said. “I hadn't expected that. Mazael must have wizards other than Lucan Mandragon in his service.”

  Molly snorted. “He'd have been a fool to rely solely on the Dragon's Shadow. Look what happened to him.”

  “True,” said Corvad, still calm.

  “Aren't you angry, brother?” said Molly, puzzled at his lack of fury. “The zuvembies are your chattels, after all, and they're being destroyed by the hundreds.”

  Corvad lifted his eyebrows, gray eyes glinting. “The zuvembies are expendable. Their purpose is to tie down the defenders. Which, you'll note, they are doing.”

  Behind him the infused Ogrags lumbered forward.

  ###

  The four remaining changelings drove Mazael back until he bumped into the wall, out of room to maneuver.

  It gave Gerald and Kjalmir the chance to strike back.

  Gerald's sword flickered in a silver blur, drawing a crimson line across a calibah's throat. Kjalmir's attack was slower, but just as effective. The steel head of his hammer crashed into a calibah's temple, and the changeling's head disintegrated into a crimson pulp. Mazael shoved away from the wall, Lion leading, and buried his blade into a calibah's chest.

  The remaining calibah at sprang Mazael, mouth yawning wide, fangs glittering with poison.

  Gerald's two-handed swing took the creature's head from its neck. The head bounced across the table, knocking over the pitchers of poisoned wine.