For a brief moment silence hung over the manor hall.
“What were those devils?” said Kjalmir.
“Calibah,” said Mazael, watching Lion's blade. The blue fires did not dim. There were still creatures of dark magic nearby. “San-keth changelings. The offspring of a human woman and a San-keth male. The San-keth cannot walk openly under the sun, so they send the calibah to do their dirty work.”
“We have no experience of such creatures in Northreach,” said Kjalmir. “From time to time a San-keth cleric will travel into the Great Northern Waste and try to take control of a Malrag warband. The Malrags usually kill the clerics.”
“The San-keth were ever fools,” said Mazael, “and so are their human servants.” His hand tightened around Lion's hilt. “Gaith, the scoundrel! Another of my own vassals sworn to the San-keth, just like Roger Gravesend. Well, I'll settle with him.”
He stepped over the dead changelings, moving to the door next to the fireplace.
“Mazael!” said Gerald. “Look!”
Mazael looked out the window, saw the chaos in the village's square, saw flames blooming over the walls.
###
Romaria loosed burning arrow after burning arrow. The crossbowmen kept a steady rain of quarrels, firing as fast as they could reload their weapons.
It wasn't nearly enough.
Dozens of zuvembies climbed up the wall, springing over the battlements. The knights and armsmen attacked, driving the zuvembies back with spears wrapped in burning rags. Yet they were running out of rags, and normal steel could not harm the zuvembies.
Romaria released another arrow, and then three zuvembies rushed her. She dropped her bow and drew her bastard sword in a single smooth motion, swinging the weapon in a blow for the nearest zuvembie.
The creature caught her strike on its crumbling forearm, her blade clanging as if it had struck a bar of steel. Romaria retreated, trying to fend off its blows. All around her, the line collapsed as more zuvembies sprang over the walls, and she saw the Malrags moving into position to attack.
Morsen was doomed. And Mazael's men were doomed, and Romaria with them, unless...
A bar of blue fire flashed across her vision and clanged against her sword. The azure flame spread to her blade, sheathing it in a crackling halo, and Romaria did not hesitate. This time her sword sheared through the zuvembie's arm as if it had been butter, and a quick backhanded slash smashed the creature's skull.
Mazael stepped past her, his armor splattered with green-tinted calibah blood, Lion burning like a star in his fist. Gerald and Kjalmir stood behind him, their weapons shimmering with ghostly blue flame.
“Stand!” Mazael roared, leaping into the melee, slapping Lion against the blade of every weapon he saw, the blue fire spreading across the ramparts. “Stand and fight! Drive them back! Fight!”
Romaria grinned and joined the fray, and the zuvembie attack crumbled.
###
Corvad's eyes narrowed at the shimmer of blue flame crowning Morsen's ramparts.
“Mazael,” spat Molly, her voice cold. “I wonder what took him so long to join the battle.”
Corvad shrugged. “Perhaps he was busy slaughtering the San-keth. There is a temple to Sepharivaim buried beneath village. Which is the reason we are here, if you've forgotten.”
“No,” said Molly. She saw Mazael fighting on the ramparts, tearing through the zuvembies like a storm. Her hatred felt like a storm of her own, a black fire to counter the azure flames of Mazael's sword. “No. I haven't forgotten.”
Romaria fought at Mazael's side. Molly shivered, looking at her. She hated Mazael, loathed him with every piece of her heart and soul. But she feared Romaria, and yet looked forward to facing her again.
It was a...curious mixture of sensations.
“Good,” said Corvad. “Fear not, sister. You shall have your revenge. Once we find Arylkrad, once we transform Lucan Mandragon, you will have Mazael. And you shall make him suffer as no man has ever suffered.”
He beckoned, and the twisted shapes of the infused Ogrags lumbered forward.
###
Mazael smashed the skull of another zuvembie, ducked the rake of jagged claws, and destroyed another with a quick blow from Lion.
He cursed himself as a fool. He should never have accepted Gaith's invitation. And he should never have left his men. He had known Corvad was going to attack, had known that only Lion's fire could destroy the zuvembies.
He just hadn't expected the attack to come so soon.
But his men were holding. The strength of the zuvembie attacked faltered, and Mazael's men regained the walls, destroying the undead. Corvad's Malrags had not yet formed up for a proper attack on the walls. If Mazael's crossbowmen got into position before Corvad launched the next wave of his attack, they would hold.
And perhaps Corvad himself would pay for the dead men in Cravenlock colors who lay below the walls.
A bloodcurdling screech rose from Corvad's host.
The hideous war cry of a Malrag, but louder, much louder.
Mazael cut down one last zuvembie and looked over the battlements.
Four Ogrags lumbered up the hillside, massive spiked clubs dangling from their hands. The hulking creatures, each one taller than the wall, wore ragged black chain mail and battered black plates. Crimson veins pulsed and throbbed atop the leathery expanse of their gray hides. Regular Ogrags were dangerous enough, but Corvad's infused pets were lethal.
“Crossbows!” shouted Mazael. “Focus on the Ogrags. Fire! Fire!”
Mazael's crossbowmen raised their weapons, as did the Arminiars. The Arminiar knights bore massive, wicked-looking black crossbows, each loaded with a vicious barbed quarrel. Kjalmir said the weapons had been constructed specifically to kill Ogrags.
Mazael hoped it would be enough.
A volley of crossbow bolts lanced out, punching into the first Ograg. The creature bellowed in pain, black blood spurting from its wounds even as the barbed Arminiar quarrels plunged through its armor. At last the creature stiffened and lost its footing, rolling back down the hill like a wayward boulder. Romaria stood atop the wall, composite bow in hand, loosing shaft after shaft with the uncanny accuracy of her Elderborn senses. Her arrows plunged into the second Ograg's enormous white eyes, its thick, tumor-encrusted neck, down its roaring maw. At last the Ograg fell, drowning in its own blood.
The remaining two Ogrags reached the wall.
The first swung its club in a massive overhand arc, bringing it down on the gates. The wooden gates and the stone arch collapsed in a pile of rubble, and the Ograg stormed into Morsen, howling its war cry. The second Ograg seized the battlements and heaved itself onto the ramparts, the wall cracking beneath its weight. It crushed one of Mazael's men and another of Gerald's beneath its bulk, and one swing of its club sent three armored men tumbling through the air like a child's toys.
Mazael sprinted at the Ograg atop the ramparts and swung, Lion in both hands. The blade bit deep into the Ograg's leg, black blood sizzling against blue fire. The Ograg screeched and spun, the back of its hand slamming into Mazael's chest. He lost his balance and fell, landing hard below the wall.
The Ograg howled and jumped from the wall, club raised high.
Mazael rolled, the Ograg's massive feet slamming into the ground.
Which began to shake.
Mazael scrambled to his feet as the ground shook, cracks opening below the wall. A hole appeared in the street before the gate, houses collapsing into the growing sinkhole. Mazael started at in astonishment, and then the explanation reached his brain.
He'd known there was a San-keth temple below the village.
He just didn't know how large it was.
Or if its roof had been built strongly enough to, say, support the weight of an Ograg leaping from the wall.
The ground collapsed beneath Mazael, and he plunged into darkness.
###
Molly watched as Romaria's arrows streaked home, driving the second Og
rag to the ground.
Astonishing. The woman was a more efficient killer than any of the master assassins of the Skulls.
The remaining two Ogrags reached the wall, and a moment later the gates collapsed, disappearing into the hill.
“What the devil?” said Corvad.
“The temple,” said Molly. “The roof fell in.”
“If the book is buried, I shall be wroth,” said Corvad. Molly decided not to mention that he had ordered the Ogrags to attack. “They should be distracted enough. Go get it.”
Molly nodded and walked into the shadows. And even as she did, she heard the bloodcurdling war cry as Corvad ordered his Malrags to attack.
Chapter 18 – Ruined Temple
Mazael coughed.
Dust caked his face, mixing with the blood upon his lips. Sunlight glared down at him, beams shining through the swirling dust. Lion trembled in his right hand, blue fire shining.
Mazael cursed and staggered to his feet, bits of rock sliding off his dented armor. He felt bruised and battered, but already his Demonsouled power healed the wounds.
He looked around.
He stood in a tunnel built of polished stone, the walls carved with reliefs showing the San-keth slaughtering hapless human prisoners. The ceiling had collapsed, covering the floor in rubble. The Ograg lay some distance away, bellowing, both its legs broken by the thirty-foot fall.
Mazael buried Lion to the hilt in the Ograg's throat.
The sounds of furious battle came from the hole in the ceiling.
Mazael had to rejoin his men. With the gates broken, Corvad's Malrags would swarm into Morsen, and every sword was needed.
But first, he had to find a way out of this hole.
The walls were too smooth to climb, and the heaped rubble did not reach high enough to climb out. But the tunnel stretched into the darkness, towards Gaith Kalborn's manor house.
And, no doubt, to the San-keth temple proper. Along with however many calibah and San-keth clerics might dwell there.
There was no other choice.
Mazael took a deep breath and hurried into the darkness.
###
The wall trembled beneath her, and Romaria seized the battlements for balance. As she watched, the ruined gates, a large chunk of the street, and several of the surrounding houses collapsed into a widening sinkhole.
Taking Mazael and one of the Ogrags with them.
The second Ograg teetered at the edge of the pit, trying to keep its balance. Romaria raised her bow and sent an arrow into the back of its neck. And then another, and then another.
The Ograg moaned and collapsed in a heap beside the pit.
She took a deep breath. The Ogrags had killed fifteen men, and maybe wounded another fifteen. That was a cheap price, as Ogrags went. But the gates had been smashed, and a black wave of Malrags boiled up the hillside. The pit before the gates would slow them, but they outnumbered the men three to one. If they got inside the village, it would be a slaughter.
“My lady!” Gerald hurried her side, his surcoat spattered with blood, both human and Malrag. “Are you injured?”
Romaria shook her head.
“Where's Mazael?” Gerald said.
“In the pit,” she answered. “He fell when the ground collapsed.” He might lie wounded in the rubble. He might be dead. She shoved aside the thought. “We'll have to fight without him. We’re finished if those Malrags get inside the wall.”
“We need as many crossbows upon the ramparts as we can fit,” said Gerald. “Spears and swords on the ground to meet the Malrags.”
“That pit will be almost as good as the gates,” said Romaria, “if we can make proper use of it.”
Gerald nodded, and began shouting orders.
###
Molly stepped out of the darkness.
She appeared atop the roof of a peasant house, her boots gripping the tiles. Mazael's men ran for the walls, and she saw a knight in bloodstained silver armor shouting orders. Gerald Roland, most likely. Romaria stood beside him, that lethal bow in hand.
Molly saw no trace of Mazael Cravenlock. Perhaps he had been slain. But she doubted it. It would take more than a few Ogrags to kill a man like Mazael.
Molly would kill him.
Romaria stared to turn, frowning, and Molly fell into the shadows.
She reappeared atop the dome of the church, overlooking the village and the fortified manor house. The San-keth temple obviously lay below the village. How to find it?
Molly knew how the San-keth thought. According to their myths, the gods of men and Elderborn had stripped the serpent people of their limbs, condemning them to crawl in the dust. And so whenever possible, the San-keth mocked the gods of humans, the gods of the Amathavian church. Proselytes, in particular, enjoyed casual blasphemy, often concealing their temples and chapels beneath Amathavian churches...
Molly grinned.
She stepped into the shadows and appeared in the church below. It looked like most other churches and chapels of the Grim Marches, with a half-circle of benches facing the altar. Molly walked to the altar, examined it for a moment, and nodded.
She touched one of the carvings, and a stone tile behind the altar slid aside, revealing a hidden stairwell.
Molly descended into the darkness, drawing her sword. She wondered if she would encounter any proselytes or changelings. Though it hardly mattered – the proselytes were fools, and the poison of the calibah, while painful, could not kill a grandchild of the Old Demon.
Would Romaria follow her? She was more dangerous than anyone who might live in Morsen, deadlier than the master assassins of the Skulls.
Molly found herself looking forward to it.
###
Mazael strode into the darkness, Lion's fire throwing back the gloom.
He waved the sword back and forth like a torch. The reliefs continued on the walls, bearing the usual scenes of torture and murder the San-keth preferred in their religious artwork. Yet the temple was silent, and Mazael saw no sign of any proselytes, calibah, or San-keth.
Then he saw the faint red light ahead.
He slid Lion into his scabbard, hiding its light, and moved forward as quietly as his boots and armor would allow.
###
Romaria opened her mouth to answer Gerald, and the familiar smell of Demonsouled power reached her nostrils.
Molly had arrived.
Romaria spun, eyes sweeping the village. She glimpsed a flicker of darkness atop one of the rooftops, and then another on the church's dome. For a moment Romaria saw Molly perched atop the church.
And then the Demonsouled woman vanished in another swirl of shadows.
“My lady?” said Gerald.
“Molly's here,” said Romaria. “I'm going to stop her.”
Whatever Corvad wanted, whatever he planned, apparently he could not do it without Molly's assistance. And Mazael lay somewhere in the half-collapsed tunnel, perhaps wounded, perhaps helpless. If Molly came across him before his wounds healed...
“Go,” said Gerald. “Kjalmir and I will hold here, I swear it.”
She grabbed his arm. “Timothy has a few fire spells left. Have him cast them if the Malrags break through. I will return with Mazael.”
Gerald nodded, and Romaria ran towards the church. No doubt Molly planned to steal a book or scroll from the San-keth, return to Corvad, and retreat through the warlocks' mistgate.
Romaria took another step and blurred into the form of the great black wolf. Her claws clicked against the cobblestones, and she raced into the village's square, nostrils flaring. Where would Molly go?
The church.
Romaria bounded up the stone stairs and through the double doors of the church.
Inside, the church looked much the same as of the other churches of the Grim Marches. Though she smelled the dust lying over the benches and altar, the odors of mildew and rot and neglect. She doubted the villagers ever worshiped here, preferring instead to offer the blood of murdered travele
rs upon the altar of Sepharivaim.
But through the smell of neglect, she caught the sharp odor of Demonsouled power.
There. Behind the altar.
Romaria jumped onto the dais and circled around the altar. One of the stone tiles had pulled back, revealing a staircase sinking into the darkness. Molly's scent lay heavy here.
Romaria blurred back her human shape and lifted her bow, setting an arrow to the string.
This time, Molly would not escape her.
Romaria hastened down the stairs, boots making no noise against the stone.
###
The red light brightened, and the tunnel ended in an archway.
Beyond Mazael saw the sanctuary of a San-keth temple.
It was smaller than the temple below Castle Cravenlock, but still impressive. Red granite covered the floor, and a bloodstained altar rested atop the dais. No doubt Gaith Kalborn and his fellow proselytes had been kidnapping travelers for years, sacrificing them atop that altar. A massive bronze statue of Sepharivaim, the god of the San-keth, reared over the altar.
A San-keth cleric stood next the altar. Or, rather, rested upon its carrier. The serpent people had neither arms nor legs, and claimed that the gods of men had stripped them of their limbs. So in defiance, the San-keth clerics used necromancy to raise the skeletons of their enemies as undead carriers. One such cleric rested wrapped around the spine of an undead skeleton, the cleric's wedge-shaped head rearing up where the skeleton's head should have been.
Gaith himself stood before the dais, face drawn with fear. Four calibah waited next to him, their golden eyes glittering in the crimson gloom.
“The village is attacked, honored Szegan,” said Gaith. “Mazael Cravenlock's men war against the Malrags. We have dire need of aid. Please, the men of Morsen have hidden this temple for many generations. We beg of you, unleash your arts to defend us!”
Soul of Dragons Page 17
