Soul of Dragons

by Jonathan Moeller

  Gerald gave him a chilly smile. “He shouldn't have taken our son.”

  “Apparently not,” said Robert, turning his attention back to Mazael. “I assume you're chasing that peculiar Malrag warband?”

  “Aye,” said Mazael. “You've seen them?”

  “Three days ago, heading into the pass,” said Robert.

  Mazael nodded, pleased. Corvad was only three days ahead of them. They had made better time then he had expected.

  “We should talk,” said Robert. “Come, let us speak in some comfort.”

  ###

  They settled in Robert's solar, a room high in the keep that had a fine view of the High Pass. Mazael, Gerald, Romaria, Kjalmir, and the wizards sat at the table, while serving maids brought in platters of food and drink.

  Tymaen Highgate, Robert's wife, supervised the serving women.

  Mazael had never met her, though he had heard the pain in Lucan's voice when he spoke of her. She was Lucan's age, no more than twenty-three or twenty-four, with long blond hair and large blue eyes. There was a...coldness in her expression that reminded Mazael of Lucan. If Lucan had told the truth, she had fled from him, marrying Robert Highgate after Marstan's attack. Mazael wondered what Robert thought of that, or if he cared.

  Tymaen met his gaze for a moment, face expressionless, and then withdrew with the maids.

  “So,” said Robert. “Tell me of this Malrag warband.”

  “It's under the control of a Demonsouled named Corvad,” said Mazael. “He's going into the Great Mountains in pursuit of a relic of Old Dracaryl.”

  “Fool,” snorted Robert. “No one in their right mind goes into the Great Mountains. Too many dragons. Too many horrors left over from Dracaryl. Sometimes a poor knight goes into the mountains, hoping to slay a dragon and win glory. Lord Richard did it, when we were boys. Toraine Mandragon did it, a few years ago. Save for them, I have seen no one stray from the High Pass and return alive.”

  “Nevertheless, I must pursue Corvad,” said Mazael. He took a deep breath. “He has Lucan Mandragon with him, and Lucan was...twisted by Malavost's magic. Corvad can use the relic to transform Lucan into a Malrag Queen.”

  Robert snorted. “A Queen? The Malrags don't rut. They don't have the organs for it. I've seen enough of them dead for that.”

  Timothy coughed. “It's a...misleading term, my lord. The Malrags are spawned, growing in the flesh of a Malrag Queen like tumors. And the relic will grant Corvad the power to turn Lucan into such a creature.”

  Robert laughed. “Gods, my wife will cringe to hear that. Her lost love turned into a Malrag-spawning horror? I shouldn't be surprised. I always told Tymaen the fool would come to a bad end, though she still had hope he would repent.”

  Gerald blinked in surprise. “That doesn't trouble you, my lord? That your wife is in love with another man?”

  Robert snorted. “Tymaen is obedient, and spreads her legs when I bid her. What more does a man need in a wife? Besides,” he grimaced, “she thought the Dragon's Shadow might give up dark magic and come to rescue her. Like something out of bard's song. I knew it would never happen. Once a wizard goes bad, he stays bad. He doesn't getter better. Usually, he gets worse, and we have to put him down before he unleashes monsters upon the peasants or starts murdering virgins in black rites.”

  Timothy nodded, and Kjalmir sighed. “I fear you may be right, my lord. I have seen that very tale play out in Northreach.”

  “Well,” said Robert, “you're not here to talk about Lucan Mandragon, and you're certainly not here to discuss whatever fool ideas my wife has in her head. You need aid, aye?”

  “We do,” said Mazael.

  “I cannot spare many men,” said Robert. “Malrag warbands still roam the mountains, and I am hard-pressed to defend my peasants.”

  “Any guides or supplies you can spare, I will be grateful,” said Mazael.

  “You'll have them,” said Robert. “I've had enough of the damned Malrags to last a lifetime. If you can keep this Corvad fellow from raising another Malrag horde, I shall be well-content.”

  “Thank you,” said Mazael.

  “Why didn't you attack Corvad's warband?” said Romaria. “When it passed by the castle?”

  “It was nearly eight hundred strong,” said Robert. “And it was making for the High Pass. Some Malrag warbands have been returning to the mountains. If they do, I let them go. I've had enough trouble keeping more Malrags out of the Grim Marches. If they want to leave of their own volition, I won't stop them.” He shook his head. “And the warband had these...walking corpses with them.”

  “Zuvembies, my lord,” said Timothy. “Undead shells raised by dark magic.”

  “Whatever the devil they were,” said Corvad, “about four hundred of them accompanied the Malrags. They didn't attack, and since they were making for the Pass...well, good riddance to them.”

  “Sensible,” said Mazael. “Only fire and magic can kill zuvembies. If you'd fought them unprepared, it would have been a slaughter.” He pointed at the windows, at the High Pass. “I want to leave as soon as possible. Can we speak with our guides and begin preparing?”

  “At once,” said Lord Robert.

  ###

  Robert took them to the barracks and introduced them to Sir Osric, their guide.

  A squat, villainous-looking man, Osric had a bushy black beard and a tangled mass of greasy black hair. He slouched in a chair before the barracks' hearth, whittling a block of wood, and straightened up as Lord Robert approached.

  “My lord,” said Osric, bowing. He had a voice like a knife grating against a rusty pan. “You have guests.”

  “That I do,” said Robert. “This is Lord Mazael of Castle Cravenlock. He's pursuing a Malrag warband into the mountains, and you are going to act as his guide.”

  “As you will, my lord,” said Osric, squinting at Mazael. “So you're Lord Mazael? I thought you'd be taller. They say you piss lightning and crap thunder, and that you slew your brother and seized Castle Cravenlock for yourself.”

  Gerald stiffened in annoyance, and Kjalmir chuckled.

  “I only crap thunder after I've eaten too much camp food,” said Mazael. “As for Mitor, the San-keth killed him. That's what comes from allying with serpents.”

  “Wise words,” said Osric.

  “Osric is an uncouth rogue,” said Robert, “but he's made the journey through the High Pass dozens of times, and explored many of the peaks. No one knows the High Pass better than he does.”

  “No one,” repeated Osric, returning his gaze to Mazael. “So why the devil do you want to chase a Malrag warband into the mountains? If you want to kill yourself there's easier ways to do it. More pleasant ones, too.”

  “A Demonsouled named Corvad controls the Malrags,” said Mazael. “He kidnapped a wizard in my service, plans to use him to raise a new Malrag horde.”

  “So Corvad needs killing, then?” said Osric. “Good enough reason. Though you could just let the mountains kill him. Or the dragons.”

  “I can't take that chance,” said Mazael.

  Osric grunted. “Fair enough.” His eyes shifted to Romaria. “Though taking a woman into the mountains, that's ill fortune.”

  “Why is that?” said Romaria.

  “Dragons,” said Osric. “They prefer eating women. Not sure why. Maybe the smell of moon's blood draws them.”

  Romaria nodded. Then she raised her bow and fired, moving so fast Mazael couldn't follow the movement. For a moment he thought she had shot Osric, Then he realized she had shot an arrow out of one of the barracks' windows.

  “Why the devil did you do that?” said Osric.

  A dead crow fell past the window, landing with a thump, one of Romaria's arrows jutting from its chest.

  “That will come in handy,” said Osric. “Let's talk.”

  ###

  “Your map has it right,” said Osric, jabbing a finger at it. “There's a ruin of Old Dracaryl here, at the northern end of the Red Valley. It's about seven
ty miles south of Mount Drachgan. That's your Arylkrad, my lord.”

  They gathered around a table in the barracks, looking over the maps. Mazael and Romaria stood on either side of Osric, while Gerald, Kjalmir, Lord Robert, and the wizards watched from the other end of the table.

  “If the location of this ruin is known,” said Gerald, “then why hasn't anyone looted it?”

  Osric barked a laugh. “Just because we know where it is doesn't mean that it's easy to reach, sir knight. You have to leave the High Pass and take a narrow path between two mountains. It's prone to both blizzards and avalanches. The Red Valley itself is unstable. Frequent earthquakes, and constant lava bubbling up out of the earth. Dragons like the valley because of its warmth, and then there's the dark magic the lords of Old Dracaryl left behind.” He laughed again. “Anyone who goes into that valley tends not to come out again. Not in one piece, anyway.”

  “I don't care if it's difficult,” said Mazael. “Can you get us there?”

  “Aye,” said Osric. “You'll have to leave your horses behind, of course. Horses are useless in the mountains. We'll need mules, good mules, to carry the supplies. And decent cloaks and coats. It gets cold in the mountains, at least until you get to Red Valley.”

  “I will supply what you need,” said Lord Robert.

  “Thank you, my lord,” said Mazael. “I would like to leave at first light.”

  Osric snorted. “That will take a great deal of work.”

  “Then we had best get started,” said Mazael.

  ###

  They left Castle Highgate the next morning, three hundred men guarding a train of eighty mules laden with supplies. The beasts were stubborn, slow, and ill-tempered, but Osric assured Mazael the mules had the endurance to survive the mountains.

  “First day, we should get into the High Pass proper,” said Osric. “Then the trip gets difficult.”

  They climbed the foothills, going ever higher. Towards noon, Mazael looked back, his heavy cloak rippling in the wind, and saw Castle Highgate far below them. It looked almost like a child's toy at this distance.

  And still they climbed.

  Chapter 23 – Crown of Dracaryl

  Molly wondered if the mountains would go on forever.

  The peaks surrounded them, massive, jagged titans of gray stone crowned with white ice and snow. They had left the High Pass a day earlier, following the narrow path to Red Valley and Arylkrad. The path clung to the side of the mountains, the steep slope on the left and the abyss on the right. Molly walked with her left hand braced on the mountain wall, keeping her balance. The heights did not bother her, not with her ability to walk through the shadows.

  Still, it was a long way down.

  Corvad walked at the head of their column, followed by the three Malrag warlocks. Neither the height nor the chill air troubled him. He gazed to the north, his expression fierce and eager.

  “This path,” said Molly. “It was manmade. It's too smooth, despite the weathering.” She pointed at the mountainside. “You can see where the rock was cut away.”

  “So?” said Corvad.

  “So,” said Molly, “it means we're going in the right direction.”

  “Of course we are going in the right direction,” said Corvad. “I will find the Glamdaigyr and become the Destroyer. I cannot be stopped.”

  “Famous last words,” muttered Molly.

  “Why?” said Corvad. “Are you planning to make them my last words, sister?”

  Molly sighed. “Hardly. But overconfidence leads to ruin, brother. Mazael is still chasing us. And if he finds us, there will be a fight.”

  “Good,” said Corvad. “I look forward to it. When I lay his head at our grandfather's feet, that will prove beyond all doubt that I am worthy to be the Destroyer.”

  “Mazael's life is mine!” said Molly.

  “Of course,” said Corvad.

  But even with her rage, the thought filled her with terrible weariness. For so long she had dreamed of killing Mazael, of avenging Nicholas's death. Killing Mazael would avenge Nicholas, yet her pain would not end.

  Unless Romaria put an arrow through her heart first.

  Molly shivered. Mazael and Romaria loved each other, the way she had once loved Nicholas. They fought for each other, and they would die for each other. If Molly slew Mazael, she would leave Romaria bereft, as Molly had been when Mazael killed Nicholas.

  Mazael deserved to die. But did Romaria deserve that pain?

  “So thoughtful, sister?” said Corvad.

  “You need me to kill Mazael,” said Molly. “Otherwise he'll gut you.”

  Corvad's face hardened, eyes glittering like knives. If he did not need her, she knew, he would have killed her long ago.

  Odd that he hadn’t done it already. He already had the map. He knew where Arylkrad was. Why hadn't he killed her?

  Corvad gazed at her for a moment longer, and then looked away.

  Her only brother hated her. Mazael and Romaria would kill her. The Old Demon regarded her as a tool. Was there in anyone in the world who did not hate her, fear her, or regard her as a means to an end?

  Nicholas. And he was dead.

  Molly trudged on, lost in her black thoughts.

  ###

  She saw bones the next day.

  The path widened as it climbed higher, and from time to time widened into rocky hollows in the side of the mountain. In one of those hollows Molly saw a long-abandoned campsite, with crude shelters built out of loose stone. Rusted weapons lay strewn about the barren rock, along with numerous coals.

  And bones.

  Quite a few bones.

  “I wonder what killed them,” said Molly, tapping a skull with her boot.

  Corvad shrugged, indifferent. “It hardly matters. Perhaps they slew each other. Perhaps they forgot to bring supplies and died of hunger or thirst.”

  “Corvad,” said Molly, voice sharp.

  “What?” said her brother.

  “Those aren't coals,” said Molly, pointing. “Those are bones. Or what’s left of them.”

  “So?” said Corvad.

  Was he that dense? “A dragon killed those men, brother.” She lifted a charred femur, its sides marked with deep grooves. “And then ate them.”

  Corvad laughed. “You worry too much, sister. If we encounter a dragon, I shall deal with it.”

  “How?” said Molly.

  Corvad grinned. “And ruin the surprise?”

  She could get nothing else out of him.

  ###

  The day after that, Molly saw carvings on the side of the mountain.

  Huge reliefs, cut into the slope, still sharp and clear despite centuries of wind and weather. They showed bearded men in robes and armor, proud and arrogant, staffs in their hands. Sometimes the robed men unleashed spells of ruin and woe upon armies of cowering enemies. Others showed the robed men commanding dragons, unleashing the great beasts upon their foes.

  “What do they say?” said Molly, squinting at the reliefs.

  “They proclaim,” said Corvad, “that we are entering the domain of the High Lord of Arylkrad.” He snorted. “It warns slaves to despair of escape. All others are to bring tribute, and prostrate themselves before the power of the High Lord.” He laughed. “Perhaps when I become the Destroyer, I shall have my name carved in his place.”

  “I'm sure Arylkrad will make a seat worthy of your glory, brother,” said Molly.

  Corvad glared at her, as if uncertain of her tone, and then a dragon roared.

  Molly yanked her sword from its scabbard, as did Corvad. She looked up, and saw a distant black shadow against the gray sky. A dragon, perhaps a thousand feet overhead. Molly braced herself for an attack, but the dragon showed no interest in them.

  It banked around a peak and disappeared from sight.

  Corvad sheathed his sword. “I wonder why it didn't attack.”

  Molly shrugged. “Perhaps Malrags taste bad.”

  Corvad gave her a foul look, and ordered
the Malrags forward.

  ###

  Later that day, they reached Red Valley itself.

  The path widened, dipping between two mountains and opening into the valley. The air here was far warmer, and trees and bushes grew on the valley’s floor, a patch of green in the desolation of the mountain's ice and rock.

  Molly soon saw the reason. Pools of lava dotted the valley, shimmering with crimson light. Barren ground surrounded the lava pools, no doubt from the toxic fumes, but the lava put off enough heat for trees and bushes to grow.

  And on the far end of the valley, Molly saw Arylkrad.

  The vast black castle, a dozen times larger than Castle Cravenlock, perched on a stone crag overlooking a steaming pool of lava. She saw dozens of delicate black towers, almost like wavering shadows, rising over a high wall reinforced with bastions. A great dome rose from the center of the castle, similar to the domes of the churches of the Grim Marches. The black fortress looked as if it had been carved out of a single piece of black marble, and some of the towers seemed to have been melted into shape.

  As if by dragon's fire.

  “At last,” said Corvad, voice eager with anticipation. “Arylkrad. Mine at last.”

  “Ugly place,” muttered Molly.

  “It's beautiful,” said Corvad. “And you should think so as well, sister. The key to your vengeance upon Mazael lies within.”

  Molly gave a sharp nod. Yes. Vengeance upon Mazael. And Corvad's key to ruling the world. She looked at her brother, uneasy. If Corvad conquered the world, he would destroy it. She knew the pain of losing Nicholas, the agony that had sunk into her very bones. How many other women would know that pain, would see their husbands and lovers slain on the blades of Corvad's Malrags? How many...

  No.

  That was not her problem. She would kill Mazael and avenge Nicholas. And then perhaps she would kill herself, and join Nicholas in death, in peace.

  But she looked at Corvad in his black armor and diadem, and the doubts lingered.