Soul of Dragons

by Jonathan Moeller

  Molly and Corvad descended into Red Valley, the Malrags and zuvembies following behind after. The air grew warmer, and Molly threw open her cloak, a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead. Ruins dotted the floor of Red Valley. The broken remnants of huts, which Molly supposed must have housed the High Lord's slaves. Steles of black basalt stood here and there, carved with reliefs. She could not read the script of Old Dracaryl, but steles' messages were clear enough. The High Lord of Arylkrad, smashing his enemies with spells and dragons. The High Lord of Arylkrad, receiving tribute from his obedient vassals. The High Lord of Arylkrad, lording over his terrified slaves.

  On some of the steles, the High Lord carried a massive two-handed greatsword, its blade carved with flowing symbols.

  Molly lifted her eyes to look at Arylkrad. The castle loomed over the valley like a massive black fist. From this angle she could see that the castle was not solid black, but that part of the outer wall was crowned in gold. Odd, that.

  She had taken a good look at Arylkrad from the entrance of the valley, and she was certain that the wall had been entirely black.

  As the thought crossed her mind, the patch of gold began to move.

  Great wings unfurled, and Molly saw a long, serpentine tail rise over the ramparts.

  A golden-scaled dragon appeared atop Arylkrad’s wall, gripping the stone with its claws. The dragon had to be at least a hundred feet from tail to snout. The beast rotated its head, and Molly felt the pressure of its gaze, even through the miles separating them.

  The dragon's roar echoed over the valley.

  The Malrags froze, lifting their weapons.

  “Oh, damn,” whispered Molly.

  “Ah,” said Corvad, satisfaction in his voice. “The first.”

  The dragon sprang from the wall, its golden scales flashing in the sun, and swooped towards them. Molly drew her sword, though she wondered what the weapon could do against such a vast beast. Should she walk the shadows to the dragon's back, try to stab it in a vulnerable point? Those golden scales looked as hard as steel plate. Its eyes, perhaps? She doubted her sword was long enough to pierce the creature's eye and reach its brain.

  And then the dragon was upon them.

  It moved a faster than she had expected.

  The dragon's mouth yawned wide, exposing rows of dagger-like ivory fangs, and a blast of white-hot flame erupted from its maw. Molly reacted on reflex and flung herself into shadows an instant before the blast struck. She reappeared atop a black stele thirty yards away, just as the dragon rose into the air for another pass.

  Flames raged through the column of Malrags and zuvembies. Dozens of zuvembies had gone up like torches, collapsing into piles of burning coals. At least a score of Malrags had been incinerated, and dozens more ran back and forth, trying to put out the flames chewing at their flesh. Molly looked around, wondering if Corvad had been reduced to a pile of smoking char. Her mouth twisted in disgust. His grand plan to become the Destroyer and rule the world, ended in a blast of dragon fire...

  “Dragon!”

  Molly blinked in surprise.

  Corvad strode untouched through the flames. He had been at the very center of the dragon's blast, yet remained untouched. He didn't even look singed.

  The stone in his black diadem blazed with ghostly green light.

  “Dragon!” bellowed Corvad. “Turn and face me.”

  The dragon obliged. It banked and swooped to face Corvad, mouth opening wide. Corvad did not move. He even looked amused.

  Another searing lance of flame erupted from the dragon's mouth. Corvad disappeared in its heart, and the trees and bushes and grasses around him vanished in curtains of fire. There was no way Corvad could have survived that. Not even the power of his Demonsouled nature could heal such terrible burns.

  Then the flames dimmed, and Molly saw Corvad standing untouched. The gem in his black diadem blazed like a green star.

  The Dracaryl-wrought diadem, Molly realized. It protected him from the dragon's fire. Molly had thought it only gave Corvad the power to raise and control zuvembies. Apparently it also gave him protection from dragon fire.

  Did it give him the power to control dragons, as well?

  Disturbing thought.

  “Dragon!” shouted Corvad, pointing with his sword. “You will heed me.”

  The dragon circled overhead and loosed another blast of flame which left Corvad untouched. The beast's red eyes narrowed, and it dropped to a landing a dozen yards from Corvad, its talons rending the earth. The dragon was several tons of muscle, armored in steel-hard scales, with fangs like daggers and claws like swords. Even if the dragon fire could not harm Corvad, the dragon would still rip him to shreds.

  The dragon opened its mouth and its voice, like mountains ripping in half, boomed forth.

  “Mortal worm,” it said. “This is my valley and my castle. You dare to challenge me? This castle has been mine since the old lords perished in their dark magic. I was already ancient centuries before your father ever took your mother. I shall crush you!”

  “No,” said Corvad, “you will not.”

  The dragon's laughter thundered over the valley.

  “I shall not? Why, mortal insect? Will I show mercy to intruders? Or will you slay me with your little stick of steel?”

  “You will not,” said Corvad, “because I bear a diadem of the old lords. And you cannot strike down one who wears a diadem of Dracaryl.”

  The dragon screamed in fury, every inch of its body tensing.

  Yet it did not attack Corvad.

  “Mortal dog!” said the dragon. “You have the impudence to wear the regalia of the old lords? They were men of power and might, not mewling weaklings like you. They conquered an empire on both sides of the mountains, and...”

  “Silence,” said Corvad.

  The dragon's jaw snapped shut. The beast rumbled in fury, but did still did not attack.

  “And the diadem,” said Corvad, “gives me the power to command you. Does it not?”

  “It does,” spat the dragon, claws digging into the earth.

  “Splendid,” said Corvad. “Oh, fear not. Perhaps I'll make you part of my army. I'll ride you into battle like a beast of burden. But you'll get to slay humans, many humans, never doubt.”

  “Mortal vermin,” said the dragon, “I will devour you, I will...”

  “You will refer to me,” said Corvad, “as master.”

  “Master,” hissed the dragon. “I will slay you. Master.”

  “That's better,” said Corvad. “And no, you will not slay me. I shall rule the world, and build an empire to make Old Dracaryl look like the fief of a petty lord. We shall start here. Guard this valley. My enemies pursue me, and will undoubtedly arrive sooner than I expect. If anyone enters this valley, kill them at once. Leave none alive.”

  “And where,” said the dragon, “shall you be, master?”

  “I am going to Arylkrad,” said Corvad, “to claim the Glamdaigyr.”

  The dragon let out a mocking laugh. “You? You will wield the Glamdaigyr? You are a crawling insect. You are not fit to wield the great weapons of the old lords. For the old lords would have destroyed you like the worm that you are. And if you take up that sword, it will devour you.”

  “Silence,” said Corvad. “Do not speak to me again, unless I first command it. Now go and watch for my enemies.”

  The dragon roared in rage, but jumped into the air, wings beating. Soon Molly saw the dragon circling high overhead, keeping watch over the entrance to the valley.

  She walked into the shadows and reappeared beside Corvad. The heat struck her at once.The ground radiated it, like the walls of a brick-lined oven. If not for the diadem, the dragon fire would have reduced Corvad to ashes.

  “So you have a pet dragon,” said Molly. “Shall I congratulate you?”

  Corvad made a dismissive gesture. “The dragon is a tool, like the Malrags or the zuvembies. If Mazael arrives before I claim the Glamdaigyr, the dragon will burn him to ashes
.”

  “I rather doubt that,” said Molly. “It will take more than a dragon to kill a monster like Mazael Cravenlock. And his life belongs to me, anyway. Not some dragon.”

  “You are no doubt right,” said Corvad with a shrug. “In any event, the dragon will kill a large number of Mazael's men and allies. That will make it easier to deal with him, when the time comes.” He turned, looking at Arylkrad. “Now let us take the Glamdaigyr.”

  “Assuming we get past whatever defenses are in the castle,” said Molly. “I doubt the High Lord of Arylkrad only left one dragon to guard his seat.”

  Corvad laughed. “We cannot be stopped. The Glamdaigyr will be mine. Now, come. Let us go fulfill your destiny.”

  “My destiny?” said Molly. “My destiny is to kill Mazael.”

  Corvad smiled. “Yes. Of course.”

  Chapter 24 – The Dead City

  Lucan staggered forward another step.

  And then, at last, the gates of the black city atop the mountain stood before him.

  Or what was left of the gates.

  The iron gates themselves lay smashed and twisted before the walls, splintered into hundreds of jagged shards. The arch itself had collapsed and lay in heaps of broken rubble. The great walls rose over a thousand feet overhead, higher than any wall could stand in the material world. Yet some terrible force had torn gaping breaches in the wall, wide enough that an army could march through unhindered.

  A wall a thousand feet tall and two hundred feet thick, and something had blasted holes into it.

  The manifestation of Demonsouled corruption, the thing wearing Lord Richard's form? Had it done this?

  No. If the manifestation possessed that kind of power, Lucan would not have been able to fight it off, and it would not have relied upon reapers and hooded shadows. It simply would have defeated Lucan and claimed him.

  But Lucan did not want to meet whatever had torn those holes into the wall.

  He picked his way over the rubble filling the archway. The gate must have been like a tunnel, once, but whatever disaster had befallen the city had reduced it to a debris-choked canyon. He took care to keep his balance. He doubted a fall could kill him here, but he'd still rather not endure the pain.

  Then the archway ended, and Lucan found himself in the black city.

  “Gods,” he muttered.

  He entered a vast plaza, paved with slabs of gleaming black marble. The plaza was large enough to hold Castle Cravenlock, Cravelock Town, Swordgrim, and perhaps a half-dozen other castles. Huge towers, cylinders and cubes of faceless black stone, rose to dizzying heights around him.

  The city was so vast that Lucan doubted it could fit on top of the mountain. Was the black city larger within than it was without? That was not impossible, here in the spirit world. But what was this place? The stronghold of the Demonsouled manifestation? Some aspect of Lucan's mind or spirit?

  He walked deeper into the vast plaza, and saw the reliefs.

  Huge reliefs, carved onto the sides of the great towers. They showed the story of Lucan's life. Images from his memories, scenes from his past. Weeping at the news of his mother's death. His first kiss with Tymaen. Defeating Marstan and retaining the necromancer's memories. Battling Morebeth Galbraith in the chapel of Knightcastle.

  The bloodstaff shattering in the Garden of the Temple as Malavost laughed.

  Lucan turned in a slow circle, hands clenched into fists. Every scene, every carving was a story from his past. Which meant...which meant...

  He remembered asking the disguised reapers in the abandoned village what this place was.

  “You,” the reapers had answered.

  The black city was Lucan.

  It was his mind. His intellect, his memories, his skills. And the gaping holes in the walls, the damage to the towers? Lucan had done that to himself. Malavost had claimed the bloodstaff's power destroyed the natural defenses of Lucan's mind, leaving him vulnerable. The bloodstaff had created the reapers, the doubles, and the hooded shadows. It had unleashed the Demonsouled manifestation in Lucan's spirit. It had trapped Lucan here, away from his physical body.

  And he had done it all to himself.

  “Gods,” whispered Lucan. “It was my fault. It was all my fault.”

  “Did I not say that you would find answers here?”

  Lucan looked up.

  The Old Demon strode across the plaza. Gone was the costume of wool and leather, the rough brown cloak. In its place the Old Demon wore a robe of flowing black, stark and unadorned. His boot heels clicked against the marble flagstones, and his gray eyes remained fixed on Lucan.

  He stopped a dozen paces away.

  “And did I not also say,” said the Old Demon, a faint smile on his bearded lips, “that you would not like the answers you found here?”

  “Is that the great secret?” said Lucan. “You said time and time again that my misfortunes were my own fault. Well, you were right. I did this to myself.”

  “Ah,” said the Old Demon. “You've come to wisdom, I see. Rather late, but wisdom nonetheless.”

  “Is that why you're here?” said Lucan. “To gloat? Or have you come to kill me?”

  The Old Demon sighed. “Haven't you been listening? I can't kill you. I can't even harm you. Not unless you attack me first, which so far you haven't been stupid enough to do.”

  “Then why are you here?” said Lucan.

  “You've figured out why I told you to come to this city,” said the Old Demon, waving his hand at the towering buildings. “You've realized that this place is a representation of your mind, yes? And that the manifestation of the Demonsouled power, the stolen power of your bloodstaff, awaits you in the heart of the city?” The low, moaning wind picked up, the Old Demon's robes fluttering about him like black wings. “And do you know what will happen when you fight it?”

  Lucan shrugged. “I will defeat it and return to my physical body.”

  “That is one possibility, yes,” said the Old Demon. “If you defeat the manifestation, the power will dissipate. The Demonsouled corruption shall be driven from your flesh, and you will return to your body.”

  “And what happens,” said Lucan, “if the manifestation defeats me?”

  “Then the Demonsouled power devours your soul entirely,” said the Old Demon. “You'll wake up, return to your physical body...but you'll become a monster. Rather like poor Ultorin, I suspect. You'll be hideously deformed, of course, but your magical powers will be vastly stronger, and you'll be much harder to kill. Unfortunately, the process will drive you utterly mad.”

  Lucan shuddered. Ultorin's bloodsword had indeed made the renegade Dominiar far stronger and faster. It had also destroyed his sanity, and twisted him into a deformed nightmare, a thing that looked more Malrag than human.

  “Of course,” said the Old Demon, “one possibility is more likely than the other.”

  “My defeat, I suppose,” said Lucan.

  “Indeed,” said the Old Demon. “The Demonsouled manifestation is stronger than you. Much stronger. It is a portion of your own soul, your own magical strength augmented by Demonsouled power. You cannot overcome it by force. And if you let your blood fall upon the ground, try to use Demonsouled power against it...why, you are only feeding yourself to it, drop by drop. If you use Demonsouled power to defeat the manifestation, you might win...but in doing so, you'll transform the entirety of your soul into the manifestation.” He grinned. “And you'll turn into a horror that would make even Ultorin blanch.”

  “Then I'll use my wits,” said Lucan.

  The Old Demon laughed. “A splendid plan. Your wits brought you here.”

  “It doesn't matter,” said Lucan. “I will not yield without a fight. Either say something useful or get out of my way.”

  He started walking.

  “You know,” said the Old Demon after Lucan had gone a dozen steps, “there is a third possibility.”

  Lucan stopped, looked back.

  The Old Demon grinned. “You could
accept my aid.”

  Lucan stared at him for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

  The Old Demon lifted an eyebrow. “Is something amusing?”

  “That's what this is about, isn't it?” said Lucan. “You can't kill me. You can't even hurt me. But...you can get me to accept a bargain. That's how you do it. You turn others into your weapons. It's what you tried to do with Mazael, and what you did with Amalric and Morebeth Galbraith.”

  “Mazael is a fool,” said the Old Demon. “I offered him immortality and the sword of the Destroyer, and he turned me down for a San-keth proselyte and a half-blooded Elderborn woman.” He shook his head, as if puzzled. “Amalric was loyal, but a fool...if you led him to water, he might or might not have figured out how to drink. And Morebeth, well, Morebeth was clever, but a scheming bitch.”

  “No,” said Lucan. “Whatever you want, no.”

  “Why, you haven't even heard what I offer,” said the Old Demon.

  “I don't care,” said Lucan.

  The Old Demon laughed. “Now you are lying. But to prove my good intentions, I will give you a piece of information for free. Your physical body is almost out of time.”

  “Ultorin is about to destroy Deepforest Keep?” said Lucan.

  “Not at all,” said the Old Demon. “Ultorin and Malavost are both dead, their Malrag horde broken.”

  Lucan blinked. “Mazael slew them both?” That was tremendous news. He had been certain that Deepforest Keep would fall, that Malavost would seize the Door of Souls. “Then why I am in danger?”

  “Because your physical body was stolen by one of my grandchildren, a Demonsouled named Corvad,” said the Old Demon. “One of Mazael's children, incidentally.”

  Lucan frowned. Mazael was a child of the Old Demon, a Demonsouled of tremendous power. One of his children would possess great power. “And why did Corvad steal my body?”

  “To use it in the creation of a Malrag Queen,” said the Old Demon.

  “That's...that's not possible,” said Lucan. He knew what a Malrag Queen was. Or, rather, Marstan had, and Lucan had Marstan's memories. The Malrag Queens were huge, bloated creatures, some of them larger than a castle tower. Malrags grew in their flesh like cancerous sores, demon spirits possessing the crude bodies. And when the Malrags were strong enough, they tore their way free from the Queen, even as more Malrags grew in their place.