Soul of Dragons

by Jonathan Moeller

Mazael struggled to stand as Corvad raised the Glamdaigyr for the kill.

  Then an arrow slammed into Corvad's neck, and he jerked to the side. Mazael staggered back to his feet, Lion raised in guard. Corvad ripped out the arrow, blood gushing from his neck and mouth, but the wound closed at once. Another arrow slammed into his elaborate cuirass, denting it, and another sprouted from his shoulder.

  Mazael risked a glance over his shoulder. The wall of green flame had disappeared, and Romaria and Osric raced into the throne chamber, bows raised. Behind them hastened Gerald and Kjalmir and the knights and armsmen, shields raised, weapons in hand, along with Timothy and Circan in their long black coats.

  Corvad's lips peeled back from his bloodstained teeth in a snarl, and he lifted the Glamdaigyr.

  “Corvad!”

  Mazael looked towards the dais.

  Molly ran down the steps, the crimson sword of an ancient Malrag in her hand. With her walked Lucan Mandragon, clad in the tattered remnants of his clothes. When Mazael last saw him, he had been a misshapen, twisted husk, warped by the Demonsouled power he had stolen. Now he had been restored to his old self, though he looked utterly exhausted.

  Lucan met his gaze, and then looked away, as if ashamed.

  Corvad snarled in fury.

  “You slew Nicholas,” said Molly. “You'll pay for that.”

  “The blood of the Arminiars you murdered cries out for vengeance,” said Kjalmir, pointing with his hammer. “Today they shall be satisfied!”

  “It's over, Corvad,” said Mazael. The remaining Malrags and ebony dead hastened to Corvad's side, but the knights and armsmen outnumbered them. Corvad could not possibly overcome them all. “Put down that sword. This need not end in death.”

  Corvad only laughed.

  “Fool,” he said. “This can only end in death. I shall be the Destroyer. You cannot stop me. You don't know my power.” He raised the Glamdaigyr. “Let me show you!”

  “So be it!” said Mazael. “Kill him!”

  Lucan, Timothy, and Circan all began casting spells. Romaria and Osric took aim with their bows, as did Kjalmir's crossbowmen. Corvad's Demonsouled healing, even aided by the Glamdaigyr, could not possibly repair that much damage all at once.

  Corvad bellowed, raised the Glamdaigyr in both hands, and slammed the point into the floor. The entire castle trembled with the blow, Arylkrad ringing like a massive bell, and green fire flowed from the Glamdaigyr and into the earth.

  In the walls, dozens of stone panels exploded, and the ebony dead, hundreds of them, surged forth.

  ###

  Lucan felt the waves of cold power radiating from the black sword in Corvad's hands. The weapon was an artifact of Old Dracaryl, a thing of immense necromantic power. With that sword, Lucan could enhance his powers greatly, could...

  No. He had almost destroyed himself with the bloodstaff. No more playing with artifacts of dark magic.

  More of the ebony skeletons erupted from the niches on the walls, and Lucan realized he might not live out the next few hours anyway. A strange memory flickered through his mind, a ruined black city, of hooded shapes lurking in a dead forest...

  Lucan shoved aside the thought. This was no time for distractions.

  He conjured more spirit creatures to fling into the melee. Mazael yelled orders, and his men formed a shield wall, knights and armsmen in the front, archers and crossbowmen behind. He hurried down the line, slapping Lion against his men's weapons, spreading Lion's azure fire. That was good – Lucan doubted normal steel could harm the black skeletons.

  Corvad himself charged at Mazael, snarling curses, the Glamdaigyr a shaft of darkness and green fire in his hands.

  Besides Lucan, Molly disappeared in a swirl of darkness.

  ###

  Romaria loosed arrow after arrow. They were useless against the ebony dead, but she shot Malrag after Malrag, her shafts finding the gaps in their crimson armor. Then the undead were upon her, and she lifted her bastard sword, the blade crackling with pale blue flames. Two of the ebony dead attacked her, and she took the head from the first, blue flames filling its empty eye sockets. The second swung a black mace, and Romaria parried, sidestepped, and ripped her sword through the thing's ribcage.

  The ebony dead possessed strength and resilience, but lacked skill with their weapons. Romaria cut through them like a storm. Behind her the shield wall stood firm, the men striking down the waves of undead attackers.

  But there were so many of them.

  For every man that fell, a dozen of the undead collapsed in ruin...but the ebony dead had more than enough numbers to make up for it.

  And still more of the black skeletons poured from the niches in the walls.

  ###

  Molly reappeared at the base of the dais, some distance from the raging melee.

  Her ability to walk through the shadows had returned. Apparently the Glamdaigyr didn’t have enough power to simultaneously summon the ebony dead and to keep her from walking the shadows.

  She saw the blue fire struggling against green as Mazael dueled Corvad. Without the Glamdaigyr, Mazael might have been able to take Corvad. But with it, Corvad's strength exceeded his own. Molly saw him faltering as Corvad landed hit after hit with the Glamdaigyr.

  Mostly likely Corvad would kill everyone in this chamber.

  Unless Molly slew him first.

  Her sword, still wet with her brother's blood, lay where Corvad had dropped it. Molly scooped it up, the crimson Malrag blade in her left hand, her own sword in her right. She could not take Corvad in a straight fight, even without the Glamdaigyr's strength enhancing him. But with Mazael distracting him, with the chaos of battle raging around them...

  And her own life would be coin well-spent, if she avenged Nicholas.

  Molly took a deep breath and stepped back into the shadows.

  ###

  Corvad focused his wrath on Mazael.

  The battle raged around them, waves of ebony dead flinging themselves at Mazael's men. But the dead ignored Mazael.

  Which was just as well, because Corvad occupied his full attention.

  He parried and dodged, backing away, but Corvad kept up the pursuit, never slowing, never tiring. Mazael even managed to land a few minor hits, but Corvad no longer seemed to notice or care. Mazael could not say the same. His left leg blazed with agony, and his arms trembled with effort. His wounds were healing, but not fast enough, and he barely could hold Lion.

  He saw the end of their fight approaching with grim certainty. None of the others could reach him – Romaria, Gerald, and Kjalmir all struggled against the ebony dead. Even Lucan, with all his power, could not fight his way through the undead.

  If Mazael fell again, he lacked the strength to get up again.

  Darkness flickered behind Corvad.

  And then Molly was there, her sword in her right hand, a Malrag blade in her left. She plunged both swords into Corvad's back, in the gap between the armor plates, and wrenched them free. Corvad snarled and spun to face her, the Glamdaigyr arcing for her head, but Molly disappeared, reappearing a dozen yards away. Mazael lunged and opened a cut on Corvad's leg.

  Corvad backed away, face twisted with fury.

  “That was for Nicholas!” shouted Molly, circling to her left.

  “You'll pay for this!” snarled Corvad. “You'll scream and beg for your life, the way your precious Nicholas did!” His eyes flicked to Mazael. “You'll both scream, before I'm done!”

  Mazael charged, throwing his remaining strength into an attack. Corvad held his ground, beating aside Mazael's slashes. Yet Molly flickered into the shadows and reappeared behind him, stabbing Corvad in the back once again. The wounds did not slow him, did not even seem to hurt him very much. Yet they did distract him. And if Mazael landed a telling blow while Corvad was distracted...

  Corvad spun, bellowing curses, and again Molly vanished. Mazael swung Lion, the tip cutting across Corvad's neck. Corvad's bellow became a scream, and he punched, the Glamdaigyr's pommel
clanging off Mazael's helmet. His left leg seized up, and Corvad drew back his sword for the kill.

  Again Molly appeared behind Corvad, swords angled to stab. Too late Mazael realized that Corvad had not been aiming for him, had only been maneuvering to catch Molly unaware. Molly lunged for him, and Corvad grinned.

  He buried the Glamdaigyr her chest, the point of the blade erupting from her back.

  Her mouth dropped open in shock and pain, the swords falling from her hands.

  “Die!” said Corvad, “you useless...”

  It was Mazael's last chance.

  He flung himself at Corvad, tackling the younger man. Corvad roared in fury, and tried to bring the Glamdaigyr around, but the weapon was buried in Molly's chest. She fell backward in a limp heap, pulling the greatsword with her.

  And from Corvad's hands.

  “No!” shrieked Corvad, and he fell, Mazael's weight driving him to the floor. Mazael landed atop Corvad, his knees pinning the younger man's arms. Pain burned up Mazael's wounded leg, but he stabbed Lion with all the remaining strength he could muster.

  The sword sank into Corvad's throat, blazing with azure flame. Corvad's howls of rage choked off, and he thrashed, trying to tear free. But Mazael leaned on Lion, pinning it in place, and the sword sent pulse after pulse of blue fire into Corvad's wound.

  Corvad's thrashing slowed, and his gray eyes, filled with rage and pain, met Mazael's.

  “I am sorry,” said Mazael. “For what you've become. For what I must do.”

  He held Lion in place until Corvad stopped moving.

  ###

  When Corvad fell, the ebony dead went motionless. Romaria hacked her way through them, hastening to Mazael's side.

  She saw Molly first.

  The young woman lay on her side, the Glamdaigyr jutting from her chest. The heart, the brain, or the throat, Romaria knew. Inflict enough damage there, and even Demonsouled healing could not overcome it. And Corvad had almost certainly driven the Glamdaigyr through Molly's heart.

  Yet if she removed the sword in time...

  Romaria hesitated. Perhaps it would be better if Molly died. She was Demonsouled, had been trained as an assassin. The gods alone knew what she might do, if she lived.

  But she had fought against Corvad, at the end. Even at the cost of her life.

  Romaria looked at Mazael, leaning on Lion. He had not wanted to kill either of his children. Now his son lay dead at his hand.

  Romaria made up her mind.

  She knelt and wrenched the Glamdaigyr from Molly's chest, the blade slick with blood. Immediately a cold chill shot up her arms, and she heard a voice whispering inside her skull. Romaria flung the vile sword aside in disgust and looked at Molly's wound. It was undoubtedly mortal.

  And yet, bit by bit, it was starting to close.

  Chapter 34 – The Bastard of Castle Cravenlock

  The day after the battle, Molly stood on the ramparts of Arylkrad. Her wounds had ruined her leather armor, so she wove an oversized wool shirt and a heavy cloak to keep the chill at bay. Her sword and daggers hung at her belt, within easy reach.

  Not that she needed them.

  Her chest and back ached, and drawing breath too deeply sent spasms of pain down her sides. The wound Corvad inflicted had healed, more or less. But she suspected she would always carry a scar between her breasts and upon her back.

  Along with the other scars Corvad had left upon her heart and soul.

  Corvad, and her thrice-damned grandfather.

  She watched the activity in the valley. Some of Mazael's men and the Arminiars swarmed over the carcass of the golden-scaled dragon, butchering it. The great beast's fangs would make excellent daggers, its talons superb swords, and its scales armor without equal. Mazael had dealt the killing blow, but he insisted that every man take a share, and that the widows and orphans of the men slain in the fighting receive a double portion. Many of the knights and armsmen would go home wealthy men.

  No wonder his men followed him with such devotion.

  She turned her gaze to the courtyard. More men walked from the castle's great black gates, piling sacks against the curtain wall. With the castle's wards destroyed, Arylkrad lay open for the taking. The gold and gems from the treasury, Mazael would take back to Castle Cravenlock to distribute among his vassals and followers. The books and scrolls of dark magic from the library burned in a corner of the courtyard. And the enchanted weapons and objects of power, he would keep locked in Castle Cravenlock.

  Not that Molly cared about that. Gold and gems and enchanted baubles meant nothing. She only cared about avenging Nicholas, about...

  A tremor went through her hands. For almost a year, she had thought that she would kill Mazael to avenge Nicholas. But Corvad and the Old Demon had lied to her all along, had intended to transform her into a monster. They had killed Nicholas, and filled her head with lies.

  Yet Corvad had paid, and now Molly cared about nothing.

  And had no reason left to live.

  She peered over the edge of the ramparts. It was a fall of at least a hundred feet from the ramparts to the courtyard. Surely that would kill her. Or if she took a running leap over the wall, she would plummet at least a thousand feet to the valley floor. Could she kill herself that way? Or would she panic at the last minute, and walk the shadows to safety?

  Nicholas was gone. No reason to live. Why even keep going?

  Molly took a deep breath, gazing into the valley.

  She heard the rasp of leather on stone, and saw Mazael Cravenlock and Romaria Greenshield walking toward her.

  Her father still moved with a limp, though the worst of his wounds had faded. He had removed his battered armor, and now only wore a mail shirt and his enchanted sword – Lion, he called it, hanging at his belt. Romaria seemed none the worse the wear, though her hands never strayed far from her bow or sword.

  “They don't know, do they?” said Molly.

  Mazael frowned. “Know what?”

  “What you really are,” said Molly. “What we really are.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “Romaria knows. Lucan figured it out, years ago. A Cirstarican monk knew, but I haven't seen him since Mitor was killed. And you. No one else knows.”

  Molly let out a bitter little laugh. “I doubt they'd care. They love you. Lord Mazael, their mighty champion, who has led them to victory after victory.”

  Mazael scowled. “Not enough of them. Too many have fallen, and will never see the Grim Marches again.”

  Molly blinked. Corvad had never shown the slightest hint of remorse for those who had died in his schemes. And she couldn't imagine the Old Demon ever would.

  “You aren't like them,” said Romaria, voice quiet. “Are you?”

  “What do you mean?” said Molly.

  “You were thinking of your brother and the Old Demon,” said Romaria. “How you do not enjoy slaughter, not the way they do.”

  Molly sniffed. “I have seen you shoot a Malrag dead at a hundred yards and change into a wolf. Can you read minds as well, my lady Romaria?”

  “Hardly,” said Romaria. “But I can guess what you are thinking, plain enough. I've fought you, and my father always said you never truly knew anyone until you fought them. And you never killed any of Mazael's men, not even when it would be convenient. And you left Corvad and the Old Demon.”

  Molly gave a slow nod.

  “You didn't want anything more to do with them,” said Romaria. “You wanted a quiet life with Nicholas. You only returned to your brother and the Old Demon because they murdered Nicholas and cast the blame on Mazael.”

  Molly said nothing.

  “And for what it's worth,” said Romaria, “I'm glad I never managed to kill you.”

  Molly snorted laughter. “I imagine you are.”

  “And I, as well,” said Mazael. “Corvad would have slain me, and all my men, if not for your aid.”

  “I didn't do it for you or your men,” said Molly.

  “I know,” said Mazae
l. “But I am grateful for it, all the same.”

  They stood in silence for a moment, the hot wind rising from the valley fighting with the chill descending from the mountains.

  “What will you do now?” said Romaria.

  “I think I will kill myself,” said Molly. “All I wanted, all that was left for me, was to avenge Nicholas. And now that's done.”

  “You needn't do that,” said Mazael.

  “And what shall I do instead?” said Molly. “Go back to the Skulls? Become an assassin once more? I am weary of that life. Or shall I find some rich merchant and seduce him? Riches are meaningless. And I am Demonsouled. We are monsters, father, you and I. Perhaps it is better if we both are slain.”

  “We have the Old Demon's blood,” said Mazael. “But that doesn't mean we have to follow in his footsteps. I did not, though it cost me and those I love dearly. And you didn't.”

  Molly said nothing.

  “Don't kill yourself,” said Mazael. “Come back to Castle Cravenlock with me.”

  Molly laughed, long and loud. She had dreamed of killing this man for so long, and the thought of living in his castle was simply absurd. “To do what, pray?”

  “To live there,” said Mazael. “I will acknowledge you as my daughter.”

  “And what shall I do there, father?” said Molly. “Dote on you? Bring you your wine at table? Wed some powerful lord you need to befriend?”

  “Whatever you wish, I imagine,” said Mazael. He snorted. “And I doubt you would listen to me, in any case. But my lands and people have many enemies – the San-keth, the Malrags, the Demonsouled. Your skills and talents would be useful against them.”

  “Too many of your men have seen me walk the shadows,” said Molly. “They'll know I'm Demonsouled.”

  “They won't,” said Mazael. “We'll tell them that you have some magical ability. Not enough to join the brotherhood of wizards, but enough to cast some spells. One that allows you to stride through the darkness, for instance.”

  “That would hardly pass muster,” said Molly.