Of Shadows and Dragons

by B. V. Larson

  Therian then turned back to the Duke and addressed him. “I would ask a moment to convene with the gods of my homeland.”

  Duke Strad snorted softly. “Be my guest.”

  Therian threw back his cloak from his shoulders so that it hung behind him. He raised his arms overhead and closed his eyes. “I call upon thee, Anduin the Black, Lady of the night winds, to give me strength of limb and mind.”

  Everyone fell silent. A full minute passed, during which the retainers shuffled their boots in the snow. During this period, nothing unusual occurred. A few smiled at one another and shook their heads.

  Then a breeze rose up. It came in the form of a rushing sound that first touched the treetops outside the walls. Then it howled down with sudden force into the courtyard and picked up the finest granules of frost from the ground. The frost swirled around Therian’s feet and looped about his body in a manner that appeared—unnatural.

  All sneers and smirks died. The men standing in the gray daylight looked down in concern. Little swirls of white frost circled their boots as well.

  As the winds rose in volume, Therian began to chant. His words filled the volume of space around everyone within earshot. They tumbled forth from his lips, and became visible upon exit into the open air. Dark bubbles of vapor puffed from his mouth as he formed each alien syllable. The retainers clapped their hands over their ears and hunched as if they were turtles trying to suck their heads down into their shells. They staggered backward, away from Therian, widening the cleared circle around him.

  All the while these strange events played out, Strad stood in his doorway. He watched silently. His mouth was a grim line of determination.

  When the spell was done, Therian advanced toward the Duke. He removed his cloak with a flourish and tossed it in Gruum’s direction, who hurried to scoop it up.

  Therian bounded up the stone steps to the doorway, taking three at a time. The Duke backed up at his approach and let him pass within.

  Therian paused to stare into the Duke’s cold face. He dared put a hand on his host’s shoulder. The scene was an odd one, as the Duke appeared to be a head taller and possibly twice the weight of the Hyborean. Still, the smaller man showed nothing resembling fear. Instead, he appeared eager to get to the contest.

  “Come!” boomed Therian, his voice sounding louder than Gruum could recall it ever having sounded before. “Let us grapple then, Strad!”

  Therian pushed past his host and headed for the fire that burned high and brightly on the open hearth. Gruum, Strad and the retainers followed him.

  Grunting, Therian made a show of pushing aside the huge tables, shoving them toward the walls. The oaken tables were made of thick posts and planks. Each must have weighed as much as a horse. The furnishings scraped and groaned as they were forced over the flagstones.

  “So, you are a sorcerer,” said Duke Strad, pulling off his own gloves and stepping toward the open space before the fire. “Just as rumor has had it. I had not put much credit to the whispers about you, King Therian.”

  Therian did not seem surprised at the Duke’s mention his true identity. “As I did not put much stock in tales of your strange ways,” Therian replied, finished with the task of shoving tables about.

  “What tales?” asked Strad sharply.

  Therian shrugged. “The usual. Stories of drunken groping fingers, young children and whores found dead on the bed sheets when the light of morning comes.”

  Strad had finally had enough. He came at Therian then in a headlong charge. His thick fingers were extended like claws. A gurgling, growling sound came out of his throat.

  Therian reared up to meet the charge, his hands clasping Strad’s. The two locked fingers and strained for a moment. Neither seemed to gain instant advantage. The Duke threw himself free. They separated, sides heaving. The Duke snaked out a fist, which whistled past Therian’s dodging head. Therian returned a sharp blow of his own, which caught the Duke full in the face. There was the crunching sound of broken bone. Strangely, the Strad’s nose did not bleed much, even though it was clearly misshapen.

  The retainers standing around the combatants did not cheer or roar. They did not bet, nor call for jacks of ale. They watched this fight as they had never watched another. They mumbled and gave hissing, nervous intakes of breath. They cringed when unnaturally hard blows were delivered and received stoically by the combatants. It was clear to everyone present that both were supernaturally imbued. Knowing this made the fight unwholesome and even frightening to witness.

  Duke Strad fell, cracking his skull on the flagstones, but never lost a moment’s ferocity. While down, he plucked a thick, oak leg from a stool and held it like a truncheon. He leapt back to his feet and beat Therian’s shoulder with it.

  Therian took the blow, which sent him reeling backward. He took the opportunity to snatch up a metal candlestick from a table and hurl it into the Duke, who caught it in his midsection with a heavy grunt.

  Gruum dared to clear his throat, when none of the others spoke up. “Lords, let us recall our terms, please. Bare hands.”

  Therian straightened and laughed. “Right you are, Gruum. We should not forget ourselves and brawl as if we were two louts in a tavern.”

  The Duke nodded and reluctantly dropped the rest of the oak stool. The contest went on, and certain relationships became clear. Strad was stronger, but Therian was faster. Strad could be injured, but his body seemed to continue to function no matter what injury he withstood. Therian’s body was as tough as cordwood, but an injury sustained slowed him as it would a normal man. Therian bashed the Duke down, again and again, but always the other arose. Each time the Duke landed a good strike upon Therian, the King weakened slightly, whereas the larger man seemed to be unstoppable.

  Gruum stood among the thickest knot of retainers. He thought of emptying the pouch there, of spilling its contents amongst the pushed-aside tables. But he did not. He felt that if anything, these armsmen deserved his loyalty more than either of the two combatants. Compared to the Duke or Therian, these men were relative innocents.

  Therian lunged and feinted several times, each time sidestepping away without completing his attack. Sensing that perhaps victory was near, the Duke matched his sidesteps, grinning.

  “Is your spell weakening, Sorcerer King?” asked the Duke.

  “We shall see which enchantment will last longer.”

  “Mine has empowered my body for a full year,” boasted the Duke. “After this winter passes, if we still continue our struggle here in this place, will your spell remain fresh and potent?”

  “By then you will be ash,” Therian said. He did something then which took everyone by surprise. He grappled with the Duke, and pulled both of them into the open fire.

  The fireplace had enough wood stacked up within to build a new bench. It burned merrily, sending flames four feet up. A hot bed of coals glimmered orange beneath the blackened logs.

  The Duke hissed and screeched. Therian’s clothes smoldered, but his ensorcelled body was only singed. Therian took the moment to hammer at the Duke’s neck until it crackled, then he hopped out of the flames. He quickly planted his boot upon the Duke’s neck and held it there while the other struggled. Due to the great deal of damage his body had sustained, Strad was unable to rise.

  Therian leaned on his planted boot, breathing heavily, while the Duke’s clothes burnt away and the flesh beneath bubbled.

  “Pull him out of there!” shouted the retainers.

  Gruum tensed, expecting them all to rush his King.

  “I will if he yields to my terms,” Therian shouted back. He pulled the Duke’s body forward by the hair of his head. He propped up Strad’s head on a hearthstone so all could see his face. The dead eyes rolled about, and his struggles continued. Therian’s boot kept him down. A most horrid smell arose in the room. Gruum wrinkled his nose, knowing the odor to be that of burning manflesh.

  “I will not yield, though you burn me down to a skeleton. Know that I will fight
you even then, Therian. You can’t kill that which does not truly live!”

  Vosh appeared in the arch of a darkened hallway. The retainers who stood closest to the spot shuffled away.

  “You will release the Duke,” Vosh said, the sound of his words echoing in the minds of everyone present.

  “And if I do not?” Therian asked. Skin peeled from the Duke’s limbs, but Therian seemed unconcerned.

  Vosh lifted a finger and approached Gruum. “Then I will have your manservant here. His soul has teased my palate for far too long.”

  Therian snorted. “You have foresworn combat with me and mine when we met in Anduin’s lair.”

  “It has been more than a year and a day since we made that bargain. My vow has ended.”

  “And what of the Duke’s pledge? Did you not take service with Lord Strad? Were you not at least a guest in his house, if not a retainer? We stand in his lodge. He has sworn to me his men will not harm mine. You cannot dishonor that, lich.”

  Vosh let his hand of white bone drop down slowly to his side. He turned to the retainer who dared stand closest to him. It was the chamberlain, the very man who had opened the door to Therian and Gruum the night before.

  “I have no pledge regarding you, child,” Vosh told the chamberlain. “Unfortunately, I require sustenance.”

  Vosh stepped forward, and the chamberlain shook, but did not retreat. Gruum watched in horror. He knew not what power kept the man from running. Perhaps it was sheer terror. He recalled having seen the phenomena before in the caverns beneath Corium. He drew his steel and swore to himself he would fight when the lich came for him.

  The chamberlain fell to his knees before Vosh. He strained his neck, lifting his head up to the splayed finger bones, as a dog might stretch when seeking its master’s caress. The moment the lich touched him, the howls began.

  -15-

  Gruum looked back toward Therian, who gestured toward the door. Gruum followed the gesture. Was the King suggesting a hasty retreat? The thought was sweet in his mind.

  But no. Therian made a tossing gesture and pointed toward the pouch in Gruum’s hands. He’d almost forgotten about the oily pool of shade within. Did Therian wish him to block the exit with it? To infect any man who might run?

  Gruum could not do as his master wanted. Not this time. Instead, he uncinched the pouch and threw it toward Vosh. The leather landed upon the flagstones. Something dark leaked from the mouth, resembling tar. Neither the lich, nor the screaming chamberlain, paid it any heed.

  At this point, the armsmen in the room had had enough. They backed up two paces each, and then turned to flee.

  Vosh had paid them no attention at all up until this moment. But now, his skull snapped toward them, as a predator’s gaze might fall with burning precision upon fleeing prey. He lifted his second hand, as the first was engaged with clasping the chamberlain’s skull. The chamberlain’s face had sunken, becoming flaccid and empty. His howls had stopped, turning into fluting sounds as he drew his final breaths.

  “No,” Vosh said to the fleeing men. The door before them slammed shut. The bar fell, and though they raced to it and grunted and strained with trembling arms, they could not lift it free.

  All around the Great Hall each door slammed shut. There would be no escape for any of them.

  Therian knelt upon the hearth and, using both hands, he dragged the struggling Duke’s head up to see what transpired.

  “What say you now?” Therian asked. His voice was not mocking, nor angry. Instead, he held the tone of a man who was idly curious about the thoughts of another. “You shall watch as Vosh drains away the soul of each of your loyal retainers. You are Vosh’s creature, whether you know it or not.”

  Vosh stepped now to catch the nearest armsman, who had climbed the stacked furniture toward an archer’s loop high up the wall. The Lich caught him by the ankle and plucked him from the wall. Screaming, the man knew the agony of having his living essence ripped from his body. He thrashed like a fish upon a fisherman’s deck. Blood and spittle flew from his lips in a spray.

  “Release me,” gargled the Duke.

  “First, you must release me from my pledge,” Therian said, leaning close, “I can end your servitude to this network of bones. Or do you wish to burn here until you are only a head with rolling eyes and a slack mouth?”

  “I will stop the lich,” Strad said, “as I have no soul for him to drain.”

  “I admire your will, but you have no strength. I can only release you from this wretched existence. You are not truly the master of your own house. You are an embarrassment to your bloodline, man. Have you no pride?”

  The Duke rolled his eyes up to meet Therian’s. “I ask for an honorable ending. I must defend my house. Allow me this, Hyborean.”

  Gruum had come near to his master now, calculating that Therian might be his only hope of survival. He held Seeker and Succor still with is left hand, while his right brandished his saber.

  “Milord, we must do something!” Gruum said.

  Therian held up his hand. Gruum was surprised to see his master looked—troubled. That was a strange emotion to see upon his ever-certain face. Gruum was barely able to identify the expression.

  Therian suddenly stood up and lifted his black boot from the Duke’s neck. He offered the other a hand and dragged him out of the fire.

  A wave of stench washed up Gruum’s nostrils. The Duke’s legs were charred black. Much of his clothing had burnt away.

  “Give him your dagger, Gruum,” Therian ordered.

  “Milord?” Gruum asked, but at a single, blood-red glance, he nodded quickly and handed it over.

  The Duke took it and shuffled forward, his body smoking. That horse-toothed grin which Gruum had seen before returned. He crossed the room toward Vosh.

  “Release me from our pledge,” Therian called to him, “that I may avenge you should you fail.”

  The Duke lifted one smoking glove. “I release you!” he said, then he began a shambling charge.

  “My weapons, Gruum,” Therian said.

  Gruum handed them over. Therian strapped them on and drew his twin blades.

  The Duke reached Vosh and grappled with him. It was a strange thing to witness. Half-burned, but still vital, Strad fell upon the lich. He stabbed deeply into the vermilion robes again and again, but found no flesh there to pierce. The robe tore in places and the ribcage, yellowed with age, was revealed.

  A strange sound erupted that made all there save Therian wince. Gruum knew the sound, he had heard it a year ago. The lich was laughing.

  Vosh had dined on no less than three souls now. His muscles had withered away centuries before, but he had power in his bones again. He backhanded the Duke and sent him flopping and sliding away. The Duke crawled to his feet, but Vosh stepped to him and grabbed one of the great oak tables. With a crashing sound, he flipped the table over and slammed it down upon the Strad’s shivering form.

  Gruum watched, amazed, as the table continued to heave and shudder. The Duke kept struggling to rise, but could not. His body was too badly broken, the table too fantastically heavy. Gruum had a vision then, a scene to be played out perhaps a century hence, when a lost woodsman might rediscover this place. Would the woodsman find the Duke—by then nothing but bones—still pinned beneath the table and squirming?

  While Vosh dealt with Strad, a strange thing had overcome a group of men. They no longer ran from the lich, nor tore at the closed doors until their fingers were nailless and bleeding. They had drawn their weapons and advanced.

  “Brave men,” Gruum said, watching.

  “It is not bravery that fills them,” Therian said.

  “What then?”

  “Madness.”

  Gruum squinted and he saw then the blackness in their eyes. The armsmen were full of the oily shadow he had released upon the flagstones.

  It was madness to approach the lich. But it was madness to approach Therian as well. Therian thrust Seeker into the back of a huntsman wh
o stood too close. The other had time to crane his neck around and witness the cold face of his slayer. Therian spoke words then, words of Dragon Speech. He consigned the man to sleep with Anduin this eve.

  Gruum dared to grab his master’s shoulder. Therian whirled upon him, snarling. Gruum did not drop his hand.

  “Milord, what are you doing?”

  The light of a fresh soul’s strength shone in Therian’s eyes. Gruum thought it was no less terrible to see than the strange madness that had overtaken those who now traded blows with Vosh.

  “Unhand me if you value your life,” Therian growled. “I have been released from my pledge. I may harm any in this house now.”

  “But why, milord?” Gruum asked, pointing down toward the cooling corpse on the floor.

  “Did you think I could defeat both Duke Strad and Vosh without supping upon the strength of another? Upon many others?”

  Horror overcame Gruum’s face. “All of them?”

  Therian shoved him away and strode toward a surviving group of terrified armsmen and servants. A washerwoman, a butler and two armsmen who clenched broadswords in white fists stared at him.

  “Know, retainers of Duke Strad, that you have knowingly and willingly served the dead,” Therian said loudly. His words rang in the ears of everyone present, drowning out the screams of the panicked. His voice was like that of doom itself. “I have borne witness to your willing participation in events here. Such wickedness can never be forgiven. No quarter shall be given this day.”

  -16-

  What followed was a most gruesome slaughter. Vosh consigned each soul he captured to the Red Dragon Yserth, while Therian sacrificed in the name of Anduin the Black. It was a race between the two to see who could harvest souls faster. Vosh had a head start, but was hampered now by the fact that his victims were no longer compliant and weak. They fought him with the black madness in their eyes. They strove with Vosh, despite his growing strength and power. They slashed and beat at the bones that hugged them. They grinned as they died, even as their souls were ripped from the shriveled husks of their bodies.