Soul of Dragons (18 page)

###

An hour later, Mazael rode west at the head of three hundred mounted knights and armsmen, Romaria at his side. Gerald's men rode on the left flank, and Kjalmir's Arminiars on the right. Mazael kept his eyes to the west, towards Morsen.

Towards his children.

He had failed them, failed them as badly as his own mother had failed him. He could do nothing for them. But he could make sure they hurt no one else.

He touched Lion's hilt.

He would make certain they never hurt anyone else.

Chapter 15 – Beneath the Mask

Lucan climbed the path, breathing hard.

The path grew steeper with every step. He was high into the foothills now, the dead trees giving way to barren rock. Fortunately, he saw no trace of snow on the mountain's higher flanks, and certainly none within the black city. 

The black city.

As he drew closer, Lucan saw more details. The city was massive, vaster than any city in the physical world, its walls hundreds of feet high. Some of its great towers stood at least a thousand feet high, if not higher. What was it? The stronghold of some powerful lord of the spirit world? A manifestation of the Demonsouled corruption Lucan had drawn into himself? Or something else?

Some terrible force had ripped gaping holes into the city's black walls, smashed the tops of some of the towers. As he drew closer, Lucan saw that the city's gates had been shattered, and lay in a heap of rubble outside the wall. 

And Mattias claimed that an escape lay in the heart of the black city. 

Lucan paused for a moment to catch his breath. It was absurd – this was the spirit realm, and he had no physical body here. Yet he suspected his mind could not grasp the reality of the spirit world, and so he imagined that he had a physical body. If he concentrated, in fact, he could banish the ache in his legs, push aside the hunger and thirst. 

Yet the moment his attention wavered, the hunger and pain returned. 

So he took a moment to rest legs that did not exist, and to allow his imaginary lungs to catch their breath. 

Still no trace of the reapers. Or the doubles. Or the numerous other horrors that might lurk in this dark place. 

A place that Lucan's own errors had created. 

He made a fist. “I did what I had to do.”

He had, hadn't he? If he had not taken Mazael Cravenlock's blood, Amalric Galbraith would have conquered Knightcastle and become the Destroyer. If he had not, Morebeth would have corrupted Mazael, and perhaps he would have become the Destroyer instead. And if Lucan had not created the bloodstaff, Ultorin would have destroyed the Grim Marches. 

“I did what was necessary,” repeated Lucan. 

Of course, he had failed to stop Malavost. Perhaps even now Deepforest Keep lay in smoking ruins, and Malavost ascended the slopes of Mount Tynagis to open the Door of Souls. 

Lucan staggered back to his feet, climbing the path once more. He would find his way to the heart of the black city and escape this place. He would return to his body, defeat Malavost, and save Deepforest Keep. He would make Malavost pay for what he had done, and then he would track down his father and his brother, make them suffer, repay anyone who had ever harmed him a thousand times over...

He blinked in surprise. That wasn't want he wanted. He only wanted to protect others, to keep them from suffering under dark magic as he had suffered.

That was what he wanted.

Wasn't it?

The moaning wind seemed to mock him. 

He climbed still higher. He had almost reached the mountain proper. Another mile, perhaps a mile and a half, to the black city atop the mountain.

And then he would find his way free from this place, and make Malavost pay...

No. He would stop Malavost. To save innocent lives. Yes. That was what he wanted. Not vengeance. Not to make Malavost and his father and his brother pay for what they had done to him.

Lucan kept walking, and reached the crest of a hill. 

A ruined castle stood before him. 

It sat athwart the path, a dark mass of crumbling black walls and jagged black towers. The castle, like the black city, looked as if it had been struck by some terrible force. Gaping holes stood in the walls, and some of the towers looked as if they had been melted. 

The castle was also blocking the path.

Lucan looked back and forth. He saw no good away around the obstacle. The castle itself stood on high ground, and surrounding hills were almost like cliffs. He could, he suppose, attempt to climb the hills. But that would leave him vulnerable to attack. Facing the reapers on level ground was bad enough. Facing them while clinging to a jagged slope would lead to a quick death. 

Though walking into that ruined castle did not seem like a good plan, either. 

But there was no other way around it.

Lucan cursed under his breath and passed through the castle's gates, entering the courtyard. Heaps of rubble torn from the walls stood scattered about. A ruined garden rested at the foot of the central keep, choked with dead trees and withered bushes. Despite that, he saw strength, even grace, in the lines of the walls and towers. The castle had been a place of a beauty, once.

Before whatever disaster had befallen it. 

Another gate awaited in the far wall, and through it, the path as it climbed into the mountains. 

Lucan headed towards it, weaving his way around the dead garden. He had no doubt that something unpleasant lurked in the castle. For all he knew the branches of the dead bushes were poisoned. Well, he didn't intend to find out. Once he reached the far gate, he would...

He froze.

A statue stood on a pedestal among the dead bushes. It showed a boy and girl standing hand in hand, the girl stretching on tiptoes to kiss the boy. Lucan recognized them both at once. It was himself and Tymaen, the first time they had kissed. The memory struck Lucan with such force that he flinched. The feel of her lips against his, the way his heart hammered in both terror and joy...

He had forgotten that.

He cursed and kept walking. Another statue awaited. This one showed him and Tymaen at the age of sixteen, the first night they had spent together, Tymaen holding out her hand in invitation. Lucan shivered as the memory washed over him. Her skin against his, her lips against his, her...

No.

He snarled and stalked forward. He would not play this game. He would not! He...

The next statue stopped him in his tracks. 

Tymaen, turning away from him, weeping as Lucan stared after her. He remembered that day well. The changes in him, wrought by Marstan's memories, had been too much for her to bear. So she had fled from him, breaking their betrothal. It had been over four years ago. He shouldn't care. And she had been a weak fool, had she not? A foolish, spoiled daughter of a proud lord, oblivious to the darkness of the world, too weak and cowardly to do what was necessary...

Lucan screamed and lashed out with his magic. The psychokinetic blast shattered the statue. He turned and destroyed the first statue, and then the second. Damn Malavost for doing this to him! When Lucan returned, he would make Malavost pay, he...

Tymaen herself stood on the steps to the keep, staring at him. She wore a green gown, the sleeves long, the hem of her skirt pooling upon the stone steps. Her golden hair fell in ringlets around her slender neck, and her wide blue eyes were bloodshot with unshed tears. 

“Lucan,” she whispered.

He stared at her, unable to move.

“I've missed you so much, Lucan,” said Tymaen. “Lord Robert...Lord Robert is a brute. I wish my father had never forced me to marry him. I wish I had never broken our betrothal.” She held out her hands to him. “Please, please, come to me, and take me away from this horrible place. Please, don't leave me here.” 

Every fiber of Lucan's heart yearned to go to her. He wanted to take her in his arms, to kiss away her tears, to take her home. To return to the way things had been before Marstan, before he had become the Dragon's Shadow. To live the life with her he had once dreamed of living. 

He wanted that more than anything.

But Tymaen had left him, had married Lord Robert Highgate. She would never return to him. His life with her was nothing more than a dead dream. And more importantly, this was the spirit world. Whatever stood on the castle steps only wore Tymaen's guise, the way the reapers in the abandoned village had done. The creature, whatever it was, was lying to him.

Lucan's desire drowned in a sea of rage.

“You dare?” he hissed.

Tymaen flinched, tears trickling down her cheeks. “What? Lucan, my love, why...”

“You dare to wear her face?” said Lucan. “To mock me with this? To wear the face of that faithless craven?” He snarled, summoning as much power as he could manage. “Perish!”

He thrust out his palm, loosing a hammer of psychokinetic force at Tymaen. The blast had enough power to smash her against the wall and turn her bones to powder. But Tymaen held out her hand, whispering under her breath. Blue light shimmered around her, and Lucan felt his spell unravel. 

A ward. She had somehow cast a warding spell, deflecting his attack. Lucan had assumed she was another reaper. But none of the reapers had been able to cast spells. She strode down the steps, blue eyes turning to burning coals in her pale face.

“Then perish!” said Tymaen. “Perish for the master!”

She changed, becoming a wraith of darkness and mist, a hooded shadow, twin eyes of flame burning in the cowl. The hooded shadow began to cast a spell, and Lucan felt the magical strength behind it.

The time for games was over.

He raked his hand against the rough stone wall, letting his blood fall to the earth. Again he felt the torrent of burning power surge into him, and he turned to face the hooded shadow. His hand came up, and he flung blasts of blood-colored fire at the hooded shadow. It tried to flee, but the flames devoured the hooded shadow like a dry leaf in a furnace. And still Lucan loosed the fire, more and more of it, until he had blasted the front of the keep to molten slag and the dead gardens burned around him. 

The power drained from him, and Lucan stumbled, painting. The nausea and dizziness gripped him...but not nearly as bad as the first time. And still the rage burned within him. They dared to throw Tymaen in his face? The reapers, or the manifestations of Demonsouled corruption, dared to mock him like this? He would make them pay. He would hunt down whatever controlled the reapers and the doubles and the hooded shadows, and make it pay, make it scream...

“Very well done.”

Lucan turned. 

Mattias strode through the far gateway, circling around the burning chunks of rubble that littered the courtyard. He looked...amused. Pleased, even, his gray eyes reflecting the flames. 

Lucan remembered Mazael fighting the Malrags as Timothy deBlanc's fire spells raged around him, the flames reflecting his gray eyes...

He flinched as the realization struck him. 

“I know you,” he said. 

Mattias lifted one eyebrow. “Oh?” 

“You were right,” said Lucan. “I've never met you. But I have heard of you. And I have met your family.”

Mattias said nothing.

“Specifically,” said Lucan, “I have met your children.”

Mattias came to a stop, still saying nothing, and the fear grew in Lucan's mind. 

“Amalric Galbraith,” said Lucan. “Morebeth Galbraith. Mazael Cravenlock. Your children. You have many names. In the Grim Marches, you went by Simonian of Briault. The Elderborn called you the Hand of Chaos.” He swallowed, and gathered magical power, sweat trickling down his face. “But the High Elderborn called you...something else.”

Mattias grinned. Red light shone in his eyes, not reflected from the fire. “Go on, boy. Just one more step. You're almost there. Tell me. What did the High Elderborn call me?”

“The Old Demon,” said Lucan. 

For a long moment Mattias said nothing

“You,” said Mattias at last, “are much cleverer than I expected.”

Lucan took three steps back before he stopped himself. His hand came up, and he cast a defensive ward, and then another. Not that it would do any good. His power was no match for the Old Demon's magical strength.

Yet the Old Demon did nothing.

Lucan lifted his hand, preparing to strike first.

“I really wouldn't do that, if I were you,” said the Old Demon. “I'd be obliged to kill you. And that would be a terrible waste.” He grinned. “I abhor the loss of innocent life. Or at least useful life.” 

Lucan braced himself for a magical attack. Yet the Old Demon only stood there, watching Lucan with an amused expression. Bit by bit Lucan's terror receded, and his mind started working again. Yes, he stood face-to-face with an ancient evil of terrible power. Yet that ancient evil had not yet killed him, or even attacked. Why not?

Some of Marstan's memories, his knowledge of the spirit world, swam to the forefront of Lucan's mind.

“You can't kill me,” said Lucan. “You can't even attack me.”

“Oh?” said the Old Demon. “Why not?”

“Because you're only half human,” said Lucan. “You are the son of the Great Demon of old and a human woman. That means your soul is half demon – half spirit. Which means you are bound to the same laws as spirit creatures. Especially here.” He blinked. “That's why you killed Romaria, and not Mazael. Romaria attacked you, and you defended yourself.”

“Clever boy,” murmured the Old Demon. “You are almost correct. The souls of my children are three-quarters human, and the lesser Demonsouled are even more fully human. But half of my soul is demon, and it brings me immortality and great power.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, power carries a price, and even with all my power, I do not have as much freedom as mortals. I cannot attack, not unless I am first attacked. It is most frustrating.” He grinned. “But convincing others to kill on my behalf is remarkably easy.” 

“Is that what you've been doing?” said Lucan. “Unleashing the reapers on me? Was that hooded shadow one of your creatures?”

“Of course not,” said the Old Demon. “I already told you that none of this is my doing. You chose to pull Demonsouled power into your body. Which, in turn, trapped your spirit here, and created the reapers and the doubles and the hooded shadows. I have not interfered with you in any way. All I have merely done is to give you sensible advice – to get to the black city as soon as possible. Which, I note, you have manifestly failed to do.”