Soul of Dragons (19 page)

“Why?” said Lucan. “Why help me at all?”

The Old Demon shrugged. “Why not? Perhaps I was bored. The downside to immortality is that you need to find something to fill all that time.”

“I serve your greatest enemy,” said Lucan. “Why help me? If I return to my body, it will only aid Mazael.”

Red light glinted in the Old Demon's eyes. “Will it? And Mazael Cravenlock is hardly my greatest enemy. Do you know how many enemies I've had? How many have sworn to destroy me? The Knights of the Lion. The rebel lords of Dracaryl, those who rejected the necromancy and dark magic I taught their peers. The last high king to rule over a unified realm. The princes of Briault. All of them vowed to destroy me. Yet I am still here and they are not.”   

“A fine boast,” said Lucan, “but it doesn't answer my question.”

The Old Demon shrugged. “Doesn't it? Well, that is your concern, not mine. You hardly seem in a position to turn away aid. In fact, I will tell you another secret, freely. Do you know where the reapers come from?”

“You already told me,” said Lucan. “I created them. They're manifestations of the Demonsouled corruption I drew into myself.”

“Correct,” said the Old Demon. It chilled Lucan to realize how much the Old Demon looked like Mazael. The same cold gray eyes, the same intent expression, even some of the same mannerisms. “And did you know that you've been creating more of them?” 

“What?” said Lucan.

“Oh, dear,” said the Old Demon with mock chagrin. “You hadn't figured it out yet? That power you receive every time you spill your blood upon the earth has to come from somewhere. But it's not really blood and it's not really ground, not here. Your blood is a portion of your soul. A very small portion, true, but part of it nonetheless.”

Lucan took a deep breath. “And what is the power?”

“The Demonsouled power you stole from Mazael,” said the Old Demon. “Malavost destroyed your bloodstaff, but the power is still here, inside you. It hates you and wants to destroy you. But you rather foolishly fused yourself to it, so it has become part of you. Which means when you feed it a portion of your soul, you receive power, vast power, in return.” He smiled. “It's almost...poetical, really.” 

It made grim, disturbing sense. Lucan's use of the stolen Demonsouled power had trapped him here. What consequences would he face if he continued to use it? But if he had not used the power, the reapers would have killed him, and the hooded shadow that had taken Tymaen's form might have been strong enough to destroy him.

“And?” said Lucan, his voice hoarse. “What awaits me in the black city? Another trap? Another game?”

“Nothing awaits you but the consequences of your own decisions,” said the Old Demon. “And I am telling you the truth. A way to escape this place, a way to return to your own body, awaits you in the heart of the black city. If you are strong enough to find it.”

A chunk of half-melted stone fell from the keep and smashed against the courtyard. Lucan raised his hand in surprise, beginning a spell.

When he turned, the Old Demon was gone.

“That trick is getting old,” muttered Lucan. 

He shivered. This place, this spiritual limbo...it was a death trap. What would happen if he perished here? Would his physical body die? Or would his soul cease to exist, pass into oblivion? 

He did not want to find out.

No. He would defeat the reapers, find his way to the black city, and escape this place. Then he would repay those that had made him suffer. Even the Old Demon.

Lucan left the ruined castle, climbing the path to the mountain itself.

Chapter 16 – False Oaths

Two days of hard riding brought Mazael and his men to the village of Morsen. 

The village sat atop a rocky hill dotted with bushes and stunted trees, rising a hundred and fifty feet over the surrounding countryside. Herds of goats grazed on the grasses clinging to the hillside, watching the visitors with indifference. The village itself could house perhaps three or four hundred people. A fortified manor house and a domed church stood at one side of the village, and a low stone wall encircled the entire top of the hill.

Morsen was a strong place. Not as strong as the ruined castle in the Great Southern Forest, and certainly not as strong as Castle Cravenlock, but strong nonetheless. A hundred determined men could hold the village against a powerful foe.

An excellent place to surprise and destroy Corvad and his Malrags. 

Mazael's men, along with Gerald's and Kjalmir's, reined up at the foot of the hill. 

“A good place to defend,” said Kjalmir, scratching at his beard. “I would not want to assault it, that much is certain. Those walls are shorter than I might like, but thick. Aye, give me some doughty lads, and we could hold it against half the Malrags of the Great Northern Waste.”

“Thick those walls may be,” said Gerald, “but they'll do us little good, if Corvad's warlocks open a mistgate within the village.” 

Timothy cleared his throat. “We may be able to prevent that, sir knight. From what Circan has described of mistgates, I think it would take a simple ward to keep them from opening within the walls.”

Mazael frowned. “Isn't a mistgate was a spell of great power?”

“Oh, it is, my lord,” said Timothy. “I certainly could never cast it.” He tugged at the spike of his beard. “Think of it as a strong man straining to lift an anvil. While he labors to lift it, any weakling could walk over and poke him in the stomach, causing him to drop the anvil.”

“A crude metaphor, but essentially sound,” said Circan, reining up his horse besides Timothy. 

“Could you collapse a mistgate?” said Mazael, remembering how much strain it had cost Circan to close Lucan's small mistgate to the San-keth temple. If they could collapse Corvad's mistgate behind him, cut him off from any retreat...

“Regrettably, no,” said Timothy. “Once the anvil has been moved, it is just as hard to move again. Even working together, young Circan and I would not have the power to close a mistgate of that size.”

“Young?” said Circan, amused. “You are only seven years my senior.”

Timothy coughed. “Regardless, my lord, we can neither close nor open a mistgate. The only permanent way to close Corvad's mistgates will be to kill his warlocks."

"It will be done," said Kjalmir, nodding with approval.

"We can, however, ward a specific area from mistgates," said Timothy. "Covering an area the size of the village will be a simple task.”

“Good,” said Mazael. “Gerald. Station the armsmen on the walls, and have them ready their crossbows. The more Malrags we shoot before they reach the walls, the better. Kjalmir. My men are all veterans, but yours have the most experience fighting Malrags. I'd like to keep your Arminiars in reserve, to plug any holes in our lines.” 

“A sound plan,” said Kjalmir. 

“Romaria?” said Mazael, glancing at where Romaria sat on her horse, short bow in hand.

She gave a short shake of her head. She smelled neither Malrags nor San-keth in the area. But that meant nothing. According to Timothy's spell, Corvad and his Malrags remained in the Great Mountains. And the San-keth temple would lie buried beneath the village. Or perhaps it had been abandoned and forgotten centuries ago. 

Morsen looked peaceful, sitting atop its hill.

But Corvad was coming. Mazael was sure of it. 

“What about the villagers?” said Gerald, hand closing into a fist. “What if they're San-keth proselytes?” 

“They might not be,” said Mazael. “That map was ancient. It's possible the San-keth temple was forgotten long ago.”

“But if it wasn't?” said Gerald. “If they do indeed pray to Sepharivaim?” Gerald loathed San-keth proselytes. Not surprising, considering they had kidnapped his son and tried to kill his wife. 

“We'll deal with Corvad first,” said Mazael. “He'll butcher anyone in his path, innocent and San-keth proselyte alike. After, we can settle with the villagers. And if they're San-keth proselytes...well, we'll handle them. Let's go. Corvad could arrive at any moment.”

He rode up the path, the men following, Romaria at his side. Mazael hoped to find aid from the village's militia. But the gates stood unguarded, and Mazael and the others rode through unchallenged. He frowned in annoyance. Morsen had been lucky – had the Malrags arrived during Ultorin's invasion, they would have slaughtered the villagers to the last child. 

The village's streets had been paved with cobblestones, and Hauberk's iron shoes clicked against them. Mazael's men fanned out, climbing the stairs to the ramparts, crossbows in hand. Timothy and Circan muttered their spells to ward against mistgates, blue light flashing around their hands. Villagers gaped at them from windows and doorways as they passed, and most slammed their doors, bars thudding into place.

Wise of them, really. 

Mazael reined up in the village square. The fortified manor house stood on one side, its squat tower rising over the rooftops, while the domed church stood on the other. The door to the manor house burst open, and an old man in rusted chain mail hurried out, leaning upon a thick cane, a sword hanging in a battered scabbard at his belt. The old man moved with surprising speed, despite the cane, and his arms looked thick and strong. 

Romaria stared at him without blinking. 

“What is the meaning of this?” bellowed the old man. “I am Sir Gaith Kalborn, and these are my lands. I am a vassal of Lord Mazael Cravenlock! When he hears of this, he'll have your head!” 

Kjalmir laughed.

“I rather doubt that,” said Mazael, “since I am Lord Mazael Cravenlock. Do you not recognize my banners?”

Gaith looked at the black banner with the three crossed swords, and his bloodshot eyes got wide. “Ah...forgive me, my lord. I did not recognize your standard.” 

“I can see why it might have slipped your mind,” said Mazael. “Early this year the Grim Marches came under attack from a great Malrag horde, led by a renegade Dominiar knight. I summoned all my knights and vassals to attend me at Castle Cravenlock. Yet, Sir Gaith, I failed to see you among them. Why was that?” 

Gaith licked his lips. “Forgive me, my lord. I sent as many militiamen as I could spare to your banners. Thirty tough men, good with the bow.”

“Somehow they failed to arrive,” said Mazael. 

Gaith shrugged. “I do not know what to say, my lord. Peasants are a faithless and treacherous lot. No doubt they fled to the free cities and now lie drunk in the gutters. Or perhaps a Malrag warband slew them during the journey to your castle.” 

“That would indeed be a tragedy,” said Mazael. Most likely Gaith hadn't sent any men at all. Still, Ultorin's Malrags had ranged at will over the Grim Marches, burning and killing, and many lords and knights had kept their men back to defend their homes.

Yet very few Malrag warbands had come this far west. 

“It looks as if Morsen was spared the worst of the fighting,” said Mazael.

“Aye, my lord,” said Gaith. “The village is a strong place, with stout walls. We saw two Malrag warbands roaming through the hills, but they...moved on.” He grinned. “Perhaps they went to seek easier prey, aye? We men of Morsen are a stern bunch.” 

“Plainly,” said Mazael. “And your men will soon have a chance to show their steel. A large Malrag warband is on its way to attack Morsen.” 

“That's...impossible,” said Gaith, blinking. “You defeated the Malrags, my lord, I heard the news. The Malrags have been defeated.”

“Most of them,” said Mazael. “But some of the remaining warbands were gathered up by a man named Corvad.”

“But why would he attack Morsen?” said Gaith. “We are but poor herdsmen. We have nothing worth stealing.” 

“Corvad thinks there is treasure buried beneath Morsen,” said Mazael. He had decided not to tell Gaith the whole truth, in case the man was a San-keth proselyte. “A hoard of gold one of the high lords of Old Dracaryl hid within the hill during ancient times. He wants the gold, so he's going to kill everyone in the village to claim it.” 

“But that is ridiculous, my lord,” said Gaith, flabbergasted. “There is no secret gold buried below the village. We've dug cellars into the hillside for generations, to store food during the winter. If there was some ancient treasure buried here, we would have found it long ago.” 

He seemed certain of that. Perhaps he knew about the San-keth temple hidden below the village. 

“Regardless,” said Mazael, “Corvad believes it, and Corvad has Malrags. He will arrive soon. Perhaps within the day. Sir Gaith, you must prepare your village. Otherwise Corvad's Malrags will kill everyone here.”

Gaith's head bobbed. “Yes, of course. You are right, my lord. We must prepare. We, ah, we do have a militia, but not as many men as you have brought,” his eyes swept over the assembled knights and armsmen, “or with such fine weapons and armor.” 

“Every man is needed,” said Mazael. Gaith was lying to him about something, he was sure of it. Yet the old knight seemed alarmed, even startled. Alarm was understandable. But why would he be surprised? The Malrag horde had swept across the Grim Marches, and every lord, knight, and peasant expected and feared an attack.

So why was Gaith surprised?

“You should prepare your people for war at once,” said Mazael.

“Of course,” said Gaith, bowing. “My lord, I hope you and your chief men will accompany me inside. We can discuss our strategies at my table, out of the sun, and I do have a fine wine.”

“A sensible idea,” said Mazael, swinging out of the saddle, as did Gerald and Kjalmir. 

He glanced at Romaria, and she gave him a quick nod.

###

Romaria watched as Sir Gaith Kalborn led Mazael, Kjalmir, and Gerald into the manor house. 

She did not like the old knight. He had been lying about something, she was sure of it. She smelled the fear rolling off him in waves. Most men would experience fear at the arrival of an armed party at their homes. But Gaith's terror redoubled whenever he spoke with Mazael.

Many men feared Mazael. But for Gaith to fear Mazael more than the Malrags made no sense at all.