Soul of Dragons (22 page)

“What the devil?” said Corvad.

“The temple,” said Molly. “The roof fell in.”

“If the book is buried, I shall be wroth,” said Corvad. Molly decided not to mention that he had ordered the Ogrags to attack. “They should be distracted enough. Go get it.”

Molly nodded and walked into the shadows. And even as she did, she heard the bloodcurdling war cry as Corvad ordered his Malrags to attack. 

Chapter 18 – Ruined Temple

Mazael coughed.

Dust caked his face, mixing with the blood upon his lips. Sunlight glared down at him, beams shining through the swirling dust. Lion trembled in his right hand, blue fire shining. 

Mazael cursed and staggered to his feet, bits of rock sliding off his dented armor. He felt bruised and battered, but already his Demonsouled power healed the wounds. 

He looked around.

He stood in a tunnel built of polished stone, the walls carved with reliefs showing the San-keth slaughtering hapless human prisoners. The ceiling had collapsed, covering the floor in rubble. The Ograg lay some distance away, bellowing, both its legs broken by the thirty-foot fall. 

Mazael buried Lion to the hilt in the Ograg's throat. 

The sounds of furious battle came from the hole in the ceiling.

Mazael had to rejoin his men. With the gates broken, Corvad's Malrags would swarm into Morsen, and every sword was needed.

But first, he had to find a way out of this hole.

The walls were too smooth to climb, and the heaped rubble did not reach high enough to climb out. But the tunnel stretched into the darkness, towards Gaith Kalborn's manor house.

And, no doubt, to the San-keth temple proper. Along with however many calibah and San-keth clerics might dwell there. 

There was no other choice. 

Mazael took a deep breath and hurried into the darkness.

###

The wall trembled beneath her, and Romaria seized the battlements for balance. As she watched, the ruined gates, a large chunk of the street, and several of the surrounding houses collapsed into a widening sinkhole. 

Taking Mazael and one of the Ogrags with them.

The second Ograg teetered at the edge of the pit, trying to keep its balance. Romaria raised her bow and sent an arrow into the back of its neck. And then another, and then another. 

The Ograg moaned and collapsed in a heap beside the pit. 

She took a deep breath. The Ogrags had killed fifteen men, and maybe wounded another fifteen. That was a cheap price, as Ogrags went. But the gates had been smashed, and a black wave of Malrags boiled up the hillside. The pit before the gates would slow them, but they outnumbered the men three to one. If they got inside the village, it would be a slaughter. 

“My lady!” Gerald hurried her side, his surcoat spattered with blood, both human and Malrag. “Are you injured?”

Romaria shook her head. 

“Where's Mazael?” Gerald said.

“In the pit,” she answered. “He fell when the ground collapsed.” He might lie wounded in the rubble. He might be dead. She shoved aside the thought. “We'll have to fight without him. We’re finished if those Malrags get inside the wall.” 

“We need as many crossbows upon the ramparts as we can fit,” said Gerald. “Spears and swords on the ground to meet the Malrags.”

“That pit will be almost as good as the gates,” said Romaria, “if we can make proper use of it.” 

Gerald nodded, and began shouting orders.

###

Molly stepped out of the darkness.

She appeared atop the roof of a peasant house, her boots gripping the tiles. Mazael's men ran for the walls, and she saw a knight in bloodstained silver armor shouting orders. Gerald Roland, most likely. Romaria stood beside him, that lethal bow in hand. 

Molly saw no trace of Mazael Cravenlock. Perhaps he had been slain. But she doubted it. It would take more than a few Ogrags to kill a man like Mazael. 

Molly would kill him. 

Romaria stared to turn, frowning, and Molly fell into the shadows. 

She reappeared atop the dome of the church, overlooking the village and the fortified manor house. The San-keth temple obviously lay below the village. How to find it?

Molly knew how the San-keth thought. According to their myths, the gods of men and Elderborn had stripped the serpent people of their limbs, condemning them to crawl in the dust. And so whenever possible, the San-keth mocked the gods of humans, the gods of the Amathavian church. Proselytes, in particular, enjoyed casual blasphemy, often concealing their temples and chapels beneath Amathavian churches...

Molly grinned.

She stepped into the shadows and appeared in the church below. It looked like most other churches and chapels of the Grim Marches, with a half-circle of benches facing the altar. Molly walked to the altar, examined it for a moment, and nodded. 

She touched one of the carvings, and a stone tile behind the altar slid aside, revealing a hidden stairwell. 

Molly descended into the darkness, drawing her sword. She wondered if she would encounter any proselytes or changelings. Though it hardly mattered – the proselytes were fools, and the poison of the calibah, while painful, could not kill a grandchild of the Old Demon. 

Would Romaria follow her? She was more dangerous than anyone who might live in Morsen, deadlier than the master assassins of the Skulls.

Molly found herself looking forward to it.

###

Mazael strode into the darkness, Lion's fire throwing back the gloom.

He waved the sword back and forth like a torch. The reliefs continued on the walls, bearing the usual scenes of torture and murder the San-keth preferred in their religious artwork. Yet the temple was silent, and Mazael saw no sign of any proselytes, calibah, or San-keth.

Then he saw the faint red light ahead.

He slid Lion into his scabbard, hiding its light, and moved forward as quietly as his boots and armor would allow. 

###

Romaria opened her mouth to answer Gerald, and the familiar smell of Demonsouled power reached her nostrils.

Molly had arrived. 

Romaria spun, eyes sweeping the village. She glimpsed a flicker of darkness atop one of the rooftops, and then another on the church's dome. For a moment Romaria saw Molly perched atop the church.

And then the Demonsouled woman vanished in another swirl of shadows. 

“My lady?” said Gerald.

“Molly's here,” said Romaria. “I'm going to stop her.” 

Whatever Corvad wanted, whatever he planned, apparently he could not do it without Molly's assistance. And Mazael lay somewhere in the half-collapsed tunnel, perhaps wounded, perhaps helpless. If Molly came across him before his wounds healed...

“Go,” said Gerald. “Kjalmir and I will hold here, I swear it.” 

She grabbed his arm. “Timothy has a few fire spells left. Have him cast them if the Malrags break through. I will return with Mazael.”

Gerald nodded, and Romaria ran towards the church. No doubt Molly planned to steal a book or scroll from the San-keth, return to Corvad, and retreat through the warlocks' mistgate. 

Romaria took another step and blurred into the form of the great black wolf. Her claws clicked against the cobblestones, and she raced into the village's square, nostrils flaring. Where would Molly go? 

The church.

Romaria bounded up the stone stairs and through the double doors of the church. 

Inside, the church looked much the same as of the other churches of the Grim Marches. Though she smelled the dust lying over the benches and altar, the odors of mildew and rot and neglect. She doubted the villagers ever worshiped here, preferring instead to offer the blood of murdered travelers upon the altar of Sepharivaim.

But through the smell of neglect, she caught the sharp odor of Demonsouled power. 

There. Behind the altar.

Romaria jumped onto the dais and circled around the altar. One of the stone tiles had pulled back, revealing a staircase sinking into the darkness. Molly's scent lay heavy here.

Romaria blurred back her human shape and lifted her bow, setting an arrow to the string.

This time, Molly would not escape her.

Romaria hastened down the stairs, boots making no noise against the stone.

###

The red light brightened, and the tunnel ended in an archway.

Beyond Mazael saw the sanctuary of a San-keth temple.

It was smaller than the temple below Castle Cravenlock, but still impressive. Red granite covered the floor, and a bloodstained altar rested atop the dais. No doubt Gaith Kalborn and his fellow proselytes had been kidnapping travelers for years, sacrificing them atop that altar. A massive bronze statue of Sepharivaim, the god of the San-keth, reared over the altar. 

A San-keth cleric stood next the altar. Or, rather, rested upon its carrier. The serpent people had neither arms nor legs, and claimed that the gods of men had stripped them of their limbs. So in defiance, the San-keth clerics used necromancy to raise the skeletons of their enemies as undead carriers. One such cleric rested wrapped around the spine of an undead skeleton, the cleric's wedge-shaped head rearing up where the skeleton's head should have been. 

Gaith himself stood before the dais, face drawn with fear. Four calibah waited next to him, their golden eyes glittering in the crimson gloom. 

“The village is attacked, honored Szegan,” said Gaith. “Mazael Cravenlock's men war against the Malrags. We have dire need of aid. Please, the men of Morsen have hidden this temple for many generations. We beg of you, unleash your arts to defend us!”

Szegan's coils shifted against his carrier, forked tongue licking at the air.

“It is of no concern,” he said, his voice a hissing croak. 

“But honored Szegan!” said Gaith, falling to his knees. “The men of Morsen shall be slain! And then the victors, whether Mazael or the Malrags, shall discover this holy place and lay it waste. Please, save your loyal servants, use...”

“Silence!” said Szegan. “Your villagers are chattels of great Sepharivaim, and your lives are mine to spend as I see fit! Besides,” he said, some of his rage subsiding, “facing both Mazael and the Malrags at once would be great folly. We shall wait until one or the other is victorious and weakened. Then I shall unleash my arts, my undead servants, and my calibah, and destroy the invaders.”

“But our homes,” said Gaith. “They shall be destroyed. And many men and women of Morsen shall be slain.” 

“That is of no importance,” said Szegan. “Your homes can be rebuilt. And your kin may be slain, but you humans breed quickly. This temple must be kept hidden. So have the archpriests of the San-keth declared. Once the battle above is over, we shall kill the surviving victors. No witnesses must be left.” 

Dismay flashed across Gaith's face, but he bowed his head. “It shall be as you command, honored Szegan.” 

“Prepare the calibah,” said Szegan, his carrier gesturing with a skeletal hand. “Gather the proselytes who are fit to fight, and equip them with poisoned daggers. Once the battle is over we shall fall upon the victors like fangs in the darkness. And perhaps Sepharivaim will deliver Mazael himself into my grasp. He is an enemy of the San-keth, and his death would earn me great standing with the archpriests of Karag Tormeth.”  

Mazael's hand tightened around Lion's hilt.

Szegan wanted Mazael? Well, the San-keth cleric would get his wish. There were four calibah, along with Gaith and Szegan, and Mazael could take them all. He would have to kill Szegan first, preferably before the cleric managed to work a spell...

One of the calibah turned, black-slit eyes widening as he saw Mazael 

“Damn,” muttered Mazael.

“Master!” shrieked the calibah, yanking a dagger from his belt. “We are discovered.”

Mazael stepped in the sanctuary, drawing Lion from his belt. The blade erupted with blue flame, throwing back the dim red light. Gaith sputtered in alarm and stepped behind the calibah, drawing his sword, while the changelings lifted poisoned daggers.

Szegan's head swiveled to face Mazael, tongue lashing at the air. 

“Mazael Cravenlock,” said Szegan. “Come face your doom.”

“Are you so certain of that?” said Mazael, raising Lion. He needed to take down Szegan, but the calibah and Gaith were in the way. “Skhath and Straganis both tried to slay me, and are both dead.” 

“Skhath and Straganis were fools,” said Szegan, the skeletal hands of his carrier coming up, “and I am not. Kill him! Kill him for the glory of Sepharivaim!”

The calibah rushed forward, daggers raised, and Szegan began to cast a spell.

###

Molly walked down the corridor, sword in hand.

The temple had been built on a similar plan to the one below Castle Cravenlock, though on a smaller scale. The sanctuary waited at the end of this corridor. Rooms lined either side of the corridor, housing the temple's calibah and San-keth priests. The temple's high priest would have his rooms here, alongside the library.

Molly opened the door to the high priest’s chamber. It was bare of furniture, save for a bronze brazier, and a bed of sand in the corner. No doubt the creature curled up there to sleep. There was no sign of any San-keth, which was disappointing. Molly found them just as loathsome as Malrags, and would have enjoyed killing the high priest. 

She pushed open a door in the far wall and found herself in the temple's library. Shelves lined either wall, stuffed with books and scrolls. A writing desk rested against the far wall, next to a wooden podium.

An open map lay upon the podium. 

Molly crossed to the podium and smiled. 

The map was a work of art, the mountains and the forests and the plains done in vivid color, the annotations in the script of Old Dracaryl. It showed the Grim Marches and the surrounding lands. Yet it was not a map of the Grim Marches, but of Dracaryl itself, with every town and castle marked.