Soul of Dragons (36 page)

The Malrags, ancient and infused alike, lifted their gray-skinned faces and howled their terrible cries, the noise echoing through the great dome. The sound made Molly's stomach turn. The Malrags were vile creatures, and the thought of spawning legions of them from Lucan Mandragon's corrupted flesh made her stomach turn.

But vengeance upon Mazael Cravenlock was worth it. 

Wasn't it?

She thought of the Malrag hordes falling upon Northreach, slaying and burning. They would have killed Nicholas, had they found him as he lay wounded and dying. 

“Come to me, my servants,” said Corvad. The three Malrag warlocks walked past Molly to join Corvad atop the dais. Other Malrags laid Lucan across the block of stone that had once held the Glamdaigyr, like a sheep laid upon an altar for sacrifice, and the warlocks began to mutter spells over him. 

Very soon he would become a Malrag Queen. Molly wondered if they were as horrifying as all the tales claimed. 

A terrible thought seized her. Nicholas had been a nobleman, the youngest son of the Lord of Ironcastle, yet he had ridden north to fight alongside the Knights Arminiar. He had slain Malrags, had seen the horrors they wrought. And now Molly stood in the midst of a Malrag warband, plotting with her brother to loose a Malrag horde upon the world.

What would Nicholas think of that?

What would he think of her? 

“Sister!” 

Corvad's deep voice cut into her thoughts. 

Molly flinched, despite herself. Power and strength rolled off Corvad like smoke from an inferno. She had always been wary of Corvad, but had never feared him. Now he terrified her. He looked as she always imagined the Old Demon might look, if their grandfather ever decided to reveal his full might.

He looked like the Destroyer. 

“Join me,” said Corvad. Even his voice had become deeper, and a glaze of red light glimmered in his gray eyes. He extended an armored hand, the gauntlet tipped with claws like a dragon's razor-edged talons. “Take your place of honor at my side.” His cold face hardened. “Come and claim your destiny.” 

Such power filled his voice that Molly almost took a step forward, almost walked through the shadows to his side. She swayed, yet her fear of Corvad proved stronger than his voice.

Her fear of what he might do to her. 

“I'd prefer to watch from here,” said Molly, trying to keep her tone light. “I'd rather not get blood on my boots.”

“Sister,” said Corvad, his right hand tightening around the Glamdaigyr's hilt. “You will join me. Come. I command it. Now!” 

Again Molly almost obeyed. His power wash over her, demanding that she obey, bend to his will...

She walked into the shadows, and reappeared in the pillared hall, sweat dripping down her face. Dead Malrags and destroyed zuvembies littered the floor, but the room was otherwise deserted. 

“Gods and devils,” she croaked. 

What had the Glamdaigyr done to Corvad? Her brother had always been a powerful Demonsouled, but not like this.

She had thought the Glamdaigyr only a conduit, a way to drain the power from Corvad's blood into Lucan's corrupted flesh. But what if the greatsword held other powers? What if it contained a measure of the dark magic the lords of Dracaryl had wielded before their fall?

Dark magic that was now in the hands of Corvad. 

What kind of monster had she helped create? 

“It doesn't matter,” muttered Molly, speaking to the empty vastness of the hall. “Mazael has to pay for what he has done.”

But who would make her pay, she wondered, for what she had done?

For what Corvad would do? 

“None of that matters!” said Molly. 

But that answer, she realized, was not good enough. Not with what Corvad had become. And in trying to avenge Nicholas, she might have done far worse than Mazael had ever done. 

Darkness swirled, and Molly snatched her sword from its scabbard. The Seneschal appeared before her, skull-crowned staff in hand. 

“You got away from me once,” said Molly, “but you'll not be so lucky a second time.” 

The Seneschal made no move to attack.

-I do not come to slay you. For you are the sister of the master, and he has bade me to return you to his side. Come with me, and the master shall honor you above all mortal women-

Molly laughed. “So Corvad wants to honor me, does he? Well, if he wants to honor me, he can do so himself, and not send his stinking pets to fetch for him.”

The Seneschal did not even blink. The creature's third eye, flickering with green light, remained fixed on her.

-The master commanded that you were to be neither harmed nor slain. But he bade me to return you by whatever means necessary. Come with me, or I shall take you-

Molly bared her teeth. “Try it, worm, and we'll see your black blood on...”

She paused. A distant rattle came to her ears, the sound of metal clanking against stone.

The Seneschal turned its head to look in the direction of oracle statue's chamber, all three of its eyes narrowing. 

-Intruders come. Arylkrad is invaded. The master must know of this-

The Seneschal turned and vanished in a flicker of darkness.

Molly gazed at the stairs, heart hammering beneath her ribs.

Intruders. Mazael Cravenlock and his men. It had to be. No one else would have dared journey to Arylkrad. He had indeed pursued them to the ends of the earth. 

Little good it would do him. Corvad would break him, now. 

But not if Molly killed him first. 

A bleak anticipation rose within her. No more running, no more games. Corvad had urged her to ruin the Grim Marches and Mazael's hopes before slaying him. But now Molly would take matters into her own hands. 

She would kill Mazael Cravenlock. Or he would kill her. This would end today, one way or another. 

Roars and the clang of metal echoed from the throne chamber. Corvad's Malrags, both infused and ancient, racing to meet the attackers. Let them come! Mazael belonged to Molly, and Molly alone. 

She set herself, sword in hand, and waited for Mazael and his men.

Chapter 29 – Only Blood Can Pay For Blood

“Form a shield wall,” said Mazael, “once we see the enemy.” 

The stairs ended in a vast hall, the lofty ceiling supported by dozens of thick black pillars, each carved with reliefs showing the glory of Old Dracaryl. Signs of recent violence marked the room. Mazael saw the crumbling bones of destroyed zuvembies, the black-armored forms of infused Malrags lying in their own blood.

Along with a different kind of Malrag.

These Malrags wore crimson armor. The image of a roaring dragon marked each cuirass, no doubt the sigil of the High Lords of Arylkrad. And the Malrags looked...old, the gray leather of their skin creased with countless wrinkles, their jaws and faces dotted with tumor-like growths. 

“Ancient Malrags,” said Kjalmir, tapping one with his hammer. “Malrags live forever, unless something kills them first. And they grow stronger and more vicious with age.”

“Where did Corvad find them?” said Gerald, sword in hand. “Wandering the mountains, perhaps?”

“I doubt it,” said Romaria. “I think the High Lord of Arylkrad left them sealed in the castle as guardians.” 

“There are traces of a spell over them,” said Timothy, gesturing, “similar to the dark magic in the rest of this place. I think the Malrags were bound to the castle's defenses. Corvad must have fought his way through them.” 

Osric snorted. “Perhaps the Malrags will kill Corvad for us.”

“I doubt it,” said Mazael, looking over the corpses. “Most of the dead are Malrags in red armor.” 

“Let us hope the guardian Malrags weakened Corvad's force,” said Gerald.

“Perhaps,” said Mazael. But looking over the slain, he doubted it. And it would take more than Malrags, no matter how ancient, two kill two grandchildren of the Old Demon. 

“There is a source of great necromantic power above us,” said Circan, pointing. Far in the distance, down an aisle of massive pillars, Mazael saw a broad flight of stairs rising higher into the castle. 

“Then let us destroy it before Corvad claims it,” said Mazael, raising Lion. The blade shimmered with azure flames, responding to the dark magic hanging over Arylkrad.

Then the sword jolted, the flames blazing brighter. Mazael's gaze swung back and forth, searching the rows of pillars for any sign of enemies. 

He saw none. But Lion's fire only responded to dark magic, and...

Shadows swirled, and Mazael expected to see Molly step forth, steel in her hand and hatred in her eyes.

Instead, a Malrag shaman appeared.

The creature was ancient, and its third eye pulsed with green light. A black staff rested in its clawed right hand, three human skulls swinging from leather cords. 

Romaria's bow snapped up, a razor-tipped arrow speeding towards the shaman's face. The creature made a twisting gesture, and the arrow shattered in midair. The shaman began to speak, its language grotesque and snarling, but the meaning echoed inside Mazael's head. 

-I am the Seneschal, servant of the master of Arylkrad-

Romaria fired again, along with Osric, and both arrows shattered before they reached the shaman.

-The master has decreed that you shall perish-

The Seneschal struck its staff against the floor, and howls rose from the far end of the hall. Mazael saw Malrags, both in red and black armor, racing down the stairs. Zuvembies ran alongside them, claws clicking against the stone floor. With them came skeletons the color of night, green flames inside their empty skulls, black swords and shields in their bony hands. 

“Shields!” said Mazael, and the men formed into a shield wall, knights and armsmen in front, archers and crossbowmen behind. The Seneschal leveled its staff and hissed a spell. Timothy and Circan began casting spells of their own, while Romaria loosed arrow after arrow, the shafts speeding past the Seneschal to bury themselves in the charging Malrags. Mazael ran down the line of his men, slapping Lion against their swords, azure fire spreading to their weapons. Normal steel could not harm the zuvembies, and Mazael suspected the ebony skeletons enjoyed the same immunity. 

“Release!” shouted Gerald, and the archers and crossbowmen fired, a storm of arrows and quarrels falling into the Malrags. A score of Malrags fell, black and red armor clattering against the floor, but more, hundreds more, flanked by zuvembies and ebony dead, kept running.

Then the Seneschal finished its spell.

Green lightning ripped out, reaching for the shield wall, but Timothy and Circan thrust out their hands. The lightning rebounded and smashed into the Malrags, blasting a dozen of the creatures to smoking char. Both wizards staggered from the force of the strike, sweat dripping down their faces, and Mazael wondered how many more lightning blasts they could turn aside.  

The howling Malrags reached the shield wall, and Mazael had no more time for thought. 

He fought before the shield wall, striking left and right, Malrags falling to his blade. One of the red-armored Malrags came at him, swinging a crimson sword. Mazael caught the blow on his shield and shoved. A quick slash, and Lion cut across the creature's throat, the blue fire making black blood boil. Mazael wheeled and struck down another Malrag.

And another. And another.

###

Molly stood next to a pillar, watching the fight. 

Mazael's men and the Arminiars were veterans, and fought with tenacity and skill. Yet Mazael's wizards were no match for the Seneschal's power, and the ancient shaman would overwhelm them soon enough. Then a few blasts of the Seneschal's lighting would finish the battle. 

Would it be enough to kill Mazael? Molly doubted it. The lightning in the throne room had not been enough to kill Corvad. And Mazael fought with grace and power that even Corvad lacked. 

Though the Glamdaigyr might make up the difference.

Mazael slew another pair of Malrags. He was a fighter without peer, a warrior of tremendous skill. He cut a whirlwind of death through the Malrags, and his presence let his shield wall stand, let his men strike into the disarray left in his wake.

Molly knew she could not take him in a straight fight.

Her lips curled into a sneer.

Her ability to walk through the shadows meant she need not face Mazael in an equal contest. No doubt Romaria would slay Molly as soon as the deed was done, but that did not matter.

Mazael Cravenlock would never see his death coming. 

Molly took a step forward, lifting her sword.

###

Romaria sent arrow after arrow shrieking into the Malrags. Their vile stink filled her nostrils, and she saw the white of their colorless eyes, the yellow of their fangs, heard their inhuman roars and bellowed war cries.

And she saw their black blood flow over their armor as her arrows sank into their flesh. 

Beside her, Timothy and Circan thrust out their palms, shouting spells. The air around the Seneschal rippled and folded, and the creature stumbled, hissing. Yet the shaman made a sharp gesture, and the ripples vanished. It was too powerful for Timothy and Circan to overcome. They had the strength to turn aside a few more lightning blasts, but once their power failed...

The Seneschal began another spell, waving its staff.

Romaria shifted her aim and fired. With the Seneschal distracted by its spell, Romaria expected her arrow to plunge into its flesh. Yet the Seneschal disappeared in a swirl of darkness a heartbeat before the arrow would have struck home. Romaria spun, scanning the room,  and her keen eyes spotted the Seneschal standing unharmed next to a pillar.

But her arrow had interrupted its spell. 

Undaunted, the Seneschal began its incantation again, and Romaria sent another arrow at the creature. 

Again it disappeared into shadow. 

“My lady!” shouted Timothy. “That creature...”

“I'll deal with it,” said Romaria.

She took a running step forward and let herself change, her body flowing into the shape of the great black wolf. She bounded over the heads of the battling armsmen, drove a Malrag to the ground, and raced in pursuit of the Seneschal, claws rasping against the cold stone floor. The reek of Arylkrad, the reek of the Malrags and the stink of dark magic, flooded into her nostrils.