Soul of Dragons (39 page)

Corvad stood at the crest of the hill. He wore the chain mail and leather armor of a mercenary soldier. 

“Corvad!” said Molly. 

He did not turn.

“He cannot hear you,” said the oracle. “His image, too, is only an echo of deeds already past.” 

Corvad had become a captain of mercenaries after leaving the Skulls, holding them in line with his brutal personality. This “echo”, whatever it was, showed something that must have happened no more than a year ago. 

Corvad turned and dropped to one knee, his chain mail clinking. “Grandfather.” 

The Old Demon walked towards him, black robes shifting in the wind. He stopped and gazed down at Corvad for a moment.

“Rise,” said the Old Demon at last.

Corvad rose, staring at their grandfather with a mixture of respect and fear.

“Where is your sister?” said the Old Demon.

Corvad scowled. “She abandoned us.”

A hint of a frown crossed the Old Demon's hard face. “Why?”  

Corvad's scowl became a sneer of contempt. “She fell in love.”

The Old Demon threw back his head and roared with laughter, leaving Corvad nonplussed.

“Oh, but this is rich,” said the Old Demon. “First Mazael and his half-breed, and now Molly? Infuriating. Why do they always fall in love? They must get it from their mothers. I was never such a romantic.” He shook his head. “Tell me more.”

“A nobleman named Nicholas Tormaud, son of the Lord of Ironcastle,” said Corvad. “He came north, to serve for a time in the ranks of the Arminiars. Molly was smitten with the fool at once.”

“I sent you here to wait,” said the Old Demon, “until I found a source of corruption equal to our needs. If your sister has a dalliance while you wait, I see no harm. It might even take some of the sandpaper from that girl's tongue.”  

“But she no longer wishes to aid us,” said Corvad. “The blood of gods flows through her veins, but she no longer desires to use it. Instead she wants to spend her life with this fool. To live as a common mortal, rather than the progeny of the Old Demon.” 

The haze of red light in the Old Demon's gray eyes grew brighter. “Then she will no longer take part in the plan?”

“No,” said Corvad. “The little fool only wants to playact as Tormaud's wife.”

“Ah,” said the Old Demon. “Distressing. We need her.”

“We do not,” said Corvad. “She is weak and stupid. I am strong enough to become the Destroyer!” 

“Perhaps,” said the Old Demon, a hint of irritation in his voice, “but you will not become the Destroyer without your sister. I told you to wait, and to keep her with you. Can you not even do this simple thing? The Destroyer shall crush the realms of men and rule over the earth. And you cannot even keep control of one young woman!” 

“She will return to us,” said Corvad. “I swear it.”

“Good,” said the Old Demon. “It won't be enough to simply kill Tormaud. Your sister has to trust us. If she fears us, she might flee, or worse, get herself killed before we can make proper use of her. She must trust you.” He shook his head. “And if you cannot manage that...then perhaps you are not worthy of becoming the Destroyer after all.”

“I will succeed,” said Corvad. “I vow it. I will kill Nicholas Tormaud, and Molly will return to us.”

The Old Demon regarded him in silence for a long moment.

“We shall see,” he said at last.

###

The world blurred, and Molly found herself standing in the bedroom of an inn.

Specifically, the inn of Castle Arminus's town. Nicholas had stayed here while riding with the Arminiars. She had visited the room many times, and often spent the night there. 

Nicholas himself stood near the fireplace, drinking from a pewter cup of wine. 

Molly's heart soared when she saw him. He looked just as he had in life, tall and strong, with a mischievous glint in his eye. He wore a blue tunic and black trousers, cloak thrown back. The last time Molly had seen those garments, they had been heavy with bloodstains...

She realized what was about to happen.

“No,” she said. “No, I don't want to see this.”

“You wished to know,” said the oracle spirit, “how Nicholas Tormaud died.”

“No!” said Molly. “I don't want to see...”

The door banged open, and Corvad strode into the room.

“Nicholas!” screamed Molly. “Run!”

“Who the devil are you?” said Nicholas, one eyebrow raised. 

Corvad did not speak. He walked across the room, drew his sword, and attacked. Nicholas seized his sword and fought back. He was a capable fighter, but Corvad had Demonsouled strength and speed on his side. Molly drew her sword and attacked, screaming, but her blade passed through Corvad without touching him.

This was only a shadow of the past.

In the end, Nicholas lay dying on the floor, his blood pooling around him, and Corvad cleaned his sword on the blankets. 

“Pathetic,” said Corvad. “A useless weakling.”

He stalked from the room without another word, leaving Nicholas to his fate.

The past replayed before Molly's eyes. She watched as she entered the room, as she held Nicholas as he died. 

“Stop,” said Molly, weeping. “Stop. I don't want to see any more.”

“But you wished to know,” said the oracle spirit's voice, “how Nicholas Tormaud died.” 

The world dissolved into mist.

###

Again Molly stood on the hilltop outside Castle Arminus.

This time she saw herself, gazing at the distant shape of the town. Corvad stood at her past self's shoulder, speaking in a low and urgent voice.

“Mazael Cravenlock killed him, sister,” said Corvad. “He came to slay you, and when he could not find you, he slew Nicholas and left him to die.”

“Why?” said Molly's past self, voice thin with pain. 

“Vengeance,” said Corvad. “Mazael rebelled against our grandfather. And our grandfather is too strong for Mazael to attack. So instead he kills those of our blood who remain loyal to our grandfather.”

“But,” said Molly's past self, “but I wasn't loyal to him. I washed my hands of you. I only wished to live in peace with Nicholas.”

Corvad sneered. “Do you think Mazael cared?”

Molly's past self said nothing. 

“Come with me, sister,” said Corvad. “You know what our grandfather plans. We need your help.”

“I don't care about your plan,” said Molly.

“Very well,” said Corvad, “but do you want to punish Mazael? Do you want to avenge Nicholas's death?”

Molly's past self looked up, gray eyes blazing.

“Then come with me, sister,” said Corvad, his voice a purr, “and I promise that Mazael will suffer as no one has ever suffered.”

The world dissolved into gray mist.

###

Molly found herself standing before the oracle statue once more, shaking with fury. 

“And that is how Nicholas Tormaud was slain,” said the oracle statue. “Your brother slew him, to gain your allegiance.”

“Corvad,” whispered Molly. “Why did he need me so badly?” Her voice rose. “He killed Nicholas so I would steal a damned map?” 

“He desires to use you as a weapon,” said the oracle statue, “to remake you, to fuse you with his own blood and the corruption of Lucan Mandragon, and forge...”

“Corvad!” said Molly, her voice rising to a scream. 

He had killed Nicholas, and had lied about it. He had lied about it for months. Her hands curled into fists, the leather of her gauntlets squealing. Corvad and the Old Demon both, promising to avenge Nicholas's death, promising to slay Mazael...and laughing at her behind her back.

Mazael had been telling the truth the entire time.

Corvad and her grandfather would pay for this. 

Molly drew her sword and walked into the shadows.

###

“You look terrible,” said Gerald, casting an eye over Mazael's battered armor.

“I've been better,” said Mazael, “but I've also been much worse. Corvad awaits. I think we've slain most of his Malrags and undead.”

“I didn't see any of the warlocks with the Seneschal,” said Timothy, wiping sweat from his brow. His face and Circan's had both taken on a grayish tinge. Deflecting the Seneschal's lightning bolts had drained their strength. “Circan and I can perhaps deflect a few more blasts. But the warlocks will need to be slain quickly.” 

“I can do it,” said Romaria. “The Seneschal might have had the power to stop arrows, but common Malrag shamans do not, and I doubt Corvad's blood gave them that power.” 

“Then let's finish this,” said Mazael. “Gerald, take your...”

Darkness swirled, and Molly appeared a short distance away.

She did not look pleased. 

Her eyes were furious, her breath rasping through clenched teeth. Her sword trembled in her right hand, and rage poured off her in waves. Romaria lifted her bow, but Molly disappeared again. She reappeared, briefly, on the stairs leading up, and then she vanished again. 

“Why didn't she attack?” said Gerald, baffled.

Mazael thought of the oracle statue. “I think she found out that I didn't kill her lover after all.”

“Corvad,” said Romaria. “He must have done it, and pinned the blame on you.”

Kjalmir growled. “A cheap trick. And one worthy of Corvad.”

Osric snorted, short bow in his hands. “Perhaps she'll do us a favor and kill the bastard.” 

“Perhaps,” said Mazael. She might be strong enough to kill him, if she caught him off guard. But if Corvad had found the Glamdaigyr by now, Molly might not be able to defeat him. “In any event, she will distract him. Let's go.”

They marched through the pillared hall, weapons ready.

###

Molly reappeared atop the pyramidal dais of the throne chamber.

Lucan Mandragon lay across the stone block, his misshapen limbs thrashing. The three Malrag warlocks stood over Lucan, their third eyes fixed on him. A guard of the ebony dead and the surviving Malrags, both ancient and infused, waited at the base of the dais steps. 

Corvad himself stood near the throne, arms clasped behind him, the Glamdaigyr in a scabbard against his back. He looked...different. Stronger, certainly. A red haze glimmered in his gray eyes, as if a fire burned deep within his skull. Was this what the victims of Old Dracaryl had seen, in the final moments before the High Lord of Arylkrad destroyed them?

Molly looked upon her brother and felt fear.

But rage drowned the fear.

One of the warlocks looked at Corvad. 

-The battle is over, great one. Your Malrags and undead have been defeated. And the ancient shaman, the one called the Seneschal, is slain. Mazael Cravenlock and his men shall arrive at any moment-

“Good,” said Corvad. His voice had grown harder. “Let him come. He shall see the power of the Glamdaigyr and...”

He turned, saw her. 

“Ah,” said Corvad. “Sister. Good. Come to me, now.”

Molly grinned, reaching for her belt.

“As you wish, brother.”

She walked through the shadows and reappeared in front of Corvad, drawing a dagger. 

Her hand blurred, and she buried the weapon to its hilt in Corvad's left eye. 

He staggered back, stunned, mouth open in a silent scream. As he stumbled, Molly seized his right arm and lifted it, exposing his armpit. She plunged her sword into his flesh, blood flowing over the elaborate reliefs of his black armor. Corvad shuddered, going limp as the blade pierced his heart. She caught his weight, snatched another dagger from her belt, and opened his throat.

“That was for Nicholas,” hissed Molly, “you lying dog.” 

Her blades had pierced both his brain and his heart, and cut his windpipe. Not even Demonsouled power could heal that much damage.

And just to make sure, Molly shoved him over the edge.

It was a hundred feet stairs from the throne to the floor, and Corvad bounced down every one of them, his ancient armor clattering and clanking. He struck the floor, rolled a dozen feet, and did not move, his blood pooling beneath him. 

Just as Nicholas's blood had pooled beneath him. 

She turned, expecting the warlocks or the other Malrags to attack. But none of them moved. Why weren't they attacking? Surely they would come to Corvad's defense. Why...

She heard a metallic rasping noise. 

Molly saw Corvad draw the Glamdaigyr.

Those wounds should have killed him. Yet he somehow he was standing. The symbols carved onto the Glamdaigyr's blade flickered and burned with green flame, reflecting in Corvad's good eye. 

“Sister,” rasped Corvad, blood bubbling from the wound in his throat. He yanked the dagger from his eye socket, the blade glistening with more blood. Even as Molly watched, the gash across his throat shrank. 

How? Molly knew the limitations of Demonsouled healing. Yet Corvad ripped her sword from beneath his armpit, the Glamdaigyr in one hand, showing not the slightest trace of pain as he did so.

The Glamdaigyr.

Somehow it was healing him. Both her grandfather and Corvad had claimed the weapon could drink life force, could drain away energy. Perhaps that meant it had a reservoir of power to heal the wounds of its bearer. 

And if that was true, there was no way Molly could kill Corvad. Not without help. 

She reached for the dark fire of her own Demonsouled power, preparing to walk through the shadows.

“No,” growled Corvad.

He slammed the Glamdaigyr into the floor, the blade sinking into the hard black stone like butter. One of the symbols near the greatsword's hilt blazed brighter, bathing the throne room in ghostly radiance. A sudden chill swept through Molly.

She didn't know what Corvad was doing, and she didn't want to find out. Time to escape.

She stepped into the shadows...and nothing happened.

Below, Corvad grinned, his face made gruesome by the blood. 

“Going so soon, sister?” he said.

Again Molly tried to walk into the shadows, and again she could not. The dark power of her Demonsouled blood stirred within her, and she felt the shadows waiting for her. Yet they were just out of reach, as if a wall of glass had sealed them away. She looked at the Glamdaigyr in horrified astonishment. She had never before encountered anything that could keep her from entering the shadows. No wizard's spell, no magical ward, no enspelled relic, nothing.