Soul of Dragons (46 page)

And if not for Lucan’s help, Corvad would have killed Mazael.

“Very well,” said Mazael. 

“And I will not use the Glamdaigyr or the Banurdem either,” said Lucan. “I know you suspect I wish to claim them. And you suspect justly, I might add. But...I have seen the dangers of using power beyond my capacity. I will not make the same mistake twice.”

“Good,” said Mazael. “It would be a better world, if we Demonsouled did not exist. But we do. And we must make the best of it.”

“I know,” said Lucan.

###

Lucan watched Mazael walk away.

He had not told the entire truth. Lucan had no intention of stealing any more Demonsouled blood, or of using the Glamdaigyr or the Banurdem. All were too dangerous.

But the well of power from the bloodstaff remained within him. Somehow it had fused with his soul, granting him its power permanently. He suspected it had healed him, had awakened him from his coma. Nor did the power seem to inflict any negative side effects. When he tapped into it, the power inspired neither murderous rage nor corrupted his flesh.

Lucan intended to put it to good use.

He let out a deep breath. Mazael was right about one thing. Using the bloodstaff had been terrible folly, an insane risk. Yet it had worked out in the end. Lucan was still alive. Malavost and Ultorin were dead, and Corvad's plan to create a Malrag Queen stopped.

Everything had worked out.

Hadn’t it?

For a brief instant the hazy recollection of a black city swam before Lucan's eyes. A memory of a dream from his coma, he suspected. No doubt he had glimpsed Arylkrad as Corvad and Molly carried him inside, and his mind had constructed a dream from the half-seen images.

Just a dream. He was still alive, and his enemies had been defeated.

Yet why did he feel as if he had made some terrible mistake?

Chapter 35 – Beginnings

Nine days later, Mazael and his men returned to Castle Highgate.

Lord Robert hosted them in a great feast, celebrating the defeat of both Corvad and the dragon. Osric told the tale, and the grizzled knight had quite a talent for storytelling. Soon the entire hall laughed and cheered to the tale. 

Tymaen sat at Robert's side, quiet and still.

Lucan did not attend the feast.

The next day, Mazael retrieved his horses and departed Castle Highgate.

“Good journeys to you, my lord,” said Osric. “Or should I call you Dragonslayer?”

“Don't,” said Mazael with a laugh. “Lord Richard will be wroth.”

“Aye,” said Osric, grinning. “If you ever want to go through the mountains, find me. I'll follow you again.”

###

They rode south through the Grim Marches.

Autumn had fallen during their mountain journey, and everywhere Mazael rode, he saw peasants harvesting fields, rebuilding villages damaged during Ultorin's invasion. He spoke with the peasants as they passed, and heard the news. There were a few reports of Malrag attacks, but not many. Most of the surviving Malrag warbands had escaped to the caverns of the Great Mountains, or retreated into the Great Southern Forest. With both Corvad and Ultorin dead, the Malrags had turned to fighting each other once more.

The war was finally over.

###

At last, Mazael returned victorious to Castle Cravenlock. Ultorin and Corvad were slain, the harvest had been brought in, and Mazael's knights, vassals, and peasants wanted to celebrate.

A great feast was held, both in Castle Cravenlock and the town's square. Commoners and knights alike celebrated the victory and praised the gods for delivering them from the wrath of the Malrags. Perhaps Mazael could rebuild the Grim Marches now. Perhaps he could bring peace, could let his people grow fat and rich and happy. 

Though the Old Demon would come for him one day, he knew.

And when that day came, he intended to be ready.

###

The day after the feast, Mazael saw his guests off.

Gerald and his surviving men mounted their horses in the courtyard. Rachel's belly had swollen with pregnancy, and Gerald attended her with devoted solicitousness. Aldane was bigger than Mazael remembered, but Rachel still carried him constantly. 

“We're bound for Knightcastle,” said Gerald. “Winter's coming, and I want Rachel safe at home before the snows close the roads.”

“Thank you, Mazael,” said Rachel. “You promised to get Aldane back, and you did.”

Mazael laughed. “You slew Malavost, sister, not I.” 

She grinned, but then her smile faded. “That bastard daughter of yours, Mazael. I spoke with her.”

“And?” said Mazael.

“I...like her. More than I thought,” said Rachel. “We have nothing in common, of course...but she has suffered so much.” As Rachel had. “Be kind to her, Mazael.”

“I shall,” said Mazael. 

He gripped Gerald's hand, and the party rode through the gates, the Roland banner with its silver greathelm sigil flapping overhead. Mazael crossed the courtyard, to where the red-cloaked Arminiars prepared their horses. 

“I must return to Northreach and Castle Arminus,” said Kjalmir. “Your hospitality has been grand, my lord Mazael, but I must return to my duties, and my order needs me.”

“I understand,” said Mazael. “Your aid was invaluable.”

Kjalmir grinned. “And you brought down that dog Corvad. If you ever come to Northreach, my lord, we shall give you a grand welcome.” He craned his neck. “Where is Lady Romaria? I would give her my farewells, too.”

Mazael smiled. “She's attending to something important.”

###

Molly blinked. “Where are we going?”

She sat atop a horse, following Romaria around the base of Castle Cravenlock's craggy hill.

“You're good with a sword, and better with a dagger,” said Romaria. “But you've no skill with a bow.” 

Molly shook her head. “The Skulls never taught it.”

“Then you'll need to learn to hunt,” said Romaria. “Winter is coming, and there's little else to do when the snows come. You'll have to learn to shoot.”

Molly stared at the other woman for a long moment, and then felt herself smile. “Yes. Yes. I would like that.”

Romaria nodded, and steered her horse for the plains, Molly following. 

Perhaps the future would not be as dark as Molly feared. 

Epilogue

Lucan opened the door to his tower room.

He regretted the loss of his workshop below Castle Cravenlock, but he knew better than to challenge Mazael over it. Losing the books looted from the San-keth temple was inconvenient, but Lucan could live without them. He would have to find a new space to work. Master Othar's old tower, perhaps. 

He shut the door, turned, and froze in place.

A scream threatened to rise in his throat.

The Old Demon stood in the corner, watching him.

All at once Lucan remembered everything. The dead forest. The reapers and the hooded shadows. The manifestation wearing his father's guise. The black city and the fight with the manifestation's dragon form.

And the bargain he had made with the Old Demon.

“Lucan,” said the Old Demon, grinning. “You owe me a favor.”

THE END

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Mazael Cravenlock awoke from a dream of blood and death.

He sat up, sweat trickling down his face. For a moment it seemed as if the bedchamber had been drenched in blood, that the corpses of the slain lay piled against the walls in ragged heaps. Mazael’s fists clenched in horror. He had killed them, he had enjoyed it…

Then the last shards of the dream faded, and his bedchamber was dark and quiet once more. Some moonlight leaked through the balcony door, throwing pale light over his bed. Romaria Greenshield lay on her side next to him, her dark hair a tangle around her head, her breathing slow and steady. 

Good. He hadn’t awakened her. 

Or done worse things.

The recollection of another dream flashed before his eyes, and he saw himself striding through Castle Cravenlock, sword in hand, killing and killing until the halls ran red with blood…

Mazael stood, walked barefoot across the room, and picked up a carafe of wine from the sideboard. A swallow of the wine felt bitter and hot against his tongue, helping to shock him back to lucidity.  

They were just dreams.

Only dreams.

But they came more and more often.

Mazael walked to the balcony, the autumn night cold against his bare skin,. His bedchamber occupied the highest level of the King’s Tower, and from here he had a fine view of Castle Cravenlock. He saw the sentries patrolling the curtain wall, crossbows in hand. Beyond the wall he saw the distant glow of torchlight in Cravenlock Town, throwing shadows over the new construction within the town’s walls. 

Everything was peaceful. With Ultorin and Corvad dead, the remaining Malrag warbands had fled into the caverns of the Great Mountains. No neighboring lords had taken advantage of the chaos to seize lands from the Grim Marches. One did not cross Lord Richard Mandragon the Dragonslayer, after all. 

So many people had perished in the Malrag attack, but now Mazael’s lands and people could rebuild, could grow fat and happy and prosperous over the years. It was everything he had wanted for his lands.

Peace and prosperity.

How it grated on him.

Mazael closed his eyes, hands gripping the balcony’s worn stone railing. His dreams had begun again after returning from Arylkrad. At first only a few fevered images, here and there. Then the nightmares. 

And now dreams of death and blood every night for the last five nights. 

His Demonsouled blood yearned to fight, to slay, and to kill. The dreams had not troubled him during the war against Ultorin’s Malrags, and Mazael had come to realize that the constant fighting had kept his Demonsouled nature sated, like a drunkard slaked by a constant flow of wine. 

But now peace had come, and his Demonsouled blood was hungry. 

Mazael gripped the railing, his knuckles white. He would not turn into a raving monster like Amalric Galbraith or Corvad. But it was so hard. It took so much effort to keep himself in check. 

And if his control slipped…

A gust of wind struck him, so cold that Mazael’s eyes popped open, and he began laughing. Yes, he was a child of the Old Demon, the destroyer of the Dominiar Order, the vanquisher of Malrags and dragons. It certainly would be amusing if he died of a chill caught while agonizing over his woes on a balcony. 

He went back into the bedchamber, closing the door behind him. 

“Mazael?” said Romaria, her voice thick with sleep. Her blue eyes opened in her pale face. “Is something amiss?”

“No, nothing’s amiss,” said Mazael. “I cannot sleep.” 

He had not told her of the dreams. He had almost killed her, years ago, caught in the grip of his Demonsouled madness, and he loathed the memory of his folly. Besides, she slept beside him almost every night. She knew already. 

“Go for a walk, then,” murmured Romaria, closing her eyes. “It will clear your head.” She curled up beneath the blankets and sighed, the movement almost wolfish.

Appropriate, really. 

Mazael dressed, pulling on a tunic, trousers, and boots. His sword, its pommel shaped like a golden lion’s head, went in a scabbard at his belt. Lion had been forged in the ancient world, created to fight things of dark magic, and its power had saved Mazael’s life more than once. 

He shrugged a heavy cloak over his shoulders and left, closing the door behind him. Rufus Highgate, Mazael’s squire, lay snoring on a cot in the anteroom. The boy could sleep through almost anything. Yet his weapons lay close at hand beside the cot.

He, too, had survived the Malrag war.

Mazael left the King’s Tower, went to the main keep, and began climbing. The castle was quiet, save for the rasp of boots and the clink of armor from the sentries. The smell of bread baking in the kitchens reached his nostrils. Mazael climbed the stairs and reached the roof of the keep, the cold wind tugging at his cloak. From here he saw the barbican and the stables, and…

A dark flicker from the corner of his eye.

Mazael whirled, his reflexes taking over, and yanked Lion from its scabbard. The blade glimmered with hints of azure fire. Steel flashed for his head, and Mazael parried once, twice, three times, Lion’s glow growing brighter. 

His attacker, a young woman of about twenty, stepped back. She was short and trim, her pale face made ghostly in Lion’s blue light. She wore trousers of dark wool, a leather jerkin, and a sword belt around her waist. Her cold gray eyes gleamed with a battle lust Mazael knew all too well. 

“Daughter,” said Mazael.

Molly Cravenlock smirked. “Father.”

Rage filled Mazael, and his blood screamed for him to attack, to cut her down. Yet he made himself hold back. He saw the same struggle reflected in Molly’s face, her eyes glinting like sword blades. 

At last they lowered their weapons. 

“You should probably put that away,” said Molly. “Else your guards will see the light and come running.”