Soul of Dragons (6 page)

Corvad snorted. “You question me?”

“Are you so unsure of yourself?” said Molly. “One little question unmans you?”

Corvad laughed. “Hardly.” He pointed at Lucan. “For I have what I sought, do I not?”

“Mazael knows about us,” said Molly.

“What of it?” said Corvad. There was a hint of amusement in his tone that Molly did not like. “He would have learned about us sooner or later, but it matters not. We have the mistgates. He cannot possibly find us. And once we find Arylkrad, he cannot possibly stop us.”

“You've been wrong before,” said Molly.

“Oh?” said Corvad. “When?”

Molly knew it was a bad idea, but she said it anyway. “When we were children, and you thought our father would come and save us from the Skulls.”

Corvad said nothing for a moment. “Do not ever call him our father.” His voice was flat and toneless and hard as steel. “Do not ever. Do you understand me?”

Molly said nothing.

“And you should trust my judgment,” said Corvad, voice soft. “Didn't I warn you?”

“Don't,” said Molly.

Corvad smirked. “I said you could never live in peace. Your Demonsouled blood would not permit it.”

“Stop talking,” said Molly.

“And I warned you about Mazael Cravenlock,” said Corvad. “But you ignored me, didn't you?” His smirk widened. “And so you ran off with your pet, but Mazael found you. He butchered Nicholas, left him choking and gasping in a puddle of his own blood...”

Molly surged to her feet, the murderous rage of the Demonsouled filling her. She wanted to leap across the table and bury her sword to the hilt in Corvad's damned mouth. But she didn't know if she could defeat Corvad, and she desired vengeance against Mazael more than anything else in the world.

And if she killed Corvad, or if Corvad killed her, then Mazael would escape.

Molly embraced the black fire inside her and walked the shadows.

She reappeared in the darkness outside the village. Yet she still saw the light from Corvad's fire. So she walked into the shadows again, and again, until the fire was only a distant speck of light. 

She was alone here...and could weep in peace, without anyone seeing her. Her breath hitched, and she staggered forward a step, and then another. She wanted to fall to her knees, to scream and weep and curse...

A dark shape filled her vision.

The instincts the Skulls had drilled into her took over, and Molly stepped back, drawing her sword. But the dark shape was only a Malrag, one that hadn't yet enjoyed the benefits of Corvad's blood. 

-Great one-

The Malrag's grating voice snarled in her ears, and its words echoed inside her skull.

-What do you wish-

“What do I wish?” said Molly, her voice rising to a scream. “What do I wish?”

The Malrag backed away in confusion. The miserable things feared neither pain nor death, knowing that their spirits would be reborn. But they tried to avoid pain nonetheless. 

And Molly knew the creature saw its death in her eyes.

“I had gotten away,” she said, stalking towards the Malrag. “I left it all behind. Free of the Skulls, free of my grandfather, free of Corvad. Nicholas took me away from all that.” She remembered his face, his deep voice, his strong hands. He had been a warrior, like every other noble, but she had never dreamed a noble warrior could be so gentle. “We were going to leave it all behind. Cross the Great Mountains to some distant barbarian realm, and live there in peace, free from our families."

-Do you yearn for blood, great one-

That was all the Malrags ever thought about. Torment and death. 

-Command me, great one, and I shall find your foes and shall slay them. I will harvest their screams and pour them out as an offering before you-

“Silence!” said Molly.

The Malrag stop talking, yellow fangs bared in a snarl. It couldn't attack her, couldn't raise its hand against a Demonsouled. She could tell that it wanted to, but the power of the demon magic in her soul kept the Malrag at bay. 

“I don't want to inflict torment,” said Molly. “I wanted to live in peace and quiet with Nicholas. I wanted to be his wife. But Mazael Cravenlock wouldn't leave us in peace! He hunted us down. He killed Nicholas with his own hands.” Again she saw Nicholas, dying in a pool of his own blood, and the rage set her aflame. “I will make him pay for what he has done. For what he did to my mother, for what he did to me, and for what he did to Nicholas!”

Molly did not remember moving. One moment she stood before the Malrag, screaming her fury. The next the Malrag's armored corpse crumpled to the ground, black blood spurting across her boots. She saw its head roll away into the grasses. 

Silence hung over the plain. 

That had been foolish. She needed to keep control of herself. Corvad would not forgive any weakness, and nor would her grandfather. And more importantly, Mazael Cravenlock would not. He was a terrible foe, grim and fierce in battle. If she hoped to defeat him, she needed to keep her wits about her.

And then, only then, after they had defeated Mazael utterly, only then could she pour out her wrath upon him.

The thought cheered her.

###

Molly stepped out of the swirling darkness and back into the ruined manor house. 

Corvad was gone, no doubt to get some sleep. The Malrag warlocks still lurked in the darkened corners, motionless as waiting spiders. Four of the infused Malrags stood guard over the entrance. Lucan Mandragon lay against the wall, motionless.

Such a wretched, broken thing he was. 

Molly gazed down at him. 

Lucan's eyes twitched back and forth behind closed lids, his breath coming quick and shallow.

“I wonder,” said Molly, “what you are seeing.”

Lucan did not answer. 

“Nothing pleasant, I imagine,” said Molly.

Her grandfather had explained what Lucan had done to himself. The fool had forged a staff empowered with Demonsouled blood, and used its strength to enhance his magical prowess. Molly often wished herself free of her cursed Demonsouled blood. She could not imagine anyone mad enough to deliberately wield it, to choose to take up the corruption.

“Poor fool,” murmured Molly. “Whatever you're seeing now is still more pleasant than what Corvad is going to do to you."

Chapter 5 – Crawling Shadows

Lucan tried to fight, tried to run, tried even to scream.

It did little good.

Malavost's voice whispered in his mind.

“You didn't realize it, did you?”

The wizard stared at him from across the Garden of the Temple, grinning. 

“You are a bigger fool than Ultorin,” said Malavost. “The power of your bloodstaff corrodes sanity. Your mind has natural defenses against magical intrusion, defenses that the bloodstaff has destroyed. Which means I can invade your mind with ease.”

Lucan struggled with every ounce of strength he could muster.  

To no avail.

“Troublesome child,” said Malavost, laughing. “You wanted to wield the power of the Demonsouled so badly? Then wield it! Draw on the staff's power, as much as you can...and then turn it back upon yourself.”

Lucan had no choice but to obey.

The black bloodstaff blazed in his hands, the sigils carved in its sides burning with fiery light. The power thundered into Lucan, changing him, twisting him. He shrieked as his limbs twisted and bulged, as the pain ripped through him.

Then the staff exploded, molten shards driving into his arms and chest. Crimson flames devoured his clothes, chewing into his flesh. Lucan screamed one last time and collapsed to the ground.

Everything went black.

###

He floated in darkness for a long time. How long, he could not have said.

Centuries, perhaps. 

###

At last Lucan awoke, gritty sand beneath his fingers, surf roaring in his ears. A wind blew over his him, cold and dry. It made a moaning noise, fighting against the crash of the waves.

The waves?

Deepforest Keep was far from the ocean. Or any lake large enough to produce waves.

Lucan managed to open his eyes.

The sky was...wrong. 

Black, twisted clouds swirled overhead, moving faster than Lucan had ever seen clouds move, writhing like dying things. From time to time arcs of crimson lightning sprang from cloud to cloud, filling his vision with bloody light. 

No natural sky looked like that.

Lucan sat up.

He was at the edge of a sea, but like the sky, it was nothing natural. The sea was black as a shadow, and writhed and roiled in the same way as the sky. Together they looked like the hellish vision of some disturbed artist.

Hell. Was that where he was? Had Malavost killed him?

Lucan stood and looked around. Compared to the sky and the sea, the beach looked downright prosaic. It was nothing more than coarse sand, dotted here and there with rough plants. A hundred yards away, Lucan saw a weathered bluff rising from the sand, the rock worn and crumbling. 

Wherever this was, he wasn't in Deepforest Keep any longer.

Or anywhere near Deepforest Keep. 

Lucan remembered the bloodstaff burning in his hands, remembered the power twisting him, and looked at himself in a sudden panic.

But he appeared fine, his body uninjured. His black clothes and coat were a bit tattered, but he was otherwise unharmed.

The bloodstaff was gone.

Lucan cursed himself. He should have thrown the damned thing aside when he had the chance. Malavost must have known the damaging effect it had on the mind all along. Little wonder he had not feared fighting Lucan. 

Not when he could use Lucan to kill the Seer. 

More innocent blood on Lucan's hands.

For a moment enraged loathing threatened to overwhelm Lucan. How could he have been such a fool? The bloodstaff, forged in Mazael's blood, had given him tremendous power. Yet under its influence he had slain an innocent Elderborn druid, and Malavost had used him to kill the Seer. And without Lucan's help, could Mazael defeat Malavost? Lucan’s failure could have doomed Mazael to defeat and Deepforest Keep to destruction...

He took a deep breath.

Calm. He had to remain calm. Yes, he had made mistakes. But he could do nothing to rectify them unless he took action. 

First, he had to figure out where he was.

Lucan started walking, the sand crunching beneath his boots as he worked out a plan. He would summon a creature from the spirit world, question it for information. The denizens of the spirit world knew much of what transpired in the mortal world. Once Lucan had more information, he could decide on a course of action.  

He picked his way up the bluff, the cold wind moaning past him. The black clouds continued their mad dance, red light flashing over the beach. He knew of no land under the sun that looked like this, no sea that produced those black waves pounding against the shore. Was this even real? Was he dreaming? 

He grunted, pulling himself up the bluff, shoulders aching. 

If it was a dream, it certainly felt real.

He reached the top of the bluff and froze, gazing in wonder and disquiet at the sight that awaited him. 

The land atop the bluff stretched away for miles. Far in the distance, Lucan saw the rising bulk of a mountain. Atop that mountain sat a black city. Lucan had looked upon the ruined splendor of the High Elderborn temple topping Mount Tynagis. But this black city was massive, larger than anything he had ever seen. Its looming walls and soaring towers looked like the work of a mad dreamer, not any human or Elderborn builder. 

Yet the city lay in ruins. Some force had ripped gaping holes in its walls, had smashed numerous towers. And even from this distance, Lucan thought the black city looked...unclean. As if the black color came from some taint, some filth covering the walls, rather than the color of the stone itself. 

Between the beach and the mountain stood a forest, but a forest of dead, lifeless trees, dotted here and there with crumbling ruins. The entire land looked as if it had succumbed to some blight, some slow wasting disease. 

“Where the devil am I?” muttered Lucan.

“You mean you haven't figured it out yet? Disappointing. Marstan would have figured it out by now, I think.” 

Lucan whirled, hand coming up in a spell.

A man stood a short distance away, perched on the edge of the bluff. A worn brown cloak blew around him, revealing simple clothes of wool and leather. The wind tugged at his gray-shot brown hair, and cold gray eyes glittered in his lean, hawk-like face. He bore no weapons that Lucan could see, but for a wizard, that meant nothing.

“Who are you?” said Lucan.

“Ah.” The man titled his head to the side. “You don't know that, either? You should. You're very well acquainted with several of my children, after all. But...I see that means nothing to you. So you may call me Mattias, if you wish.” 

“How did you know Marstan?” said Lucan. Marstan had been Lucan's former teacher, a necromancer of power who had tried to possess Lucan's body as his own. Lucan had survived the encounter, though it had left him with a head stuffed full of Marstan's black memories and necromantic lore. 

“Oh, you could say he was the student of a student,” said Mattias. “So I didn't really know him at all. But I heard he was clever. He would have been clever enough to figure out where he was by now, Lucan Mandragon.”

“So you know who I am,” said Lucan.

“I know all about you,” said Mattias. “I know what Marstan did to you. I know how you made that staff forged in the blood of Mazael Cravenlock. And I know how you found your way here, to this...place. I never expected to find you here, you know.” He grinned. “I had thought you smarter. Well, even I can make mistakes.” 

“You know quite a bit about me,” said Lucan.

“I strive to be well-informed,” said Mattias.

“Too much about me,” said Lucan. “Things you couldn't possibly know. Which makes me wonder if you're even real. Perhaps you’re only a hallucination.” He waved his arm, gesturing at the dead forest and the black sea and the dark city atop its mountain. “Perhaps I'm dreaming all of this.”