Soul of Dragons (7 page)

For a moment, just a moment, of hint of red fire glimmered in Mattias's eyes. 

“That,” he said, “is a very dangerous assumption to make.” He glanced into the forest behind Lucan. “Especially now.”

Lucan looked over his shoulder, eyes sweeping the dead trees. He saw nothing, no sign of movement, only the occasional tangled shadow cast by the dead trees. 

He turned, and saw that Mattias was gone.

Lucan whispered a curse, looking back and forth. There was no trace of Mattias. Not even footprints. The man had simply vanished. Had he used a spell to depart, or to hide himself? But Lucan had felt no magical energy. Or had Mattias never been there at all? Had he been only a delusion of Lucan's mind? 

Or was he dreaming the entire thing?

He turned again, and saw movement in the black trees. Dark shapes, scuttling across the dry ground. A low growling reached his ears, coming from the crawling shadows. 

Lucan took a step back, and a dozen of the dark shapes emerged from the trees.

They were human, or at least human-shaped, draped in ragged black cloaks, features hidden beneath hoods. Lucan caught glimpses of arms and legs, white and bloodless, beneath the rippling cloaks. The creatures crawled forward on all fours, yet moved with the speed of running dogs. 

Whatever they were, Lucan suspected they intended him harm.

He raised his hand and cast a spell to summon spirit creatures. His magic would reach into the spirit realm and pull forth a half-dozen beasts, and bind them to fight in his defense. Whatever those hooded creatures were, the spirit beasts would rip them apart. 

Lucan thrust out his hand, finishing the spell.

Nothing happened. 

Lucan had cast that spell hundreds of times, sometimes while in peril of his life, and never before had it failed him. The hooded creatures raced closer, and Lucan's mind raced through possibilities. He could turn and run, but the creatures would outrun him. If he tried to fight with his bare hands, the creatures would rip him apart. 

Or he could try one final spell. 

Lucan summoned power and thrust out his hand, casting a spell to unleash a blast of psychokinetic force. 

And this time, the spell worked. 

Invisible force lashed out, picking up the creatures and flinging them back. Their cloaks opened, and Lucan caught a glimpse of gaunt bodies, of jagged fangs and ragged talons. The creatures landed with a thump, and Lucan loosed a more focused blast. The spell seized two of the creatures and flung them back, hurling them against the earth. The others scrambled back to their feet, still on all fours, and Lucan summoned more power.

As one, the creatures turned and vanished into the dead forest. 

Lucan stared after them for a moment, breathing hard, bracing himself for another attack. Yet the creatures did not return. Perhaps his display of magical power had scared them off. 

Or perhaps they had only regrouped, waiting for a more opportune moment to attack. Had the creatures encircled him, they would have torn them apart. Normally, Lucan would have conjured up spirit beasts to defend him and scatter his attackers, but here...

Why hadn't that spell worked? Had the use of the bloodstaff damaged his magical powers? Or was there something unusual about this land, something that kept him from summoning beasts from the spirit realm?

“Well done.”

Mattias leaned against one of the dead trees. 

“Did you do this?” said Lucan. “Did those creatures belong to you?”

“To me?” said Mattias, eyebrows rising. “Let me assure you, my boy, that those reapers belong entirely to you. Utterly and completely.” 

“Reapers?” said Lucan.

“Well, they don't have proper names,” said Mattias. “But one has to call them something. And why not reapers? They harvest. They hunt.” He grinned. “And when they at last overwhelm you...they will reap you.” 

“And why couldn't I summon aid?” said Lucan, stepping closer to Mattias. The older man made no move to defend himself. “Are you blocking my spells? And did you bring me here?” He lifted his hand. “Answer me, or it will not go well for you.”

Again, for just a moment, Lucan saw the glaze of red fire in Mattias's eyes. 

“There's no need to be accusatory,” said Mattias. “I have done nothing to you. I did not bring you here, I did not unleash the reapers on you...and I didn't force you to use that bloodstaff. It was your own decisions – your own remarkably bad decisions – that brought you here.”

Mattias was right – but Lucan doubted he was simply an observer.

“And where,” said Lucan, “is here?”

Mattias laughed. “You remind me of myself, when I was a young man. So very long ago.”

“Such a compliment,” said Lucan.

“I will tell you this,” said Mattias. “You won't find the answers you seek by the shore.” He pointed at the distant mountain and the black city atop it. “You will find the answers to your questions, all of them, there.” He grinned. “Including some answers you will not want to know.”

“And just how am I to get there?” said Lucan.

“You have feet, don't you?” said Mattias. “But I would start walking. The reapers aren't going to forget about you.”

A branch cracked in the forest. 

Lucan spun, gathering his magical power. But the forest remained motionless. A branch had fallen from one of the dead trees, that was all.

When he turned, Mattias was gone.

“Of course,” muttered Lucan. 

He lowered his hand, listening to the moaning wind for a moment. Possibly none of this was be real – for all Lucan knew, he was dreaming. Or perhaps he lay dying in Deepforest Keep, and this was the final vision he experienced before death. 

And perhaps Mattias's claim that answers lay within the black city was nothing more than a trap.

Yet Lucan could think of nothing better to do.

He took a deep breath and began walking into the dead forest, watching for any sign of the reapers.

Chapter 6 – Raiders

Three days after the battle at the ruined castle, Mazael Cravenlock and his men returned to the Grim Marches.

It had been spring when Mazael and his men marched south in pursuit of Ultorin. Now summer had come to the Grim Marches, and blood roses bloomed among the high grasses, like crimson wounds in the rolling plains. As Mazael rode past the villages, he saw crops growing in the fields, saw sheep and cattle grazing. That was good – he had feared Ultorin's attack would disrupt the planting, would lead to famine.

His mouth thinned.

Of course, Ultorin's attack had left the Grim Marches with far fewer mouths to feed. Mazael had made Ultorin pay for that, had seen the horror in Ultorin's eyes as death approached. 

But that would not bring back his victims. 

“You are scowling,” said Romaria.

“Ultorin killed so many of my people,” said Mazael. “And now Corvad thinks to do the same.”

“You killed Ultorin,” said Romaria, “and you'll do the same to Corvad, once you catch him.”

Mazael shook his head. “I did not defeat Ultorin alone.” He could have died countless times during the battle against Ultorin's Malrags, if Lucan had not deflected Malavost’s spells, if Romaria had not awakened the traigs. 

“Nor shall you fight Corvad alone,” said Romaria.

###

She stayed in his tent that night.

Romaria was not Mazael’s first woman. He had spent years wandering as a landless knight, fighting for profit and glory, and in his travels there had been women. Widowed noblewomen, eager for companionship. The spoiled daughters (and sometimes wives) of rich merchants. Peasant women, awed or charmed by the wandering knight. Mazael had not known about his Demonsouled heritage, and he had spent years fighting and carousing, indifferent to the future.

Sometimes the memory frightened him. There had been so many women. What if he had gotten one pregnant? The child would carry Mazael's taint, the blood of the Old Demon, the power of the Demonsouled. And if that power manifested, the child could become a monster. A bloodthirsty warlord like Amalric Galbraith, or a cold manipulator like Morebeth Galbraith. 

Then Romaria kissed him, and Mazael's worries fled. 

Romaria was not Mazael's first, but he wanted her to be the last.

Afterward she lay against him atop his blankets, the rapid pace of her breath slowing.

“I look forward to returning to Castle Cravenlock,” she said.

Mazael opened his eyes. “Oh? Why's that?”

“Because the ground is far too lumpy for this.”

He laughed.

“You seem troubled,” Romaria said. 

“I hoped the fighting would be over,” said Mazael, “that my people would live in peace. That we could return to Castle Cravenlock and live quietly.” 

“Peace is a rare thing in this life,” said Romaria.

“I know,” said Mazael. “First Mitor's rebellion and the San-keth. Then Ultorin and his Malrags. And now Corvad and his little band.” 

“That's not what's really troubling you,” said Romaria. She shifted, her side rubbing against his. “Fighting has never daunted you.”

“No,” said Mazael.

He lay in silence for a moment.

“I see myself in Corvad,” said Mazael at last. “What I could have become. What I still could become, if I am not careful.” 

“You have yourself well in control,” said Romaria. He felt her smile. “You haven't tried to murder anyone in a rage for a while now.”

“No,” said Mazael. “But I have killed. The Dominiars, the San-keth, the Malrags. I have slain them all. I do not fear becoming a creature like Corvad or Amalric.” He thought for a moment. “The possibility of becoming a tyrant, without realizing it...that disturbs me. A great deal. I have killed many because I thought it necessary, but tyrants have all said the same.” 

She kissed his chest. “The Malrags would have butchered every last man, woman, and child in the Grim Marches. Killing them does not make you a tyrant.” 

She smiled.

“What?” said Mazael. 

“If you were a tyrant, if you gave into your rage, I would not stay with you,” said Romaria. “I was drawn to you, from the moment I first saw you.” She grinned. “I like strong men. And you are strong. At first I was terrified of your strength. I thought you would destroy me.”

“I did,” said Mazael, remembering the Old Demon standing atop the altar, Romaria lying dead at his feet.

“I told you,” said Romaria, “that was the Old Demon's fault, not yours. You are a strong man, Mazael, but a good one.”

“Not so good,” said Mazael. “I've done foolish things. I've made mistakes, some of them terrible.”

“As have I,” said Romaria. “But you've learned from them. You are a different man than you were. You are still a strong man, but you've become a better one. And a strong leader, a strong lord, is what the Grim Marches needs, what your vassals and knights and peasants need. Someone to lead them against their foes, and to keep them safe. If you cannot do it, no one can.” 

“If I am a good man, or at least a better one,” said Mazael, “it's because of you. You kept me from the edge, when the Demonsouled power threatened to overwhelm me.”

“You hadn't given in to it, even then,” said Romaria. “You may not have been a good man, but you weren't a monster, not like the others.”

“But without your help, the Old Demon would have lured me into becoming a monster,” said Mazael, and his arms tightened around her. “Thank you.”

“You'll still have my help,” said Romaria. “With my father...”

Her voice caught for a moment.

“With my father dead,” said Romaria, “there's no reason for me to ever return to Deepforest Keep. Castle Cravenlock is my home now. And I will fight alongside you to defend it.” Her fingers brushed his cheek and jaw, settling on his shoulder. “I will fight alongside you until the Grim Marches are at peace.”

“That might take,” said Mazael, “a long time.” 

“So be it,” said Romaria, and Mazael kissed her again.

###

They rode north the next morning, making for Castle Cravenlock. Both Castle Cravenlock and its town lay three days' ride north of the Great Southern Forest, and Mazael wanted to return home as soon as possible. He didn't know what Corvad planned, but the sooner it was stopped, the better. 

And it was good to return to the Grim Marches. Here, they could ride faster, unhindered by the massive trees of the Great Southern Forest. Everywhere they saw signs of the fight against Ultorin's Malrags. Most villages showed signs of damage, and some had been burned to the ground. Yet Mazael saw new crops growing, saw sheep and pigs grazing, and when he questioned the villagers, none of them had seen any Malrags since Ultorin had gone south. 

Corvad, it seemed, was keeping himself hidden. 

“Rachel and I will return to Knightcastle,” said Gerald as they settled down to camp. “Once we reach Castle Cravenlock. In another few months it will be unwise for her travel. And she would much prefer that our second child be born at Knightcastle.”

Rachel said nothing, gazing over the plains, Aldane cradled in her arms. Castle Cravenlock held too many dark memories for her, Mazael knew. Knightcastle was her home now. 

“Aye,” said Mazael. “But I'll miss your aid, and Circan's.”

Gerald snorted. “Our aid? Without your aid, Mazael, my son would have perished at Malavost’s hand.” 

“And I shall miss Rachel's aid as well,” said Mazael. “For without you, sister, Malavost would have slain us all, and unleashed a new horror upon the world.” 

“I did what I had to do,” said Rachel, voice quiet. Then her eyes glinted, and Mazael saw the defiance she had developed during the ordeal, the courage that had allowed her to stab Malavost. “And if some other mad wizard gets it into his head to steal my next child...well, let that be a warning to him!”

###

At noon on the next day, they reached Castle Cravenlock.

The castle sat on a craggy hill over looking the plains. It looked the stronghold of an evil wizard from some jongleur's song – its grim walls topped with battlements and ramparts, its towers tall and strong. The banner of the Cravenlocks, three crossed swords on a field of black, flew from the keep. Below the hill, perhaps half a mile from the castle, lay Cravenlock Town. It had once been an overgrown village of four thousand people, but the population had doubled as the surrounding peasants fled to safety behind the town's walls. Some had returned to their farms and villages after Ultorin's departure, but some had not. Now laborers built new houses and workshops, while others worked to expand the town's walls.