Soul of Dragons, Page 2

  “Hold!” shouted Mazael. “Hold, damn you! There might be more of them!”

  “There weren't that many,” said Gerald, black blood dripping from his blade. Mazael saw him look through the lines to Rachel on her horse, heard him sigh in relief. “No more than two score, I think.”

  “And no more than eighty zuvembies,” said Romaria.

  “Did you ever see a Malrag shaman raise zuvembies?” said Mazael. She had fought against Malrags, years ago, before she had ever come to the Grim Marches. She knew more about them than anyone Mazael had met, save for Lucan Mandragon.

  Who was in no condition to answer questions.

  “No,” said Romaria. “And I never saw a Malrag shaman before Ultorin attacked the Grim Marches.”

  Mazael nodded, hand tightening around Lion's hilt. The blade's flames dimmed as the surviving Malrags retreated. Someone was commanding the Malrags, that was plain. A skilled wizard could take control of a Malrag band. Or a powerful Demonsouled, with a soul tainted by demon magic, could command Malrags with ease.

  Mazael himself could have commanded the Malrags, if he gave in to the dark power in his soul, let that seductive black strength consume him...

  No.

  But if a Demonsouled commanded the Malrags...that meant a Demonsouled with the ability to raise zuvembies. A Demonsouled wizard, then, able to use the dark power of his soul to fuel his spells. That gave Mazael pause. His father was the Old Demon, the eldest of the Demonsouled, a creature of terrible cunning and a wizard of crushing magical might. Mazael had defeated him once, but he knew his father had not forgotten him.

  Had the Old Demon come for him at last?

  “Circan,” said Mazael. The young wizard nodded, pale hair damp with sweat. He had taken no part in the battle, saving his spells in case the Malrag shamans attacked again. Lucan would have had the strength to unleash his spells in the battle, even as he deflected the shamans' lighting bolts.

  Mazael missed Lucan, both his aid and his counsel.

  “Aye, my lord?” said Circan.

  “Any more of them out there?” said Mazael.

  Circan rolled the wire-wrapped crystal through his fingers, eyelids fluttering. “There...yes. Perhaps a score of those deformed Malrags. And...” His eyes opened wide.

  “What is it?” said Mazael.

  “Four hundred of them,” said Circan. “Perhaps six miles away. Coming this way, quickly. My lord, they will be upon us within the hour.”

  Mazael cursed. Mounted men could take on a larger number of Malrags. Yet here, among the tangled roots and uneven ground of the Great Southern Forest, riding horses into battle was suicide. Four hundred Malrags would overwhelm Mazael's men, especially if the shamans unleashed their green lightning. Could Mazael break free, escape before the Malrags caught them? No, Malrags moved faster then men on foot.

  “We'll need to fortify,” said Gerald. “Find a strong place where the terrain works to our advantage, and fight the Malrags from a position of strength.”

  “We need more time than we have to fortify,” said Mazael, his mind racing. “We'll...”

  “Mazael,” said Romaria. “There is a ruined castle near here, from the kingdom of Old Dracaryl. It's been abandoned for years, but the walls still stand. We can fortify the gate, and hold out until we kill whatever balekhan or Demonsouled commands the Malrags.”

  “Can we make it in time?” said Mazael.

  “It's three miles southeast,” said Romaria. “Overlooking the stream we forded this morning. If we hasten, we can get there before the Malrags.”

  Mazael stared into the trees. They had encountered a few Malrag warbands since leaving Deepforest Keep, ragged groups of a few dozen, some still bearing wounds from Ultorin's crushing defeat. Four hundred Malrags aided by zuvembies and shamans was a far more dangerous foe. Mazael needed an edge.

  “Go,” said Mazael, ramming Lion into its scabbard and turning towards Hauberk.

  They rode to the southeast, taking the wounded with them and leaving the dead behind.

  Chapter 2 – Shadow Walk

  Water foamed around Hauberk's hooves.

  The stream was shallow, with a broad, wide bed. Romaria had chosen well. Even with the current against them, they made good time. Mazael looked at the trees lining the stream, shoulders itching beneath his armor. His men would make excellent targets for any archers, though the Malrags rarely used any kind of missile weapons.

  He thought of the deformed Malrags with the crimson veins in their flesh. Something had made them faster and stronger. Might they start using bows, as well?

  But no enemies showed themselves.

  An hour later they reached the ruined castle.

  It sat atop a stony hill overlooking the stream, its curtain wall a ring of lichen-dotted gray stone. A single square tower rose within the wall, its roof and one wall collapsed. The place looked uninhabitable, and the timbers of the gate had long ago rotted away. Yet the curtain wall remained strong, and Mazael could think of no better location to fend off the Malrags.

  Until they found the Demonsouled leading the Malrags, at any rate.

  “A good location for a keep,” said Gerald. “Hard to believe it lies abandoned.”

  Romaria shrugged. “Save for the men of Deepforest Keep, few humans live in the Great Southern Forest, and the Elderborn care nothing for the ruins of men. The old kingdom of Dracaryl perished in blood and dark magic, and most men think the ruins of Old Dracaryl are cursed.”

  “Cursed or not,” said Mazael, “it has a wall and a gate, and that's all that we need. Get the horses inside, and have the men chop down some trees to barricade the gate. Circan! How far away are they?”

  Circan's eyes moved behind closed lids. “An hour. Perhaps a little longer.”

  “Then let's put the time to good use,” said Mazael.

  They got to work. Some of Mazael's men moved the horses and the supplies into the curtain wall. Others carried the wounded within the ruined tower, where the walls would shelter them from any arrows. Still others took station on the wall with their bows, while fifty men went to work cutting down trees and dragging them to the gate. His men knew their business, and needed little supervision from Mazael. Yet he walked the ring of the wall anyway, Gerald at his side, praising those who had fought well in the battle. Men needed to know that their lord appreciated their efforts, that he would look to their well-being.

  He stopped in the shadow of the ruined tower, where Rachel stood alongside her horse, Aldane cradled in her arms.

  “I hoped we were done with Malrags,” said Rachel, her voice low. “Once Ultorin was dead.”

  “So did I,” said Mazael. “But we knew some Malrag warbands would roam the Great Southern Forest for years. This is just another of them.”

  But one led by a Demonsouled, or a wizard powerful enough to command Malrags.

  “Never fear, my lady,” said Gerald, kissing his wife on the cheek. “We shall smash this warband, just as we smashed Ultorin's Malrags below the walls of Deepforest Keep.”

  “And you slew Malavost,” said Mazael. He still could not believe Rachel had found the courage to attack the necromancer. “Perhaps we should seek your aid in the battle, sister.”

  She laughed. “Then truly our situation is dire.”

  Mazael paused. The horses bearing Lucan's cot stood a short distance away. Lucan himself lay upon the cot, eyes closed.

  He did not look at all well.

  In fact, he didn't look entirely human.

  Somehow Malavost had...twisted Lucan. His skin looked gray and sallow, dotted with tumor-like growths, black veins visible in his face. His arms and shoulders had grown heavy with new muscle, and the breath that rasped through his lips carried a vile stench, similar to rotting meat.

  He looked almost like a Malrag.

  Romaria had told him to kill Lucan, arguing that it would be a mercy. And even if Lucan recovered, even if he woke up, he might have been twisted into a monster. But Mazael would not do it.
Lucan had been a faithful ally and a loyal friend, and had saved Mazael's life more than once.

  And if Mazael could save Lucan's life in return, he would do it.

  He walked to the curtain wall, Gerald following.

  Romaria and Circan stood over the barricaded gate. Circan clutched his wire-wrapped crystal, sweat dripping down his face. Romaria held her bow in both hands, blue eyes gazing into the trees.

  “Anything?” said Mazael.

  Romaria lifted her face. “I can smell them.”

  “They're coming,” said Circan. “Soon.”

  “They'll have to come at the gate,” said Gerald. “The hill is too steep for an attack, and our men can shoot anyone climbing the sides.”

  “The zuvembies,” said Mazael. “Arrows won't hinder them, but fire will. Get a fire going, and have the archers ready to set their arrows aflame.”

  Gerald nodded and gave the orders. The men finished barricading the gate with fallen trees, and began building fires in the courtyard. Soon flames crackled below the walls, smoke rising over the weathered battlements. The knights and armsmen took position on the ramparts and below the barricaded gate, while the archers climbed to the battlements.

  A few moments later, Mazael saw the first zuvembies.

  They shuffled into sight, the ghostly fires in their eyes shining in the gloom of the forest. Then Malrags began to appear, one by one. First dozens of the larger, deformed Malrags with the strange crimson veins in their leathery hides. Then hundreds more of the sort that had invaded the Grim Marches, clad in their black armor, axes and spears ready in their hands. The Malrags stopped just out of arrow range.

  Which was proof that some powerful mind controlled them. Malrags, Lucan had told Mazael, had no free will. Though cunning and intelligent, bloodlust and hatred enslaved the dark spirits that inhabited their corrupted flesh. Left to their own devices, the Malrags would charge the ruined castle at once, eager to kill the men within. They had no need to fear death - if a Malrag was slain, its dark spirit would be reborn again in the hives below the Great Mountains.

  Or so Lucan had told Mazael.

  “What are they waiting for?” murmured Gerald. “Why don't they attack?”

  “Because,” said Mazael. “This is a show. Whoever is controlling those Malrags wants to intimidate us. I suspect that he'll put in appearance soon and make his demands...ah.”

  The ranks of the Malrags parted, and a man walked into sight. He was tall and slim, clad in black chain mail, with wheat-colored hair falling to his shoulders. A sword rested in a scabbard at his belt, and he moved with agile grace, the roots and rocks of the forest floor unable to hinder his balance. A black diadem rested on his brow, and Mazael saw a large green gem in its center.

  He could not have been older than twenty. And yet he seemed very...familiar. Mazael had never seen the man before. And yet, something about his face, about his poise...

  “Lord Mazael Cravenlock?” called the man. His voice was deep and strong, a voice for commanding armies.

  “Aye?” said Mazael, standing on the battlements. He drew Lion, blue flames dancing around the blade. The sword jolted in his hand, the way it did in the presence of powerful dark magic.

  The way it did in the presence of Demonsouled.

  Romaria's nostrils flared. “That's him. He's the one controlling the Malrags. I can smell it on him.”

  The man in black mail tilted his head to the side, regarding Mazael with a faint smile. “So you're the great Mazael Cravenlock. The conqueror of the Dominiars, the slayer of San-keth. You don't look nearly as impressive as I expected.”

  Something about him seemed familiar, so damnably familiar…

  “I did the defeat the Dominiars,” said Mazael, “and I have slain San-keth, and I killed Ultorin of the Dominiars with my own hand. But who are you? I see only a fool boy leading a rabble of Malrags and animated corpses.”

  For moment the man's eyes narrowed in rage, and then his confident smile returned.

  “I am Corvad,” said the man in black mail.

  “Are you, now?” said Mazael. “That’s no name I've heard.”

  “You’ll remember it, soon enough,” said Corvad. “You'll scream it as you die.”

  Circan leaned closer.

  “His diadem,” hissed the wizard. “It's enchanted with potent necromancy. I think that's what raised the zuvembies.”

  “Are you going to threaten me?” said Mazael. “Demand that I surrender myself? Or promise to be merciful, if only I lay down my sword?”

  Corvad's smirk widened. “Certainly not. You're going to die, Mazael Cravenlock. You'll see everyone you love die in front of you first.” His eyes widened, as if the thought excited him, and he strode forward. “You'll hear them scream, you'll...”

  “Oh, shut up,” said Romaria.

  Her hands blurred, and before Mazael realized what had happened, she put an arrow into the air. Corvad's boast came to a strangled end as Romaria's shaft plunged into his throat and out the back of his neck. His hands shot to his throat, and a heartbeat later Romaria put another arrow into his chest, the steel head plunging through the gap in his mail below his armpit. Corvad fell, eyes bulging with rage, blood splashing across his armor.

  “That was...direct,” said Circan, blinking.

  “Better to kill him now,” said Romaria, “then to let him do harm in the future.”

  Corvad clawed at the air, beckoning.

  The Malrags surged forward, bellowing their war cries. The zuvembies burst into motion, their clawed hands and feet ripping at the ground. The Malrags raced up the path to the gate, while the zuvembies ascended the side of the hill. Watching their claws sink into the earth of the hill, Mazael realized the zuvembies could simply climb the stone curtain wall.

  “Archers!” shouted Mazael. “Take the Malrags! Knights and armsmen!” He ran down the ramparts, spreading Lion’s azure fire to the blades of his men. “The zuvembies! Take them!”

  The archers sent volley after volley into the charging Malrags, Romaria standing in their midst, and the zuvembies pulled themselves over the battlements as Mazael set the swords of his men ablaze. He whirled and took the head from the first zuvembie within reach. The undead thing collapsed in a puff of dust. Around him the knights and armsmen struck down zuvembie after zuvembie, even as the men in the courtyard struggled against the Malrags trying to break through the barricaded gate.

  Mazael risked a glimpse over the battlements and saw Corvad stand up, pulling Romaria's arrows from his flesh. Even as Mazael watched, the ghastly wound in Corvad's neck shrank.

  Healing.

  Corvad was truly Demonsouled.

  Why he had come to the Great Southern Forest, why he had taken command of these Malrags, Mazael didn't know. But he knew this fight would not be over until Corvad had been slain.

  Then three zuvembies flung themselves at him, and Mazael had no thought to spare for anything but battle.

  ###

  Molly stood in the shadows of the trees, wrapped in her cloak, and watched the battle rage below the ruined castle.

  She stood with three of Corvad's pet Malrags. The creatures had once been Malrag shamans, capable of wielding potent spells, the third eye in their foreheads blazing with green light. Then Corvad had ordered all three to swallow a single drop of his demon-tainted blood, and the Malrag shamans changed into something worse, something stronger.

  Malrag warlocks.

  Now pulsing crimson veins crawled through their pallid gray flesh, and their third eyes flickered with the sullen red light of a smith’s forge. Corvad’s blood enhanced their magical powers, and the creatures could no do things that no Malrag shaman could do. Things that no wizard could do.

  Save for Molly's grandfather, of course.

  She watched as Corvad limped his way through the lines of the Malrags, rubbing his throat.

  “That was foolish, brother,” Molly said. “To go within range of the walls. Our grandfather warned us about Mazael's woman.
She almost made you into a pincushion.”

  Corvad stared at her, gray eyes narrowed, and she felt his rage like the heat of a furnace upon her face. Corvad was Demonsouled, and normal men trembled at his wrath, but Molly met his gaze without flinching.

  After all, she was just as strong as he was.

  Corvad scowled, but looked away. The gem in his black diadem of his flashed as he did so, the same green light that danced in the zuvembies’ eyes. A useful toy, that diadem. Their grandfather had told him where to find it.

  Along with a few other useful things.

  “They're going to lose, you know,” said Molly. “Your pets. Mazael picked too strong a location. You won't be able to beat his men.”

  “I know,” said Corvad. “The Malrags are expendable. Ultorin brought tens of thousands of them out of the Great Mountains, and the zuvembies are easily replaced.”

  Molly shrugged as another volley of arrows cut down the front rank of Malrags below the curtain wall. The drops of Corvad's blood had made the infused Malrag warriors stronger and faster, even as it trebled their bloodlust and cruelty. Yet infused Malrags could die just as quickly as the normal ones.

  “Go,” said Corvad. “Mazael and his men are distracted. You'll get in and out easily.”

  Molly glared at him.

  Corvad's eyes narrowed, but his tone softened, if barely. “This is your best chance to claim what we came to take. And if you're successful, you'll be that much closer to making Mazael pay for what he has done. For what he did to Nicholas.”

  Rage erupted through Molly, so hot and fierce that it felt as if her blood burned in her veins...