Soul of Dragons (12 page)

Lucan had driven back the reapers before. But here, trapped in the church, they could harry him until his strength failed, and then they would kill him.

Or, to judge from the creature hanging from the chain, they would do worse than kill him. 

He had to alter the odds.

Lucan thrust his hand towards the ceiling, all his power and will flowing into the next spell. The psychokinetic blast hammered into the dome like a thunderbolt, ripping it to a spray of rock shards. Lucan hooked his fingers, and his will caught the shards, sent them hurtling at the charging reapers. The rock chunks slammed into the creatures, knocking them to the ground.

Their bodies dissolved into reeking black smoke. 

But the surviving reapers scrambled over the rubble. Lucan lashed out with psychokinetic blasts, driving them back, but one of the reapers got close enough to rake him with pale claws. Lucan tried to dodge, but the claws tore through the skin of his shoulder. 

Droplets of his blood fell against the flagstone floor, soaking through the cracks.

And Lucan felt power surge from the earth and into him. 

Power like iron, burning like molten stone. Lucan's weariness vanished, his weariness fell away, and the wounds on his shoulder closed. The remaining reapers froze in place, gazing at him with fear, and Lucan drew upon the newfound power. A symbol written in lines of crimson fire appeared on his palm, and the sigil's fiery light fell upon the reapers. The nearest three burst into flames, crumbling into stinking black ash, while the few survivors fled. Lucan laughed, climbing over the rubble of the dome and striding down the church's stairs. He would hunt down the reapers one by one, make them scream and weep and beg for mercy...

The power drained from Lucan, and left behind only corruption.

He fell to his hands and knees and retched, body shaking with cramps. Long, painful moments later, he looked up, blinking.

The reapers were gone. 

He heard the clank of a chain. 

Lucan got to his feet, looking into the church. 

The creature hanging from the chain, the thing with his features, gazed at him with burning eyes. For a terrible instant, Lucan felt drawn to the thing, pulled towards it, like iron filings towards a lodestone. 

Like the creature was a part of him.

It grinned at him, black tongue rasping over jagged yellow teeth, and vanished in a swirl of black smoke. The empty chain swung back and forth over the coals, gleaming in the red light. 

Lucan stared at it for a moment, and then staggered down the stairs.

Mattias waited for him in the street, worn cloak billowing in the moaning wind.

“This isn't real,” said Lucan, “is it?”

Mattias grinned. “Real, you say? What is reality?”

Lucan growled. “I am sick to death of games.”

He focused his will and cast the spell to read the thoughts of another, directing it at Mattias. 

And the spell crashed against a ward like a wall of molten iron. Lucan stumbled back a few steps as his spell rebounded through his mind. That ward had been powerful beyond anything Lucan could have cast himself, even with the aid of the bloodstaff. 

Mattias lifted one eyebrow. 

“That,” he said, red fire glimmering in his eyes, “was an exceedingly bad idea. I ought to shatter your mind into a thousand little pieces. But that would be so very wasteful.” 

“You're real enough,” said Lucan. “That ward proves it. What is this, then?” He waved his hand at the village, the dead forest, everything. “Is this all your illusion? Some sort of game?”

“Bah,” said Mattias. “What a tedious mind you have. Is this all real? If you mean physically real, materially really...then no, of course not.” He grinned, the red fire in his eyes glimmering. “But more things are real than just material objects. Mortal men are both flesh and spirit.”

“Flesh and spirit,” said Lucan. “Then...this is the spirit world?”

“Should I tell you?” said Mattias. “Well...you've survived this far, perhaps you deserve some of the truth. Why not? Yes, this is the spirit world.”

That would explain why Lucan's summoning spells failed.

“Is this hell?” said Lucan.

“It's certainly not paradise,” said Mattias. “But you're not in hell. Or one of the hells. Not yet, anyway. Probably because you're not yet dead.”

“Then you brought me here,” said Lucan.

“I most certainly did not,” said Mattias. “You did it to yourself. You were using a bloodstaff, weren't you?”

Lucan said nothing. 

“Forged in the blood of a powerful Demonsouled,” said Mattias. “Mazael Cravenlock himself, most likely. Did you tell him about it? No? I doubt it. You needed all that raw power, never mind that...”

“It was necessary,” said Lucan. “We faced powerful enemies. Without the bloodstaff's strength to augment my own, I could not face them.” 

“And the bloodstaff served you so well when you faced your enemies, didn't it?” said Mattias. “You triumphed decisively over Malavost.” He smiled. “Or the bloodstaff eroded the defenses of your mind until Malavost could take control of you, force you to kill the Elderborn Seer, and then make the staff explode in your hands. I forget which.” 

Again Lucan said nothing. Mattias's description of the battle, and of Lucan's errors, was all too accurate.

“Children that play with fire,” said Mattias, “get burned.” 

“How do you know what happened?” said Lucan.

“Oh, Malavost was another student of a student of mine,” said Mattias. “Like you. And a good teacher keeps track of his wayward students.”

“Fine. I am here entirely through my fault and not some game of yours,” said Lucan. “This is the spirit world. I am not, apparently, yet dead. Why?”

Mattias studied him for a moment. “When the bloodstaff's power backlashed through you, it did not kill you. It twisted you, yes. But it did not kill your physical body. It did, however, sunder your soul from your flesh. Currently, you are trapped here, in the spirit world,” he gestured at the silent village and the dead forest, “in a domain of your own making, made up from your own memories.” 

“And why are you here?” said Lucan.

“Entertainment, of course,” said Mattias. “Watching you struggle to escape has been most stimulating.” 

“And how do I escape?” said Lucan.

“I told you,” said Mattias. He pointed at the black city on the distant mountain. “Your answers lie there. I strongly suggest that you get moving. Just because your mortal body hasn't yet died doesn't mean that it is invincible. And there are several people with a keen interest in obtaining your mortal flesh. It turns out that you can do all sorts of interesting things with blood tainted by Demonsouled corruption.” 

“The reapers,” said Lucan. “What are they?”

Mattias grinned, gray eyes glinting with red light. “You drew Demonsouled power into your flesh, over and over. Where did you think all that power would go, exactly?”

Something crackled behind Lucan.

He whirled up, half-expecting to see the reapers or his deformed duplicate. But the church was empty. Again he heard the crackling noise, and realized it came from the dying coals. 

Lucan cursed, and when he turned around, Mattias was gone.

Of course.

He stared at the empty street for a moment, struggling against the growing unease. He was in a great deal of danger. His body no doubt still lay in the Garden of the Temple at Deepforest Keep, and he had no way of knowing how much time had passed in the physical world. If Ultorin broke through the walls, the Malrags would kill Lucan as soon as they found his body.

And then he would be trapped here forever. 

Well, not forever. Only until the reapers found him. If Mattias was right, if they were the manifestations of the Demonsouled power Lucan had stolen, they would never stop hunting him.

Assuming Mattias wasn't lying. 

What did he want from Lucan? Doubtless his advice had a price. And Lucan suspected that “Mattias” was not his real name.

He wondered if Mattias was even human.

But Mattias was right - Lucan had to get moving. He could not stay here. Sooner or later the reapers would overpower him...or someone would kill Lucan's physical body in the material world.

He left the village and walked towards the mountain and the black city.

Chapter 10 – Vengeance

Corvad was not pleased.

“All of them?” he said, almost shouting. 

Molly gave an indifferent shrug. “As far as I know. Mazael and those Arminiars had killed most of them by the time I made it to the mistgate.”

She and Corvad stood on a cliff, an icy wind whipping around them. Corvad liked to move every few days, traveling via mistgate to a new location. Considering the number of people who wanted to kill him, it was a sensible precaution. This time Corvad had chosen a long-abandoned mining village high in the foothills of the Great Mountains, just below the tree line. It was as far into the mountains as Corvad could go. 

At least via mistgate. Mistgates did not work in the Great Mountains. 

“You got all the Malrags killed?” said Corvad. His gray eyes looked colder and harder than the sides of the mountains. “All seven hundred of them? And all four of the Ogrags?” 

“You're the one who sent the Malrags through the mistgate, brother,” said Molly. "And you chose not to lead them. That is hardly my doing.” She smirked. “Were you afraid of catching more arrows in the throat?” 

Corvad's scowl sharpened, and for a moment Molly was certain that he would attack her. Let the fool try! So close to the cliff, she would pull them both off. Corvad would plummet to his death, while Molly walked the shadows to safety.

She doubted that even Demonsouled healing could handle a thousand-foot fall. 

“The Malrags were sent to distract the townsmen,” said Corvad, “so you could steal the books. I did not send them to get slaughtered!”

“So?” said Molly.

“So?” said Corvad. “Do you know how much time it took to create that many infused Malrags? And with that fool Kjalmir on our trail, we shall need every Malrag we can find!” 

“Infused or not, Malrags are only tools,” said Molly. “Go dominate some more and infuse them. Or raise more zuvembies with that diadem of yours.”

“Grandfather will be displeased,” said Corvad.

Molly laughed. “Grandfather does not care about the Malrags, and nor should you. Besides, you didn't know that Mazael would be there in person.”

“No,” said Corvad, the rage in his eyes sharpening. “No, I didn't. It will take more than Malrags to kill him.”

“I will kill him,” said Molly. Suddenly her rage matched Corvad's. “For what he did to me. For what he did to Nicholas.” 

“Those were my Malrags,” said Corvad, voice quiet and hard. “You shouldn't have wasted them.” 

She met Corvad's glare with one of her own. He looked angrier than she had ever seen him. And over some Malrags? He had hardly cared about their losses at the ruined castle. Uneasiness threaded into Molly’s rage. Powerful Demonsouled often went insane, descending into homicidal mania. 

Had Corvad lost control of himself at last? 

“If you're going to kill me,” said Molly, “wait until I've killed Mazael first. I don't care what happens after that.” 

Corvad blinked, and something like sanity returned to his face. “Yes. I do want to kill things, sister. And our grandfather promised we could kill thousands, if we only listened to him.” He blinked again. “The books?”

Molly handed him the two ancient books she had taken from the church of Cravenlock Town.

“Good,” said Corvad, turning from the cliff. “Come.” 

She had nothing better to do, so she followed him. 

Malrags and a few Ogrags wandered through the ruined village, indifferent to both the cold wind and the occasional flake of drifting snow. All that remained of the village was a maze of stone walls, the doors and roofs having long since perished. Corvad walked into the wreckage of the village's manor house. Part of the roof was still intact, sheltering his collection of books and scrolls. Lucan Mandragon lay against one wall, limbs twitching, eyes trembling behind closed lids. 

The Malrag warlocks stood in the corner, the crimson glow of their third eyes staining the rough stone a pale red. 

“Why did you want those books, anyway?” said Molly. 

“They're histories,” said Corvad, seating himself at the scorched table. He'd had the Malrags carry it through the mistgate. “A copy of the chronicles of Old Dracaryl. Incomplete, of course. Most of the books of Dracaryl were lost in the dark magic that devoured their kingdom. But it may be enough.” He tapped a pair of scrolls. “Arylkrad is mentioned in both of these scrolls, in a record of the tribute the barbarian tribes across the mountains paid to the high lords of Dracaryl. Between that, and the book, I should be able to find what I seek.”  

His voice changed as he spoke, becoming almost passionate. Her brother enjoyed history, enjoyed studying it for its own sake. Had their mother not died, had the Skulls not taken them, Corvad could have made an excellent scholar.

Had they not been Demonsouled. 

Molly wondered what her life would have been like had she not been cursed with demon-tainted blood.

Might Nicholas still be alive? 

“Am I boring you?” said Corvad. The anger was back. 

Molly gave an indifferent shrug. “You were always one for old books, brother. I have different amusements.”

“There is power in these old books,” said Corvad. He lifted his black diadem from a corner of the table. It had been fashioned in the shape of a dragon wrapped around the wearer’s head, a massive emerald nestled in the dragon's claws. The stone was dark now, but when Corvad wore it, the gem would flicker with ghostly green light. “Great power. The high lords of Dracaryl were wizards of might. Their spells commanded the dragons themselves, and their magic raised armies of the dead.” 

“Little good their power did them,” said Molly. “They were devoured by their own dark magic, in the end.”

Corvad scoffed. “Because they were fools. We are the Demonsouled, sister. Power is our birthright. The high lords of Dracaryl proved unworthy of their power. I shall claim their power from their ruins, and the world shall be mine.”