Soul of Dragons (27 page)

Not that it would hinder Molly's ability to walk through the shadows. 

But they would have to walk to Arylkrad, and moving that many Malrags and zuvembies through the mountains would prove difficult. 

But the effort was necessary. With the Glamdaigyr, Corvad would turn Lucan into the abomination of a Malrag Queen. He would raise a horde of infused Malrags and burn the Grim Marches to ashes. And then he would become the Destroyer, and rule over the world.

Molly didn't care about that. She only wanted to make Mazael Cravenlock suffer as she had suffered.

Before she killed him.

Restless, she strode into the shadows. 

She reappeared in the ruined manor house. Corvad stood over his table, gazing at the map. His pet warlocks waited motionless in the corners. Lucan Mandragon still lay against the wall, his misshapen limbs thrashing and twitching. 

“Sister,” said Corvad. He wore his black armor and plate, a dark shadow looming over the table. “So good of you to deign to join us.”

“I got bored,” said Molly. 

“This should hold your interest. I have found the best route to Arylkrad,” said Corvad, tapping the map Molly had taken from the temple. 

Molly squinted at the map for a moment, and then grunted. “Looks dangerous.”

“Almost certainly,” said Corvad. “We face the risk of dragon attacks and wild Malrag warbands roving through the mountains. Though if we encounter Malrags, I will simply take control of them. And for dragons,” he touched the black diadem about his brow, “I will deal with them, as well.” 

“As you say,” said Molly.

“Fear not, sister,” said Corvad. “Soon enough, we shall reach Arylkrad. The Glamdaigyr will be mine, and we shall have a Malrag Queen at our disposal. Then you shall have your revenge upon Mazael Cravenlock.”

 A moan reached her ears, and Molly spun, sword flying into her hand. But it was only Lucan Mandragon, thrashing and muttering in the depths of his stupor. 

Corvad gave an ugly laugh. “Jumping at shadows, sister?”

Molly sneered. “I've lived this long by taking proper caution, brother.”

“Yes, you are a master of perception,” said Corvad.

Molly sheathed her sword and gazed at Lucan a moment. “Look at the fool. He seems trapped within a nightmare.”

Corvad shrugged. “Perhaps he is.” 

Molly turned her back on Lucan. “If he knew what you planned to do to him, I wonder if he would be more terrified of that or of the nightmare.” 

Corvad snorted. “Perhaps you'll find out, one day.” 

A new voice answered, sonorous with a sardonic edge. “You'll both find out.”

Molly whirled, drawing her sword, and Corvad did the same.

A man stood over Lucan, clad in wool and leather, a ragged brown cloak hanging from his shoulders. He was in his middle fifties, with a lean face and gray-shot brown hair. He had gray eyes the color of sword blades, cold and icy.

Gray eyes that glimmered with a rime of red fire. 

Corvad fell to one knee, laying his sword across his leg. “Grandfather.” 

Molly knelt as well, though not as fast. “Grandfather.”

The Old Demon gazed at them for a moment.

“Rise,” he said at last.

Corvad climbed to his feet, as did Molly. She kept her eyes on their grandfather. The Old Demon had come to them as children, during their training with the Skulls, and told him the truth of their heritage. He taught them to use their Demonsouled power and showed Molly how to walk through the shadows. And it was the Old Demon who had formed them into weapons, into tools to use against his enemies.

Molly had rebelled against him, fleeing until she came to Northreach. Where she met Nicholas Tormaud, and tried to forget the past. But then Mazael murdered Nicholas, and Corvad came to her, offering to take her back. 

So Molly had gone. She had nowhere else to go, after all. 

“My grandchildren,” said the Old Demon, smiling the cold smile of a hungry wolf. “Tell me. Have you been successful?”

“We have, grandfather,” said Corvad. “We have Lucan Mandragon. And now we know where to find Arylkrad and the Glamdaigyr.” 

“Good,” said the Old Demon. “Very good. Go to Arylkrad and claim the Glamdaigyr. Create the Malrag Queen, using the ritual I taught you. Then raise the Malrag horde and destroy the Grim Marches. Do this, and I will name you the Destroyer, and the world shall be yours.”

“Yes,” said Corvad. “It shall be as you say. I am strong enough. I am worthy enough. I will show you, and you will name me the Destroyer.” 

Molly heard the devotion in Corvad's voice, and her lip curled in contempt. Corvad liked to boast how he would rule the world, but in the Old Demon's presence, he turned into a cringing dog. 

“And you, my daughter,” said the Old Demon, his red-glinting eyes shifting to Molly. “What of you?”

Molly shrugged. “Rule the world. Or destroy it. I don't care.”

Corvad laughed. “All she wants is revenge.”

“No,” said Old Demon and Molly at once.

Molly lifted an eyebrow. “So what do I want?”

“You wanted Nicholas,” said the Old Demon, his voice quiet.

Molly said nothing. 

“But since you can't have him,” said the Old Demon, “you want to see the world burn.” 

“Yes,” hissed Molly.

“And you shall, I promise it,” said the Old Demon. "Go. The Glamdaigyr awaits you.”

An instant later he was gone. He, too, could walk through the shadows...but his skill far exceeded Molly's. 

“I will be worthy,” said Corvad to the empty air. “I will prove that I am strong. I will be the Destroyer.” 

“You trust in him too much,” said Molly.

Corvad scowled. “He is the Old Demon. You do not fear him enough.”

“I fear him just fine,” said Molly. “But I do not trust him. He regards us as tools, Corvad. As weapons. If we fail him, he will cast us aside in a moment.”

“He only casts aside the weak!” said Corvad. “And I am not weak! You might be weak, sister, but I am not. I am strong, and I will prove to our grandfather that I am strong.”

Molly scowled. Corvad was a fool. But perhaps he knew something that Molly did not. Corvad wanted to become the Destroyer. Molly only wanted to kill her father. 

And then? What did she have to live for then? 

“Come,” said Corvad. “We have a great deal to go.” 

They left the ruined village an hour later, walking at the head of the Malrags. Four Malrags carried Lucan between them, lashed to a cot. Molly gazed at the mountains.

“Mazael will probably follow us, you know,” said Molly.

“Then we'll simply kill him,” said Corvad.

“Yes,” said Molly. “I will.”

Chapter 22 - Castle Highgate

Four days from Castle Cravenlock, the plains ended and the foothills began. 

Along with the ruined villages. 

There had been mining towns in the foothills of the Great Mountains, but Ultorin's Malrags had destroyed most of them, and Mazael and his men rode through ruin after ruin, picking their way around bleached bones and burned-out houses. From time to time they passed villages that had by skill or chance survived. Most of them sheltered behind stone walls both tall and thick, militiamen watching with suspicious eyes as Mazael's men rode past. 

“Gods,” said Gerald. “I thought things were bad enough near Castle Cravenlock. I didn't realize the eastern Grim Marches had been so devastated.”

Mazael shook his head. “The Malrags fell out of the mountains like a storm. When that first warband attacked Cravenlock Town, they had already destroyed dozens of villages.”

“Aye,” said Kjalmir. “We Arminiars keep close watch over the Great Northern Waste. Yet we are too few, and we cannot be everywhere, and sometimes Malrag warbands slip past us. And when they do, they attack the villages of Northreach.” He sighed. “Entire regions of Northreach that have been depopulated, save for bones and crows. Monuments to our failures.”

“Still,” said Mazael, “from what I understand, no Malrags have been seen south of Northreach before Ultorin's attack. Were it not for the vigilance of your Order, the entire realm might have been laid waste by Malrags.” 

“Thank you, Lord Mazael,” said Kjalmir. “Often we feel that the southerners have forgot us.”

“I did,” said Mazael. “Until this year I had only a vague notion of the Arminiars and the Malrags were only a legend. To my sorrow, I know better now.” He gripped Lion's hilt. “Once this business is over, I shall send what aid I can to the Arminiars, in repayment for your assistance against Corvad.” 

“You are gracious,” said Kjalmir.

They traveled the rest of the day, and saw no sign of the Malrags, save for the dead villages the warbands had left in their wake.

###

The next day, they reached Castle Highgate itself. 

The castle sat high in the foothills, guarding the entrance to the High Pass. Three concentric rings of stone wall, each higher than the next, surrounded a massive drum-shaped keep bristling with ballistae and catapults. It was one of the strongest castles in the Grim Marches, and during Ultorin's invasion, ten thousand Malrags had broken against its walls. 

“Run up the banners!” Mazael ordered as his men climbed the path to the castle. “Let Lord Robert know that we're here.” 

The standardbearers obeyed, raising the banners. The black of the Cravenlocks, marked with three crossed silver swords. The blue of the Rolands, adorned with the sigil of a silver greathelm. And the crimson of the Knights Arminiar, marked with their eight-pointed star. 

The castle's gates swung open, the portcullis rattling up, and a band of horsemen rode forth, flying the banner of the Highgates, a white field with a sigil of a castle gate atop a mountain. Lord Robert himself rode at their head. He had grown stout, and his chain mail made him look like a steel pear. Nevertheless, he knew how to lead men, and how to win in battle.

The chain of Malrag claws dangling from his belt proved that. 

The two parties reined up, and Lord Robert cast a half-amused, half-curious look over Mazael.

“Mazael,” said Robert. “My leg aches, you know.”

“Then you should have covered it better,” said Mazael. Years ago, when they were squires, Mazael had broken Robert's leg during a sparring match. 

“I'm surprised to see you're still alive,” said Robert. “You rode south with two hundred men to chase after Ultorin and a hundred thousand Malrags. You were victorious, I trust?”

“Ultorin's host broke against the walls of Deepforest Keep,” said Mazael. “I slew Ultorin with my own hands and shattered his bloodsword, and Lady Rachel slew Malavost.” 

“Rachel?” said Robert, astonished. “Your sister? Sir Gerald's wife? She slew a wizard of power?”

Gerald gave him a chilly smile. “He shouldn't have taken our son.”

“Apparently not,” said Robert, turning his attention back to Mazael. “I assume you're chasing that peculiar Malrag warband?” 

“Aye,” said Mazael. “You've seen them?”

“Three days ago, heading into the pass,” said Robert. 

Mazael nodded, pleased. Corvad was only three days ahead of them. They had made better time then he had expected.

“We should talk,” said Robert. “Come, let us speak in some comfort.”

###

They settled in Robert's solar, a room high in the keep that had a fine view of the High Pass. Mazael, Gerald, Romaria, Kjalmir, and the wizards sat at the table, while serving maids brought in platters of food and drink.

Tymaen Highgate, Robert's wife, supervised the serving women.

Mazael had never met her, though he had heard the pain in Lucan's voice when he spoke of her. She was Lucan's age, no more than twenty-three or twenty-four, with long blond hair and large blue eyes. There was a...coldness in her expression that reminded Mazael of Lucan. If Lucan had told the truth, she had fled from him, marrying Robert Highgate after Marstan's attack. Mazael wondered what Robert thought of that, or if he cared. 

Tymaen met his gaze for a moment, face expressionless, and then withdrew with the maids. 

“So,” said Robert. “Tell me of this Malrag warband.”

“It's under the control of a Demonsouled named Corvad,” said Mazael. “He's going into the Great Mountains in pursuit of a relic of Old Dracaryl.”

“Fool,” snorted Robert. “No one in their right mind goes into the Great Mountains. Too many dragons. Too many horrors left over from Dracaryl. Sometimes a poor knight goes into the mountains, hoping to slay a dragon and win glory. Lord Richard did it, when we were boys. Toraine Mandragon did it, a few years ago. Save for them, I have seen no one stray from the High Pass and return alive.”

“Nevertheless, I must pursue Corvad,” said Mazael. He took a deep breath. “He has Lucan Mandragon with him, and Lucan was...twisted by Malavost's magic. Corvad can use the relic to transform Lucan into a Malrag Queen.” 

Robert snorted. “A Queen? The Malrags don't rut. They don't have the organs for it. I've seen enough of them dead for that.” 

Timothy coughed. “It's a...misleading term, my lord. The Malrags are spawned, growing in the flesh of a Malrag Queen like tumors. And the relic will grant Corvad the power to turn Lucan into such a creature.” 

Robert laughed. “Gods, my wife will cringe to hear that. Her lost love turned into a Malrag-spawning horror? I shouldn't be surprised. I always told Tymaen the fool would come to a bad end, though she still had hope he would repent.”

Gerald blinked in surprise. “That doesn't trouble you, my lord? That your wife is in love with another man?”

Robert snorted. “Tymaen is obedient, and spreads her legs when I bid her. What more does a man need in a wife? Besides,” he grimaced, “she thought the Dragon's Shadow might give up dark magic and come to rescue her. Like something out of bard's song. I knew it would never happen. Once a wizard goes bad, he stays bad. He doesn't getter better. Usually, he gets worse, and we have to put him down before he unleashes monsters upon the peasants or starts murdering virgins in black rites.”

Timothy nodded, and Kjalmir sighed. “I fear you may be right, my lord. I have seen that very tale play out in Northreach.”