Soul of Dragons (34 page)

-Name yourself, intruder. Are you an emissary of the master-

Corvad laughed. “I do not parley with Malrags.”

-Name yourself. Are you an emissary of the master-

Corvad drew himself up. “I am Corvad, a grandchild of the Old Demon, and I have come to claim your master's sword, the Glamdaigyr. It is mine, and with it I shall become the Destroyer and rule the world.” 

-Then you are not an emissary of the master-

“Your master has been dust for centuries,” said Corvad, raising his hand, “and I am your master now. Attend! Take me to the chamber of the Glamdaigyr.”

For a moment the Seneschal swayed, as if caught in a strong wind. Then the Malrag shaman shook itself, and lifted its staff.

-You are not the master. I need not obey you-

Molly blinked in astonishment. The Malrags were nothing more than demon spirits housed in crude bodies of spawned flesh. They had no free will of their own, and a Demonsouled of sufficient power could control them with ease. Molly could do it herself, though she found the Malrags loathsome and preferred not to control them. And she had seen Corvad do it hundreds of times.

Never had she seen him fail.

She drew upon the dark fire within herself and reached for the Malrag's mind, only to find her touch blocked by something like an iron wall.

“Brother,” she said, voice low. “I think there's a spell binding them to the High Lord of Arylkrad. I don't think you can control them.”

“Absurd,” said Corvad. “They are only Malrags! I shall...”

One of the warlocks gestured. 

-She speaks truly, great one. You will need to break the spells, ere you can take control of them-

The Seneschal lifted its staff, green light flaring around its staff.

-Kill the intruders. All of them-

The ancient Malrags loosed their hideous war cries and surged forward, lifting swords of crimson steel. 

For a moment Molly stood stunned. She and Corvad were Demonsouled! The Malrags could not lift their hand against them. Yet the red-armored Malrags charged, flanked by the ebony dead, and the Seneschal leveled its staff at Molly, the green light glowing brighter.

That broke her stupor.

She spun into the shadows and reappeared a dozen yards away, just as green lightning ripped from the Seneschal's staff, blasting chunks of red-hot stone from the floor. 

Corvad bellowed in rage, pointing his sword. 

“Kill them!” he shouted, the gem in his diadem flaring. “Kill them all!”

The infused Malrags howled and attacked, and the zuvembies raced forward, claws clacking against the black floor. Corvad charged the enemy, while the warlocks began casting spells of their own. 

Molly drew her sword and stepped into the shadows. She reappeared behind a Malrag, and her sword flashed out, slicing across its throat. The black slime of the creature's blood slid across its crimson armor, and it fell. The nearest ancient Malrags turned to attack her, and Molly jumped back into the shadows. She reappeared behind another ancient Malrag and struck it down, and then another, and another. 

Corvad's attack was not nearly so subtle.

But far more deadly. 

He tore into the Malrags like a whirlwind of steel. Molly's blood had given her the power to walk through the shadows, but Corvad's bestowed superhuman strength and speed. And with that power he ripped into the Malrags, his sword dripping thick black blood. Even as Molly watched, in a half-dozen heartbeats he killed a dozen Malrags. The ancient Malrags tried to strike him down, but he dodged their blows with the grace and power of a hunting cat, and the few thrusts that got through his defenses only skidded off his armor. 

The warlocks cast their spells, and green lightning thundered from their claws, slicing through a score of Malrags. Molly saw the Seneschal standing beneath a pillar, casting a spell of its own. The crimson-armored Malrags obeyed the ancient creature. Perhaps if Molly slew the shaman, Corvad could take control of the other Malrags.

She strode into the shadows and reappeared next to the Seneschal, sword drawn back for a thrust.

But the Seneschal whirled, far quicker than Molly thought such a withered thing could move, and her blade clanged against its staff. She sidestepped, her sword whipping for the Seneschal's throat, and the shaman vanished in a swirl of darkness. 

Molly frowned. A Malrag could walk through the shadows? The warlocks had claimed the longer a Malrag shaman lived, the more powerful it grew, but...

The click of bone against the floor was her only warning. 

Molly whirled, trying to step into the shadows, but the blow came too fast. A mace struck her hip with wrenching force, and she bounced off the pillar. She caught her balance, and saw six of the ebony dead surrounding her, no doubt summoned by the Seneschal. Molly lashed out, but her blade skidded off the black bones, and a sword slipped past her guard, digging a gash along her side. She gasped with the pain, and tried to walk into the shadows, but a shield slammed across her face and broke her concentration. 

Her injured leg gave out beneath her, and Molly fell, head bouncing off the hard floor. Stars swam before her eyes, and she saw the ebony dead swarm around her, weapons raised for the kill. 

So this was how it would end.

She wished she had seen Nicholas one more time.

“No!”

Green light filled her vision, and burning chunks of the ebony dead flew in all directions. Then she saw Corvad, his sword a blur, his blows striking the black skeletons hard enough to shatter them.

A moment later it was over. Molly felt her wounds crawl as her Demonsouled essence healed them, and she staggered back to her feet. Corvad stood over her, sword drawn. 

“Did you kill the Seneschal?” said Molly.

“No,” said Corvad, his face tight with anger. “The damned thing fled. We were winning, and the old shaman and the rest of the ancient Malrags withdrew.” Malrags, both ancient and infused, littered the floor, along with the wreckage of zuvembies and the ebony dead. “I'll deal with it, once I have the Glamdaigyr.”

A stab of pain went up her hip, and Molly winced.

“You're wounded,” said Corvad. For a moment concern flooded his expression. “Mortally?”

“No,” said Molly. “No. It's painful, but it will heal shortly.”

“Good,” said Corvad. “Good. I don't want you hurt. You're very important to me.”

Molly blinked, for a moment so touched that she was almost moved to tears. Then her mind reasserted itself. Corvad detested her. He regarded her as a means to an end. But he had only needed her to find a map to Arylkrad, and now the Glamdaigyr was almost within his grasp.

“Why do you still care if I live or die?” said Molly. 

Corvad shrugged. “Can a brother not desire the company of his sister?” 

Molly laughed,

“Because you are still useful to me," said Corvad. "And if you don't believe me, I will prove it soon enough. Now, follow me. The Glamdaigyr will soon be mine.”

Molly's lip twisted. Ever and always, Corvad regarded her as a tool.

Only Nicholas had loved her. Only Nicholas. 

And Mazael had taken him from her.

She walked with Corvad across the pillared chamber, alongside the Malrags carrying Lucan Mandragon. 

Chapter 27 – Oracles

“He's here,” said Mazael, Lion in his fist, shield on his left arm. 

The gates of Arylkrad's outer wall lay in broken ruin, and Mazael saw the marks of axes upon them. No doubt Corvad had simply commanded his Malrags to hack their way inside. 

“Yes,” said Romaria, bow in hand. “I can smell him.” 

Timothy and Circan walked to their side.

“Well?” said Mazael. 

Timothy blinked up at the castle. “There is are numerous spells of tremendous power within the castle, my lord.”

Mazael strode through the gates and into Arylkrad's courtyard, the others following, weapons in hand. The bulk of the black castle loomed over them, its slender towers rising like spears against the sky, the great dome like a vast shield. The doors to the keep stood open, revealing a long corridor. 

Several charred shapes rested at the base of the stairs to the keep. 

“Malrags,” said Romaria, sniffing at the air. “At least, they used to be. I...suspect they ran into a ward.” 

Mazael looked at Timothy, who muttered a spell. 

“The ward is gone,” said Timothy. “It should be safe.” He cleared his throat. “Relatively speaking.” 

Romaria prodded a dead Malrag with her boot. “They're still warm. He's not far ahead of us.” 

Mazael nodded, and walked through the doors and into the wide corridor of black stone, a vaulted ceiling rising overhead, the wall carved with more of the grandiose and grotesque reliefs. Lion jolted, and began to shimmer with azure flames.

He did not need Timothy and Circan to tell him that powerful dark magic waited within Arylkrad. 

The corridor ended in a large round chamber with a high dome for a ceiling. Beneath the exact center of the dome stood a statue. 

Mazael gazed at the statue in wonder. 

Carved from some dark stone, it showed a young woman of cool beauty clad in a sleeveless robe, arms crossed across her chest, eyes closed. Either the sculptor had been an artist of transcendent skill, or the statue had been fashioned by magic, for the young woman looked almost alive. Mazael wondered who it represented. Some lover of a long dead High Lord of Arylkrad, perhaps? Or one of his enemies? 

“It looks...almost real,” said Kjalmir. “I wonder if the lords of Dracaryl turned her to stone with their witcheries.” 

“The high lords were cruel men,” said Circan. “I would not put it past them.”

Timothy muttered a spell and waved his hand. “The statue is magical, my lord. Intensely so. I...think a spirit is bound within the stone.”

“A guardian?” said Mazael. He saw no sign of any dead Malrags in the chamber. “If it is one, it doesn't seem to have stopped Corvad.”

“He made it through here, to those stairs,” said Romaria, sniffing the air. “I'm sure of it.” 

Circan muttered his own spell, and his eyes grew wide. “I think...I think this is an oracle statue.”

“What the devil is an oracle statue?” said Gerald.

“Another relic of Old Dracaryl,” said Circan. “The lords of Dracaryl summoned foretelling spirits from the netherworld, and bound them into statues. Supposedly they will answer any question posed to them.” He frowned. “Though the answers are often confusing or ambiguous, or impossible to understand without additional information.”

Kjalmir snorted. “Hardly a useful servant, then.”

“Why would the High Lord of Arylkrad bother using such a spirit as a defense?” said Gerald.

“He wouldn't,” said Circan. “I suspect the High Lords kept the statue as a means of cruelty. No doubt they paraded condemned prisoners before the statue, and forced them to ask the spirit their fate.” He shrugged. “And they used the statue for purposes of divination. No living wizard has the skill to create one, and those that survive are guarded jealously.”

Mazael thought it over for a moment, the nodded. “Wait here.”  

“My lord!” said Timothy. “Is that wise?”

“Probably not,” said Mazael, “but if this creature turns out to be hostile,” he lifted Lion, “then I have a sword that can wound magical creatures. No one else here does. If I am in danger of falling, come to my aid.”

He did not mention that his Demonsouled nature could heal anything but a fatal wound, as well.

Mazael walked towards the statue, and was not surprised to find Romaria at his side. He would have told her to go back, to wait with the others, but he knew she would not listen. He drew closer, and as he did, he felt the aura of magic around the statue, like lightning crackling in the air. He stopped a few feet from its pedestal. The stone figure looked so real that he half-expected it to draw breath. 

Then the statue's eyes opened, shining with green light.

“Mazael Cravenlock,” whispered the oracle statue, speaking in a woman's voice of inhuman beauty. “Lord of Castle Cravenlock. Son of Arissa.” Her stone lips curled in a cold smile. “Child of the Old Demon.” 

Mazael flinched, wondering how Gerald and Kjalmir and the others would respond. But they stood nearly fifty yards away, and could not hear the oracle statue's soft voice.

"Mazael?" shouted Gerald.

"Wait a moment!" answered Mazael.

“And Romaria Greenshield,” murmured the statue, glowing eyes turned toward Romaria. “A Champion of Deepforest Keep, she who woke the traigs from their long sleep. Daughter of Athaelin the Champion and Ardanna the High Druid. She who is both woman and wolf.” 

“And who are you?” said Mazael. 

“A spirit,” said the oracle statue. “I watch. I wait. I observe. I was already old when this world was born, and I shall continue once this world crumbles into dust. Here I was bound by the High Lords of Arylkrad, that I might share my wisdom with them.” The stone lips smiled. “But they ignored my wisdom, and passed into the long sleep of death centuries ago.” 

“So I see,” said Mazael. “And you will not impede our way?”

“I watch. I wait. I observe,” said the oracle statue. “I neither attack nor defend. I simply watch.”

“Good,” said Mazael. “Then we'll be on our way.”

“Unless,” murmured the oracle spirit, “you wish to ask me a question.”

Mazael frowned. “And could you answer my questions?” 

“Perhaps,” said the statue. “I do not know everything. But I know many things. And I have seen you as I slept my long stone sleep, child of the Old Demon. I have seen you in my dreams. The shadow you cast upon the past is long. But the shadow you cast upon the future might be longer and darker yet. Unless, of course, you perish this day.” 

Mazael hesitated. Trafficking with spirits, bound in stone or not, never ended well. The brotherhood of wizards refused to countenance the practice, at least officially. Lucan, Mazael knew, had conjured spirits and interrogated them on a regular basis.

And look what had happened to him. 

Yet if the oracle statue knew answers, Mazael could not afford to ignore them.