Soul of Dragons (2 page)

But it was too late. His men knew how to fight Malrags, but most of them had never seen a zuvembie before. A storm of arrows slammed into the charging mob of zuvembies. The impact knocked the front row down, sent them sprawling into the others. But the arrowheads did not harm the undead flesh.

Normal steel could not wound a thing raised by necromancy. 

And then the mob of zuvembies crashed into the shield wall, claws raking against the iron and wood. The knights and armsmen struck back, yet their blades rebounded from the zuvembies as if they had struck steel. In an instant Mazael saw one man go down, and then another, the zuvembies clawing at throats and faces.

He sprang into motion. 

Lion blurred in his fist, and Mazael struck the head from the nearest zuvembie. His sword sheared through the undead flesh with ease, and blue fire extinguished the green glow in the zuvembie's empty sockets. The creature collapsed to the earth in a pile of yellowed bones and dusty flesh. Mazael wheeled, striking the arm from another zuvembie, Lion's blade splitting the skull of another.

Then he spun, and slapped Lion against the flat of Gerald's blade.

The blue flame spread to Gerald's sword, wreathing it in a halo of ghostly light. Gerald had fought zuvembies before, and knew what to do. He hastened into the fray, smashing a zuvembie attacking a pair of knights, chips of yellow bone flying from his blade. Romaria cast aside her bow and drew her bastard sword with a steely hiss, and Mazael slapped Lion against her sword. Again Lion's flames spread, and Romaria attacked, bastard sword gripped in both hands. 

Mazael raced through the fray, slapping Lion against the swords and spears of his men. The ancient sword's fire spread, and soon the battlefield shone with blue light. The zuvembies were quick and strong, but wore no armor, and the burning swords and spears cut them down with ease. Mazael smashed down another zuvembie, the stench of decayed bone and long-desiccated flesh filling his nostrils, and risked a quick glance around the battlefield. They were winning. He had lost a half-dozen men to the charge of the zuvembies, but they were winning.

But who had created the zuvembies? It took a necromancer, and a powerful one, to raise zuvembies from the corpses of the slain. A Malrag shaman? That would explain the green lighting. But he had never seen a Malrag shaman powerful enough to raise the zuvembies...

A bloodcurdling roar rang out, and Malrags raced from the trees, armored in black steel, black axes and spears in their hands. 

“Shield wall!” roared Mazael, cutting down another zuvembie. “Reform the shield wall! Now! Now!”

These Malrags looked...different.

They stood perhaps a foot taller than most Malrags, their arms and chests heavy with muscle beneath their black armor. Strange crimson veins crawled over their arms and and faces, stark against their gray hides. 

An arrow shot past Mazael's shoulder, and then another, both burying themselves in the chests of the charging Malrags. He saw Romaria with her bow in hand, loosing arrow after arrow. More arrows whistled out, though the Malrags' armor deflected most. 

Then the shield wall came together again, and the Malrags attacked. 

Mazael swung at a Malrag, and the creature pivoted, catching the blow on its axe, and shoved against him. He stumbled, scrambling for balance, and deflected a blow from the axe on his shield. Gods, but the thing was strong! The Malrag roared and swung again, its colorless eyes wide with rage, and Mazael twisted, avoiding the blow. Lion lashed out and bit into the creature's leg, and the Malrag stumbled to one knee. Mazael brought Lion around in a backhand and beheaded the Malrag. Black blood spurted from the stump of the creature's neck, while a strange crimson slime leaked from the bulging veins.

But Mazael had no time to contemplate it. Another Malrag came at him with a roar, spear thrusting. He blocked the spear thrust on his shield, Lion carving a wound in the creature's thigh. The Malrag staggered, and then Romaria was behind it, her sword ripping open the side of its neck. Again black blood sprayed from the wound, along with that vile crimson slime. 

The shield line bucked before the Malrag onslaught, but it held. These Malrags were stronger and faster than usual, but they were still Malrags, and Mazael's men knew how to fight them. Mazael slew Malrag after Malrag. Gerald bashed one across the face with his shield, yellow fangs flying from the impact, and drove his gleaming longsword into the creature's heart. Romaria moved through the creatures in a blur, movements almost dancelike, her grip shifting from one-handed to two-handed and back again as she killed. 

And it was over. The remaining Malrags fled into the trees, scattering in all directions. The zuvembies lay in broken heaps of shattered bone and leathery flesh, the green light in their skulls extinguished. Mazael's men started to break their formation, moving in pursuit of the scattering Malrags.

“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.”