Soul of Dragons (35 page)

He looked at Romaria, and she nodded.

“Corvad and Molly,” said Mazael. “Did they pass this way?”

“Your seed,” said the statue. “Blood of your tainted blood. They passed me as you drove your ancient sword into the flesh of the dragon. Your daughter is pain and your son is rage. I would have given her the key to her pain, had she but listened. Instead she remains sheltered with a tower of lies. As do all the Old Demon's progeny.” 

“That,” said Mazael after a moment, “makes no sense whatsoever.” 

The oracle statue laughed. It was not mocking, only amused. “You mortals are bound by time. You cannot see things as they really are, and your eyes are of flesh, not spirit. So you cannot see the truths that lie hidden beneath the flesh.” 

“And what truths are those?” said Mazael.

“I see the truth of you, child of the Old Demon,” said the oracle statue.

“And?” said Mazael.

“You are at war with yourself,” said the oracle statue. “You always have been, and you always will be. The demon power within you yearns to destroy, to kill, to conquer, to raise a skull of thrones over the realms of men. Yet your heart desires not such a thing. Your heart desires peace, and order, and prosperity and safety for those under your protection. You wish to loose your demon wrath...but only when those under your protection are threatened. 

“As they are now,” said Mazael. “I came here not for the riddling talk of a spirit, but to stop Corvad and Molly. Corvad came here to claim the Glamdaigyr and create a Malrag Queen from Lucan Mandragon. Can he do so here?” 

“He shall,” said the oracle spirit. “My dark kin lurk beyond the veil of the world, desiring to wear flesh so they may burn and slay. Corvad shall open a way for them, a nursery of blood and corrupted flesh, forged in treachery and his own blood. Once he does, my dark kin shall swarm into this world and kill at your son's command.”

“So Corvad can become the Destroyer, if he raises this Malrag Queen?” said Mazael.

“He will,” said the oracle, “though if he takes up the sword of the Destroyer, it shall devour him. As it devours all upon whom the Old Demon bestows that blade.” 

“Can I stop him?” said Mazael.

The statue's glowing eyes brightened. “Do you wish to know your fate, Mazael Cravenlock, child of the Old Demon?” 

“No,” said Romaria, touching Mazael's arm. “Don't listen to it. Remember the Seer's prophecy? I tried to escape his foretelling, but it came true nonetheless.”

“No fate is predestined,” said the oracle statue. “Men have many futures before them, just as a man standing before many fires throws many shadows. Yet some shadows are darker than the. Would you like to hear your futures?” 

Mazael hesitated. Even if the spirit wished him no harm, its knowledge might still bring him to ill. Yet if its answers gave him an edge against Corvad and Molly...

“Speak,” said Mazael.

“You desire to slay your children, to stop their plans,” said the statue. “And I say that if you lift your hand against your son and daughter and strike them down, you shall surely die, and your son will become the Destroyer.”

Mazael frowned. “And if I do not slay them?”

“Then you shall surely die, and your son shall become the Destroyer.”

“So I am doomed to fail, no matter what choice I make?” said Mazael. 

“As I told you, no fate is certain,” said the statue.

“Don't listen to it,” said Romaria. “It said you are doomed to die? We are mortal, are we not? Even if we are victorious today, we shall all die sooner or later.” 

Mazael stared at the statue. If he did not kill his children, he would fail. Yet if he killed his children, the statue claimed he would still fail. Corvad and Molly had brought fire and sword to Mazael's lands and would do worse, unless they were stopped.

And yet...

And yet Mazael did not want to kill them.

They were his children. His blood. He had failed them, left them in the cruel hands of the Skulls. And, no doubt, the far more insidious hands of the Old Demon.

“What if,” said Mazael, “what if I fight them, but do not kill them?” 

Romaria blinked.

“Ah,” said the oracle statue. “You show a glimmering of wisdom, for a mortal.” 

“That doesn't answer the question,” said Romaria. 

“If you slay your children, you will surely die,” said the oracle statue. “If you do not slay them, you will surely die. Yet if you fight against them, and do not kill them...that future is uncertain. Even I cannot say what will happen.” 

“Surely you don't mean to let them live?” said Romaria. “After everything they've done?” 

“I don't know,” said Mazael. “You said I was right to spare Lucan, even if the path of wisdom would have been to kill him. I don't know what will happen now. But I do know I must stop Corvad.” He took a deep breath. “Whatever the cost to myself. Where is Corvad now? Can you answer that, at least?” 

“He is above,” said the oracle statue, “entering the chamber of the Glamdaigyr. He will try to claim it. Perhaps he is not strong enough. Perhaps it will kill him. Or perhaps he will take up the sword, and become a more terrible foe than any you have ever faced.”

The statue shivered, and the stone eyelids closed, the green light winking out. 

“Riddles and mummery,” said Romaria. “The lords of Dracaryl relied upon these things for wisdom? Little wonder their own dark magic devoured them.”

“Perhaps,” said Mazael. Was there a way to victory without the blood of his children on his hands? Mazael didn't know. 

But he would find out.

One way or another. 

He returned to his waiting men. 

“What did the thing tell you?” said Gerald. “You spoke for so long I almost thought you'd been bewitched, but the wizards said the statue cast no spell upon you.”

“Nothing I did not already know,” said Mazael. “Corvad and his Malrags are above, and he's trying to claim the Glamdaigyr.” He raised Lion. “Best we stop him before he does.”

“Aye,” rumbled Kjalmir, hefting his massive hammer. “For too long, Corvad has escaped punishment for the blood of the Arminiars upon his hands. Well, no longer!” 

Mazael started for the stairs, the men following.

They made sure to give the statue a wide berth.

Chapter 28 – The Glamdaigyr

The stairs ended, and Molly found herself beneath the great black dome of Arylkrad.

The round chamber was enormous. Corvad's enslaved dragon could easily have taken flight with room to spare. Thick pillars supported a ring-shaped balcony around the chamber, just below the base of the dome. In the center of the chamber rose a pyramidal black dais. Statues of kneeling slaves ringed the balcony, each holding an iron staff topped with a glowing green crystal, flooding the chamber with eerie light. A throne sat atop the dais, no doubt once the seat of the High Lord of Arylkrad. 

Molly's eyes swept the throne room. After the sharp fight in the chamber below, she expected to find more resistance here. Yet the throne room was deserted, without any trace of the ancient Malrags, the ebony dead, or the Seneschal itself. 

There was not even a hint of motion...

Wait.

A flicker of green light, atop the pyramid-like dais. 

“There,” said Corvad, pointing with his sword. “Is it there?” 

One of the warlocks whispered an incantation in the rasping tongue of the Malrags. 

-An object of vast power awaits atop the dais, great one. Stronger than our spells, stronger than anything else in this castle-

Molly had never seen Corvad's face so eager. 

“The Glamdaigyr,” he whispered.

He hastened across the vast stone floor, not bothering to see if the Malrags and the zuvembies followed. Molly hurried alongside him, fighting the growing uneasiness inside her. Corvad's expression...she had seen him eager before, when he was killing.

But she had never seen him look like this. 

Corvad stopped at the base of the dais. From here Molly had a good view of the throne atop the pyramid. It looked exactly like the sort of chair she imagined the High Lords of Arylkrad once used – huge, black, and grim. A single block of stone sat before the throne.

The Glamdaigyr rested point-down in the block.

It could be nothing else. 

It was a two-handed greatsword, the pommel sculpted in the shape of a dragon's skull. A line of sigils had been carved into the black blade, and green fire flickered within the symbols. A shiver went down Molly's arms. The sword looked....cold, somehow, as if it sucked the life and warmth out of the very air surrounding it. 

“Mine,” said Corvad, his gray eyes reflecting the green fire.

He put one foot upon the stairs.

-Great one-

Corvad turned, scowling. “What?”

One of the warlocks gestured. 

-A ward of tremendous strength protects the sword-

“Dispel it,” said Corvad.

-We cannot. Its power far exceeds our own-

Corvad growled. “Then blast through it! You destroyed the wards around the castle, do it again.”

-This ward is greater than any of the others. Our combined powers would not suffice to shatter it-

“Then I will do it myself!” said Corvad.

He started up the stairs, armor clanking.

“Are you mad?” said Molly. “That ward will tear you apart!”

“I will be the Destroyer!” said Corvad, still climbing the stairs. “The sword is mine. I will not be denied!” 

Molly watched him, half-fascinated, half-horrified. Had he gone mad? She knew the presence of Demonsouled power often deranged the mind, that many Demonsouled descended into madness. Had Corvad lost his reason?

He reached the top of the dais, no more than ten paces from the Glamdaigyr, and the ward went off.

Green lightning erupted from the dome and ripped into Corvad, blasting pieces of his armor to molten shards. Corvad staggered, but kept walking. Ghostly flames erupted from the floor, sheathing him in crackling fire. Corvad shrieked, the smell of burned flesh flooding Molly's nostrils.

“It is mine!” he screamed, lurching forward.

Another lightning blast hurtled from the dome, smashing Corvad's sword to glowing splinters and tearing away his cuirass. Molly saw his skin turn red, and then black, as the flames chewed at his flesh. 

Yet he did not fall, and he drew closer to the Glamdaigyr. It took all his Demonsouled strength, Molly realized, to keep him upright. A normal man would have been slain at once. Yet even Corvad's Demonsouled power could not heal him fast enough, could not keep his skin from charring and his flesh from sizzling. 

“Mine!” shrieked Corvad, his voice inhuman with agony. “The Glamdaigyr is mine! I am the Destroyer!” He looked like a burned corpse, his skin a patchwork of seared flesh and black char. “Mine!” 

Molly shuddered. She hated Corvad, and had thought about killing him more than once. But she had not wanted to see him suffer like this.

She did not want to see him die like this. 

But Corvad did not fall. The flames intensified, and fingers of crawling lightning curled around his burning flesh, yet still he did not fall. 

Then both his hands closed about the Glamdaigyr's hilt, and he wrenched the sword free from the black stone. The symbols carved into the blade shimmered with green fire, the aura of cold darkness around the weapon intensifying. Corvad swayed, trembling under the burden, but lifted the sword.

“Mine,” he hissed, his voice an inhuman growl. “Mine. Mine!” 

His triumphant scream echoed off the black dome. 

The green lightning stopped, and the raging flames winked out.

Darkness swirled, and the Seneschal appeared next to the black throne, leaning upon its skull-topped staff.

“You,” growled Corvad, turning. His nose and lips were gone, his voice hissing and snarling. Yet Molly saw patches of fresh skin growing on his neck and jaw, saw his Demonsouled essence healing the terrible damage.

The Seneschal's three eyes turned towards Corvad.

-Master-

Corvad paused, the Glamdaigyr still raised for a blow. 

-When our master departed, he left his sword in our care, until he returned to claim it. Or until one strong enough to claim the sword arrived. You are now the master-

“Yes,” said Corvad. Bits of char fell from his chest, revealing fresh skin beneath. 

-Arylkrad is yours-

The Seneschal beckoned, and both ebony dead and ancient Malrags emerged from hidden doorways beneath the balcony. Some of the ebony dead bore silver trays, elaborate pieces of black armor resting upon them. 

-You are High Lord of Arylkrad. Do you wish the badges of your authority-

“Bring them to me,” growled Corvad, a wet lump shining in his face as his nose grew again.

Molly watched as the ebony dead climbed the dais, carrying the elaborate black armor. They pulled away Corvad's ruined plate, dressing him in the ancient armor of the High Lords of Arylkrad. A black cuirass, adorned with reliefs similar to those upon the wall. A knee length shirt of black chain. Gauntlets, greaves, and boots of dark metal. A helm crowned with a roaring dragon, concealing his diadem. The armor looked fantastically heavy. Yet from the way Corvad moved, Molly realized it was far lighter than normal steel. 

Corvad had always possessed an aura of power, of menace, from his Demonsouled blood. Yet the armor made him looked like an ancient high lord of Dracaryl come to life. And the Glamdaigyr...the weapon looked like death fashioned in steel. Molly could not shake the sense that the sword was alive, that it yearned to drink her blood like a man dying of thirst in the desert. 

“Today it begins,” said Corvad, his voice cold and clear. All hint of the burn wounds had vanished from his face. “The world shall be mine.” He beckoned, and the Malrags holding Lucan Mandragon's cot carried him to the top of the dais. Did he intended to transform Lucan into a Malrag Queen then and there? “I shall be the Destroyer, and you shall be my slaves. Again armies of Malrags will gather beneath the walls of Arylkrad. We shall march forth and take the realms of men. We will smash the walls of their cities and raze their castles. Their dead shall choke the rivers. The world shall be mine, and I declare that it will burn!”