Soul of Dragons (40 page)

Yet the Glamdaigyr could. Molly was trapped here.

And her sword lay at Corvad's feet, out of her reach.

She sprinted down the stairs.

“Take her!” bellowed Corvad, pointing the Glamdaigyr. “Take her alive!”

The Malrags and the ebony dead came for her, but the ebony dead, unencumbered by flesh, moved faster. She shoved the first one out of her way, and jumped over the second. A third grabbed her arm, and she ripped away from its grasp. But a fourth and a fifth seized her arms, and a sixth and a seventh her legs, holding them in place with the grim strength of the undead. More skeletal hands seized her, and Molly struggled and fought, but even Demonsouled strength could not break her free. 

“Take her to the dais,” said Corvad.

The ebony dead bore Molly aloft, carrying her up the stairs. She strained, trying to break free, but the hands of the dead were like bars of iron, and she could not tear away.

“Bind her,” said Corvad.

The ebony dead obeyed, laying her on the stone block alongside Lucan Mandragon. The undead produced chains, wrapping them about her wrists and ankles. Molly pulled, her muscles straining with every spark of her Demonsouled power, but the chains were too massive, too heavy.

She was trapped. The fear made her heart flutter against her ribs, made her mouth dry up. She had been in many fights, and almost slain many times, but never before had she been so helpless.

The ebony dead parted, and Corvad stood over her. His left eye had healed, though it remained filled with blood.

“Look at you,” whispered Corvad. “So easily trapped.” He stepped closer, the icy power of the Glamdaigyr making Molly shiver. “A grandchild of the Old Demon. Yet without your power to flit through the shadows, you're as easily subdued as any other mortal woman. Pathetic.” His face twisted with contempt. “You are not worthy to bear the power of Demonsouled blood.”

“I know everything, brother,” said Molly, spitting the last word as a curse. “You murdered Nicholas, you and our grandfather.”

Corvad laughed, and Molly spat at him. “Figured it out, did you? It took long enough! Ah. You must have spoken with the oracle statue. Little wonder you were so outraged.”

“You killed Nicholas!” shouted Molly, the chains clanking.

Corvad snorted. “Nicholas was an insect. And so are you, sister. Despite your Demonsouled blood. You are not worthy of it, and I am going to put it to a better use.”

“And what use is that?” said Molly. “Are you going to father a child on me, dear brother? Some pureblooded Demonsouled brat to become the Destroyer?”

“Don't be absurd,” said Corvad. “You shall help me become the Destroyer.” He smiled and bent closer, his blood-filled eye black in the Glamdaigyr's green light. “You're going to be the Malrag Queen.” 

“But you're going to turn Lucan Mandragon into the Malrag Queen,” said Molly. 

Corvad's smile widened. “I'm afraid I wasn't truthful with you. The Dragon's Shadow could no more become a Malrag Queen than a horse could become a man, or a sheep give birth to lion cubs. No. I needed three things to create a Malrag Queen. The blood of a normal mortal, corrupted by Demonsouled power.” He looked at Lucan. “A woman of Demonsouled blood, one who has never given birth to a child. That's you, sister. And a means to transfer the corruption from Lucan's flesh to yours.” He lifted the Glamdaigyr. “And when the Glamdaigyr pulls Lucan's corruption into your flesh, you will...change. Grow. Become something vast and hideous, so bloated with corruption that you will be unable to move under your own power. Malrags will grow in every inch of your flesh, and claw their way free from your skin. Hundreds of them a week. Thousands of them a year. The pain will be immense, and you will live for centuries.” He tilted his head to the side. “I wonder how long it will take you to go mad. Not long, I expect.”

Molly wrenched at the chains. 

“And I will infuse you with my blood,” said Corvad. “The Malrags born in your flesh will carry the power of my blood. Uncounted thousands of them, all bound to my will. I shall raise the largest host the world has ever seen, and I will destroy the realms of men, one by one. I shall be the Destroyer, and the world will be mine.”

“You're mad,” said Molly. “Do you think our grandfather will make you the Destroyer out of the goodness of his heart? Once you become strong enough, he'll kill you and take your power for his own.” 

“Perhaps I am mad,” said Corvad. “But it is better to be a madman than a fool. And you, sister, are a fool. And as for our grandfather? He cannot become the Destroyer. His destiny prohibits it. He told me so himself. And I shall grow strong enough to destroy him, if he thinks to stop me.” 

“I'll kill you,” said Molly. “I'll kill you for what you did to Nicholas, for...”

“No,” said Corvad. “You won't. Silence her. I am sick of listening to her.”

One of the warlocks stuffed a foul-tasting rag in Molly's mouth, tying it around the back of her head. She struggled, but the chains held her fast, and she could not break free.

Nor could she think through the growing terror in her mind. Corvad was going to turn her into a monstrous horror, and she could do nothing to stop him. 

Nothing.

Molly screamed into her gag.

“Are you ready with the spell?” said Corvad.

The warlocks lifted their hands. 

-We are ready-

“Then begin,” said Corvad. 

The warlocks began gesturing with their clawed fingers, hissing an incantation in their growling language. The air stirred, and Molly felt currents of magical power flowing around her. The flame of the Glamdaigyr's symbols began to flicker, dancing in time to the rhythm of the warlocks' chant.

Corvad lifted the massive sword and rested the point on her chest, between her breasts. The cold power of the thing flowed into her, and she felt its terrible hunger, its desire to suck the life and warmth from her. 

Or the desire to fill her with Lucan's corruption. 

Molly screamed, every muscle rigid, but the chains did not break, and the warlocks chanted their spell over her.

Chapter 31- The Soul of the Dragon

Lucan Mandragon strode into the heart of the black city.

Towers and palaces that stood miles high ringed the massive plaza, larger than any architecture that could exist in the material world. The reliefs covering the walls displayed the worst moments of Lucan's life, depicted in colossal figures. The death of his mother. Marstan's attempt to seize Lucan’s body. The end of his betrothal with Tymaen. The first time he used the power of Demonsouled blood. His murder of the Elderborn druid in the Great Southern Forest.

The bloodstaff shattering in his hands as Malavost laughed.

Lucan walked further into the plaza. The black clouds danced and writhed overhead, but here they swirled, spinning around a central point.

The plaza itself. 

It was here, Lucan knew, that his fate would be decided.

A lone figure awaited him in the center of the plaza. 

The manifestation of the Demonsouled corruption, the avatar of the cancer Lucan had taken into his soul.

Again it wore the form of Lord Richard Mandragon, his armor of crimson dragon scales reflecting the red lightning overhead. Richard watched as Lucan approached, black eyes cold and hard in his expressionless face. 

Lucan stopped a dozen paces away. 

“So,” said Richard. “You have come at last.” 

“And your time is over,” said Lucan. “I will defeat you, and return to my physical body.”

Richard lifted an eyebrow. “And will you defeat yourself? For I am you, the portion of your soul imbued with Demonsouled power. You know this. Will you fight yourself? Will your right hand struggle against your left?” He held out an armored hand. “We are one, you and I, sundered pieces of the same soul. Let us be rejoined, and bring death and terror to our enemies.” 

“I don't want to bring death and terror to anyone,” said Lucan. “I only want to keep others from suffering as I have suffered.” He could almost bring himself to believe that, even after everything that had happened.

Almost.

“You lie,” said Richard. “And I know you lie, because I am you. You cannot lie to yourself, not here.” 

“No,” said Lucan. “Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I do want to kill my father and my brother and anyone who has ever harmed me.” He took a deep breath. “But I can choose not to kill them. I can choose to show mercy. And I choose not to let you control me.”

“This is true,” said Richard. “And you chose to forge the bloodstaff, to use the Demonsouled power. Your actions put to the lie to your words. You want to wield such power so that no one can ever harm you again. And with my power, you can scour the world of dark magic.”

“Or,” said Lucan, “I can reject the power. Which I am doing now.”

For a long time the apparition of Richard Mandragon stared at him.

“So be it,” said Richard at last.

He lifted his hands, crimson fire filling his fingers. Lucan began casting his own spell, armoring himself in wards to deflect arcane attacks. But Richard raised his hands, the blood-colored fire burning hotter.

And thousands of reapers boiled into the vast plaza. They poured out of the surrounding streets like a vast black tide. Their clawed hands clicked and scraped against the stone tiles, and Lucan felt the weight of thousands of empty hoods staring upon him.

Lucan began another spell.

He had been wrong, he realized, in his tactics against the Demonsouled manifestation and its minions. He relied too much on his magic and the Demonsouled power infecting his soul – weapons the manifestation could use against him. But this was the spirit world, not the material world. Here, Lucan suspected, the limitations of his flesh did not bind his will. And without those limitations, perhaps he could defeat the manifestation without using the Demonsouled power.

The reapers surged closer.

He was going to find out, one way or another.

Lucan’s spell conjured psychokinetic force, but far more focused than his earlier attacks. He sheathed himself in a bubble of force, protecting himself from physical attacks, and wrapped shells of mental force around his arms and legs. The psychokinetic power would augment his speed and strength, making him far faster and stronger. If he had tried this in the material world, the strain would have ripped him to bloody shreds.

But this wasn't the material world. 

The reapers closed around him, and one reached for his throat.

Lucan punched it.

He didn't hit it that hard. But the psychokinetic force bound to his arm exploded from his fist, expanding his strength to stupendous levels. The reaper hurtled backwards like a bolt shot from a ballista, flinging a dozen others to the ground. 

For a moment the reapers paused, stunned. Richard stared at Lucan, a slight frown on his face.

“Take him,” said Richard.

The reapers charged.

And Lucan moved. 

He sprinted, the psychokinetic force enhancing his speed, and blazed forward like a thunderbolt. One instant he stood in the center of the plaza. In the next he stood below one of the vast towers, moving almost two miles in a heartbeat.

And the gale thrown up by his passage threw hundreds of reapers into the air like leaves tossed in a storm.

Physical limitations did not bind Lucan in the spirit world. A pity he hadn't realized it earlier – he could have reached the black city all the sooner. The remaining reapers, a vast black sea of them, spun to attack him.

Lucan attacked.

His punches sent dozens of his foes hurtling through the air. A kick blasted a reaper across the plaza with enough force to smash into the wall of a tower, shattering it in a spray of jagged stone splinters. Lucan raced through them in short bursts, the hurricane wind raised in his wake flinging the reapers into the air like toys. 

Hundreds upon hundreds of reapers dissolved into swirling black smoke, their attack collapsing into chaos. The reapers fled, scattering in all directions. 

“Take him!” said Richard.

Lucan spun, intending to attack the manifestation, and stopped. 

A dozen figures stood around Richard. His brother Toraine. His mother. Tymaen and others, all people from Lucan's past, some of them depicted on the vast reliefs covering the colossal towers. Their eyes glowed with red light, and they began casting a spell in unison.

Hooded shadows. And their spell would unleash a massive hammer of psychokinetic power at Lucan, far more than his wards could possibly deflect.  

He focused on the bubble of psychokinetic force surrounding him, reshaping it into a broad shield. An instant later the hooded shadows released their spell, striking at him with crushing force. Lucan's wards did not have the power to stop the spell, and he did not even try. Instead he let his shield of force bend with the strength of the blast, let it carry him backwards like a branch caught in a river's raging current.

The spell hurled him from his feet and flung him backwards, faster than any arrow. An instant later he slammed into one of the great towers with such speed that the entire wall exploded like a pane of glass, tons upon tons of broken stone raining down. But his shield of psychokinetic force held. 

Though the collapsing wall would crush it, and him, like an insect.

Lucan scrambled back to his feet, cast another spell, and thrust out his hands. He poured all his power and strength into the spell, and even then, it only gave him barely enough power to conjure a sheet of invisible force over his head.

Which gave the falling rubble just enough of a gentle tap to change its direction.  

The tumbling boulders poured into the plaza, smashing the black tiles with their impact. A storm of broken rock crashed into the hooded shadows, crushing some, reducing others to nothing more than swirls of black smoke. At last the collapse ended, and Lucan picked his way over the rubble. 

The plaza lay in ruin, littered with debris. There was no trace of the hooded shadows or of the remaining reapers. Or of the manifestation itself, for that matter. For a wild instant, Lucan hoped that he had won, that he had been victorious.