And sinking into the earth.
The Demonsouled power flooded into him, strengthening him, his pain draining away.
For a panicked moment Lucan tried to keep the power at bay. He dared not use it. He would escape this place on his own, take vengeance on his foes on his own...
A piece of stone cracked into his chest, knocking him to the ground.
Lucan snarled and seized the Demonsouled power.
Crimson fire filled his hands, and he surged to his feet. A gesture, and the debris hurtling through the air disintegrated into ashes. Another gesture, and a volley of bloody flame slammed into Richard Mandragon, knocking him back. More Demonsouled power flooded into Lucan, and he felt the dark magic pulsing through the very stone of the mountain.
He felt the hooded shadows, the chains that bound them to Richard.
With a single spell he shattered those chains and remade them.
“Take him!” shouted Lucan. “Kill him! Kill him now!”
The hooded shadows attacked Richard. They swarmed over him, raking at him with dark claws. Richard staggered back, flinging out his hands. Crimson fire exploded, ripping the hooded shadows to shreds of smoke.
For a moment Richard started at Lucan, glowing eyes narrowed.
And then he changed.
The most powerful Demonsouled had the ability to change their forms. Morebeth Galbraith, child of the Old Demon and Mazael's half-sister, had possessed the ability to become a hunting spider the size of an ox, with a hide like steel plate and legs like sword blades. Richard Mandragon swelled, his skin turning to blood-colored scales, his red hair stiffening into spikes.
A moment later a great crimson dragon stood in his place, eyes ablaze with dark flame, sulfurous smoke rising from its fanged mouth. The dragon was as large as a mansion, a hundred feet from mouth to tail, and its wings could have blotted out the sun.
“We are one, Lucan Mandragon,” rumbled the dragon. “I will await you atop the mountain. You shall come to me, and you and I become one. It is inevitable.”
The dragon sprang into the air, vast wings unfolding. Lucan watched as the dragon flew away and vanished into the jagged towers of the black city.
“A dragon for a Mandragon,” said Lucan. “Such poor taste.”
But the glib words could not hide the fear. He had been able to command the hooded shadows, once the Demonsouled power filled him. But if he drew on too much of the Demonsouled power, it would consume him. He would turn into a creature like Ultorin.
Or he would turn into the manifestation of the Demonsouled corruption, the thing that wore the face and form of Lord Richard Mandragon.
He shuddered at the thought. Maybe the Demonsouled corruption wouldn't turn him into a twisted thing like Ultorin. Perhaps instead it would transform him into someone like Amalric Galbraith – a man of power and might, a terrible lord before whom men trembled.
And...would that be so bad?
“No,” whispered Lucan.
But the things he would do with such power! He could cleanse the world of the San-keth. He could hunt down the Demonsouled and destroy them all, free the world of their taint. And then he could kill his father and his older brother, make them pay for all the pain they had inflicted on him.
Lucan shoved aside the thought.
He would not take up the Demonsouled power, not again. He would defeat the manifestation of the corruption and escape this place. Then he would help Mazael defeat Malavost and save Deepforest Keep.
And then he could take his vengeance on those who had caused him so much pain...
“No,” repeated Lucan.
The moaning wind held no answers for him.
Could Lucan even defeat the corruption's manifestation, the thing that took the shape of Lord Richard Mandragon? It was part of his own soul. Lucan was fighting against himself.
Could Lucan even defeat himself?
And did he even want to?
He could not undo his mistakes. He could only ensure that he made no more.
But had they even been mistakes, really? He had needed the power to do what was necessary.
And taking that power had left him stranded here, stalked by horrors conjured by his tainted soul.
“I did what needed to be done,” said Lucan. “I did what was necessary!”
His voice rose to a shout, echoing off the mountain's slopes.
Again the moaning wind had no answer for him.
He could only go forward, to face himself in the black city. The Old Demon had been right – Lucan would not like the answers he found.
But he had no other choice.
After a moment, Lucan resumed the climb, the mountain's peak and the black city drawing closer.
Chapter 21 – Children of the Old Demon
Two days after the battle at Morsen, Mazael returned to Castle Cravenlock at the head of his men.
He saw women standing upon the walls of the castle as Hauberk clattered through the gates. The wives and mothers and sisters and daughters of the men Mazael had led to the west, waiting to see if their husbands and sons and brothers and fathers would return. Most of them would see their men return.
Some would not.
Mazael saw Rachel standing in their midst, Aldane cradled in her arms. At least he could tell her that Gerald was safe.
For now, anyway. If Corvad transformed Lucan into a Malrag Queen, the Grim Marches would burn. Even Knightcastle itself might fall, if Corvad was not stopped.
Sir Nathan and Sir Hagen awaited him in the courtyard. Squires and grooms hurried forward, tending to the knights and their horses.
“Were you successful, my lord?” said Nathan.
“I was not,” said Mazael. “We held against the zuvembies and the Malrags, but Corvad got away, and took what he wanted from the San-keth temple. Sir Hagen, see to the men. I want a force of two hundred ready to ride at once. Sir Nathan, attend me in the chapel's library. I intend to ride east for the Great Mountains at dawn.”
Hagen bowed, while Nathan followed Mazael to the chapel.
###
Mazael watched as Timothy and Romaria squinted at the maps.
“Seventy miles south of Mount Drachgan?” said Timothy.
“Aye,” said Mazael. “That’s what Szegan said.”
He stood in the chapel's library, a small room lined with books. Timothy had recovered scraps of old maps from Morsen's San-keth temple, and taken them with him to Castle Cravenlock. The chapel's library also had a map of the Great Mountains.
He wondered how much more detail Molly's map contained.
“The Great Mountains are vast, my lord,” said Timothy, scribbling a mathematical formula in a notebook. “Perhaps six hundred miles wide, from the Grim Marches to the barbarian lands of the east. The wizard-lords of Old Dracaryl knew them all, but in the modern age they have never been mapped.”
“Why not?” said Mazael.
“They're too dangerous,” said Romaria, straightening up. “When Dracaryl fell, the conjured servants and wards of the high lords remained. And dragons still live among the peaks, and occasionally attack the surrounding lands.”
Sir Nathan frowned. “The Grim Marches have not seen a dragon attack for generations.”
Mazael shrugged. “Until this year, the Grim Marches had not seen a Malrag raid for a century.”
“There are only two safe passes through the Great Mountains,” said Romaria. “Relatively safe, anyway. The Green Pass, which opens into the foothills near Deepforest Keep. I traveled there, guiding caravans from Deepforest Keep to the barbarian nations.”
“And in the High Pass, north of here,” said Timothy, “guarded by Castle Highgate.” He cleared his throat. “If Arylkrad is indeed seventy miles south of Mount Drachgan, we should take the High Pass. And I believe that Arylkrad stands right...here.” He tapped a spot on the map.
“About a hundred and fifty miles from Castle Highgate,” said Mazael.
“Five days to Castle Highgate from here,” said Romaria, “and then another two weeks through the mountains to Arylkrad. If all goes well.”
“And Corvad will have at least a five-day head start on us,” said Mazael.
“Not necessarily,” said Timothy. “Lady Romaria said that many of the old wards remain active in the mountains. She is correct – the brotherhood of wizards avoids the Great Mountains, though some of our bolder brothers have ventured among the peaks. They report that the wards remain active, and almost certainly the wards will prevent mistgates from opening.”
“So we have a chance of catching Corvad,” said Romaria, “before he transforms Lucan into a Malrag Queen.”
“Very well,” said Mazael. “We will leave at first light tomorrow.”
###
Later Mazael and Romaria lay together in his bedroom.
After, Romaria climbed off him, pushed the sweaty hair from her face, and laughed. “I much prefer to do that in a bed.”
Mazael nodded, resting his head against the pillow as he caught his breath. “Aye. I'm getting too old to sleep on the damned ground.”
She grinned and ran a hand down his chest. “But not too old for other things.”
He laughed. “Plainly not.”
They lay in silence for a moment.
“You're troubled,” said Romaria.
“I am,” said Mazael. “I am going to have to kill my own children.”
Romaria said nothing.
“I already have the blood of a sister and a brother on my hands,” said Mazael. “I would have had Rachel's blood on my hands, had you not stopped me.”
“Amalric Galbraith was a monster,” said Romaria. “Morebeth would have turned you into a monster like him. You didn't kill Rachel. And Corvad and Molly started this fight, not you.”
“They started this fight,” said Mazael, “because of what they are. Because they are my children, with my Demonsouled blood. Because I impregnated their mother, and then abandoned them.”
“You didn't know she was pregnant,” said Romaria, “and as far as you know, she never tried to contact you.”
“No,” said Mazael.
“If you had known she was pregnant,” said Romaria, “would you have stayed?”
“I don't know,” said Mazael. “I doubt I would have wed her. I would probably have tried to support her and the children – found them lands and income, rather than wandering around the realm for years.”
“You seem to think,” said Romaria, “that if you had stayed, Corvad and Molly would not have become what they are.”
“Molly said that the Skulls raised them after Elizabeth died,” said Mazael. “If I had been there...”
“They might still have become what they are,” said Romaria. “You've come to wisdom, Mazael...but later in your life. If you had stayed, what would you have done with the children? No doubt Corvad would have become a knight like you, wandering and slaying. You managed to keep a balance within yourself...but neither Corvad nor Molly might have done the same.”
“They're still my responsibility,” said Mazael.
“Aye,” said Romaria, “but they're not your fault. Perhaps you would have raised them better than the Skulls. But both Molly and Corvad made their choices, as did you.”
“And I will stop them,” said Mazael.
“You will stop them,” said Romaria.
He stared at the beams of the ceiling, thinking. If he had known of Molly and Corvad, he would have tried to save them. But he hadn't, and now it was too late. He could not turn them back from their path, and he had to stop them before they brought ruin and death to his lands.
Perhaps the only way to save them was to kill them.
###
The next morning, Mazael swung into Hauberk's saddle, armor clanking.
Noise and confusion filled the courtyard. Knights climbed into their saddles, squires running to bring weapons and shields. Armsmen checked their crossbows, while Kjalmir's Arminiar knights formed up below the gates. Mazael looked up, saw the women of the castle standing on the walls. To watch their husbands and sons and fathers ride off to battle once again, as they had so many times in the months since first Malrag warband had raided Cravenlock Town.
Gerald reined up his horse beside Mazael.
“You don't have to ride with us,” said Mazael. “Corvad's going to the Great Mountains. He won't launch any more attacks on the Grim Marches. You should be able to take Rachel safely to Knightcastle.”
“I could,” said Gerald. “But if Corvad turns Lucan into a Malrag Queen, he'll destroy the Grim Marches. And then the Malrag horde will fall upon Knightcastle next. No, if I'm to keep my wife and children safe, I'll need to do it here.”
Mazael nodded. “I am glad for your aid.”
Gerald grinned. “We've gone to battle together many a time. Though I've never seen you so morose, not even when it seemed certain Ultorin would triumph.”
Mazael hesitated. Gerald didn't know the truth. Of everyone at Castle Cravenlock, only Romaria and Lucan had known about Mazael's heritage and Demonsouled blood. He didn’t know how Gerald would react to the truth. Gerald might cut him down, then and there.
“I am weary of war,” said Mazael. “When Skhath killed Mitor and I became Lord of Castle Cravenlock, I hoped to have peace, to bring prosperity and order to my lands. Instead I have ridden to war against the Dominiars, and against Ultorin's Malrags. And now Corvad and his Malrags.” He shook his head. “Will it ever end?”
“Perhaps not,” said Gerald. “My father is Lord of Knightcastle, and he has waged war for most of his life. Yet he was able to bring order and protection to the people of his lands. You are Lord of Castle Cravenlock, and you'll be able to do the same.”
“Thank you,” said Mazael. He looked at the sky. “Well, let's get on with it.”
He snapped his reins, steering Hauberk to the castle gates.
###
Molly perched on the brink of the ledge, watching the sun rise over the massive jagged bulk of the Great Mountains.
The Malrags and zuvembies wandered through the abandoned village, awaiting Corvad's orders. He had remained shut up with the map and his pet warlocks since returning from Morsen, plotting the best route to Arylkrad. Apparently the ancient wards of the old lords of Dracaryl still functioned within the mountains, blocking mistgates from opening.