“The zuvembies,” said Mazael. “Arrows won't hinder them, but fire will. Get a fire going, and have the archers ready to set their arrows aflame.”
Gerald nodded and gave the orders. The men finished barricading the gate with fallen trees, and began building fires in the courtyard. Soon flames crackled below the walls, smoke rising over the weathered battlements. The knights and armsmen took position on the ramparts and below the barricaded gate, while the archers climbed to the battlements.
A few moments later, Mazael saw the first zuvembies.
They shuffled into sight, the ghostly fires in their eyes shining in the gloom of the forest. Then Malrags began to appear, one by one. First dozens of the larger, deformed Malrags with the strange crimson veins in their leathery hides. Then hundreds more of the sort that had invaded the Grim Marches, clad in their black armor, axes and spears ready in their hands. The Malrags stopped just out of arrow range.
Which was proof that some powerful mind controlled them. Malrags, Lucan had told Mazael, had no free will. Though cunning and intelligent, bloodlust and hatred enslaved the dark spirits that inhabited their corrupted flesh. Left to their own devices, the Malrags would charge the ruined castle at once, eager to kill the men within. They had no need to fear death - if a Malrag was slain, its dark spirit would be reborn again in the hives below the Great Mountains.
Or so Lucan had told Mazael.
“What are they waiting for?” murmured Gerald. “Why don't they attack?”
“Because,” said Mazael. “This is a show. Whoever is controlling those Malrags wants to intimidate us. I suspect that he'll put in appearance soon and make his demands...ah.”
The ranks of the Malrags parted, and a man walked into sight. He was tall and slim, clad in black chain mail, with wheat-colored hair falling to his shoulders. A sword rested in a scabbard at his belt, and he moved with agile grace, the roots and rocks of the forest floor unable to hinder his balance. A black diadem rested on his brow, and Mazael saw a large green gem in its center.
He could not have been older than twenty. And yet he seemed very...familiar. Mazael had never seen the man before. And yet, something about his face, about his poise...
“Lord Mazael Cravenlock?” called the man. His voice was deep and strong, a voice for commanding armies.
“Aye?” said Mazael, standing on the battlements. He drew Lion, blue flames dancing around the blade. The sword jolted in his hand, the way it did in the presence of powerful dark magic.
The way it did in the presence of Demonsouled.
Romaria's nostrils flared. “That's him. He's the one controlling the Malrags. I can smell it on him.”
The man in black mail tilted his head to the side, regarding Mazael with a faint smile. “So you're the great Mazael Cravenlock. The conqueror of the Dominiars, the slayer of San-keth. You don't look nearly as impressive as I expected.”
Something about him seemed familiar, so damnably familiar…
“I did the defeat the Dominiars,” said Mazael, “and I have slain San-keth, and I killed Ultorin of the Dominiars with my own hand. But who are you? I see only a fool boy leading a rabble of Malrags and animated corpses.”
For moment the man's eyes narrowed in rage, and then his confident smile returned.
“I am Corvad,” said the man in black mail.
“Are you, now?” said Mazael. “That’s no name I've heard.”
“You’ll remember it, soon enough,” said Corvad. “You'll scream it as you die.”
Circan leaned closer.
“His diadem,” hissed the wizard. “It's enchanted with potent necromancy. I think that's what raised the zuvembies.”
“Are you going to threaten me?” said Mazael. “Demand that I surrender myself? Or promise to be merciful, if only I lay down my sword?”
Corvad's smirk widened. “Certainly not. You're going to die, Mazael Cravenlock. You'll see everyone you love die in front of you first.” His eyes widened, as if the thought excited him, and he strode forward. “You'll hear them scream, you'll...”
“Oh, shut up,” said Romaria.
Her hands blurred, and before Mazael realized what had happened, she put an arrow into the air. Corvad's boast came to a strangled end as Romaria's shaft plunged into his throat and out the back of his neck. His hands shot to his throat, and a heartbeat later Romaria put another arrow into his chest, the steel head plunging through the gap in his mail below his armpit. Corvad fell, eyes bulging with rage, blood splashing across his armor.
“That was...direct,” said Circan, blinking.
“Better to kill him now,” said Romaria, “then to let him do harm in the future.”
Corvad clawed at the air, beckoning.
The Malrags surged forward, bellowing their war cries. The zuvembies burst into motion, their clawed hands and feet ripping at the ground. The Malrags raced up the path to the gate, while the zuvembies ascended the side of the hill. Watching their claws sink into the earth of the hill, Mazael realized the zuvembies could simply climb the stone curtain wall.
“Archers!” shouted Mazael. “Take the Malrags! Knights and armsmen!” He ran down the ramparts, spreading Lion’s azure fire to the blades of his men. “The zuvembies! Take them!”
The archers sent volley after volley into the charging Malrags, Romaria standing in their midst, and the zuvembies pulled themselves over the battlements as Mazael set the swords of his men ablaze. He whirled and took the head from the first zuvembie within reach. The undead thing collapsed in a puff of dust. Around him the knights and armsmen struck down zuvembie after zuvembie, even as the men in the courtyard struggled against the Malrags trying to break through the barricaded gate.
Mazael risked a glimpse over the battlements and saw Corvad stand up, pulling Romaria's arrows from his flesh. Even as Mazael watched, the ghastly wound in Corvad's neck shrank.
Healing.
Corvad was truly Demonsouled.
Why he had come to the Great Southern Forest, why he had taken command of these Malrags, Mazael didn't know. But he knew this fight would not be over until Corvad had been slain.
Then three zuvembies flung themselves at him, and Mazael had no thought to spare for anything but battle.
###
Molly stood in the shadows of the trees, wrapped in her cloak, and watched the battle rage below the ruined castle.
She stood with three of Corvad's pet Malrags. The creatures had once been Malrag shamans, capable of wielding potent spells, the third eye in their foreheads blazing with green light. Then Corvad had ordered all three to swallow a single drop of his demon-tainted blood, and the Malrag shamans changed into something worse, something stronger.
Malrag warlocks.
Now pulsing crimson veins crawled through their pallid gray flesh, and their third eyes flickered with the sullen red light of a smith’s forge. Corvad’s blood enhanced their magical powers, and the creatures could no do things that no Malrag shaman could do. Things that no wizard could do.
Save for Molly's grandfather, of course.
She watched as Corvad limped his way through the lines of the Malrags, rubbing his throat.
“That was foolish, brother,” Molly said. “To go within range of the walls. Our grandfather warned us about Mazael's woman. She almost made you into a pincushion.”
Corvad stared at her, gray eyes narrowed, and she felt his rage like the heat of a furnace upon her face. Corvad was Demonsouled, and normal men trembled at his wrath, but Molly met his gaze without flinching.
After all, she was just as strong as he was.
Corvad scowled, but looked away. The gem in his black diadem of his flashed as he did so, the same green light that danced in the zuvembies’ eyes. A useful toy, that diadem. Their grandfather had told him where to find it.
Along with a few other useful things.
“They're going to lose, you know,” said Molly. “Your pets. Mazael picked too strong a location. You won't be able to beat his men.”
“I know,” said Corvad. “The Malrags are expendable. Ultorin brought tens of thousands of them out of the Great Mountains, and the zuvembies are easily replaced.”
Molly shrugged as another volley of arrows cut down the front rank of Malrags below the curtain wall. The drops of Corvad's blood had made the infused Malrag warriors stronger and faster, even as it trebled their bloodlust and cruelty. Yet infused Malrags could die just as quickly as the normal ones.
“Go,” said Corvad. “Mazael and his men are distracted. You'll get in and out easily.”
Molly glared at him.
Corvad's eyes narrowed, but his tone softened, if barely. “This is your best chance to claim what we came to take. And if you're successful, you'll be that much closer to making Mazael pay for what he has done. For what he did to Nicholas.”
Rage erupted through Molly, so hot and fierce that it felt as if her blood burned in her veins...
As if power and strength filled her.
She gave a sharp nod and cast aside her cloak.
Underneath she wore the loose black clothing and dark leather armor of the Skulls, the city of Barellion’s feared assassins’ brotherhood. She had trained every day for years under the Skulls' cruel masters, both before and after her grandfather had found her. She knew how to kill without noise, without mercy. But she had left that behind when she met Nicholas, left it behind forever.
Until Mazael killed Nicholas.
Once more fury burned through her. And this time Molly seized it, let the dark power of it fill her. She was an assassin of the Skulls, trained in death and stealth.
And she was Demonsouled...and no one could stand before her.
She took a step forward, and called forth the burning darkness within her.
Shadows swallowed her, and the world vanished.
And when the darkness retreated, she found herself standing on the curtain wall. The battle raged around her, knights and armsmen struggling against the zuvembies. They were winning – the fire from Mazael’s sword tore through the zuvembies. A pity, that. Normal steel could not harm the zuvembies, and if not for Mazael's sword, Corvad's walking corpses would have butchered Mazael’s men.
She saw Mazael Cravenlock in the thick of melee and a spike of anger burned in her heart, so fierce that she wanted to scream. He would pay for what he did to her, to Nicholas. She wanted to walk the shadows to his side and bury her sword in his back. But her grandfather had warned that she could not take Mazael in a straight fight.
Especially with that blue-eyed woman guarding his side.
The nearby armsmen looked at her in surprise, and Molly reached for the dark power within her. Again she walked the shadows, reappearing in the courtyard below the ruined tower. Here Mazael's men fought against the Malrags assaulting the barricade, and as on the walls, Mazael's men had the advantage.
A pair of armsmen in the black and silver tabards of the House of Cravenlock saw her appear.
“Foes within the walls!” they shouted, racing at her with swords drawn.
Damnation.
Molly drew her sword, the slender blade gleaming. The armsmen rushed at her, shields out, longswords drawn back for a strike. At the last moment, Molly drew on her power, and strode into the shadows. She reappeared behind the armsmen and spun, Demonsouled power filling her arms and legs with strength. Her boot caught the first armsman behind the knee, and he fell with a clang of armor, his head bouncing off the ground. The second recovered and lunged at her. But with the power filling her, he seemed slow, so terribly slow, and Molly sidestepped, her fist punching out. The pommel of her sword smashed into the man's jaw, and he fell, stunned.
Shouts rang out from the wall, and Molly saw some of the armsmen staring at her, while the archers turned, lifting their bows. The blue-eyed woman's gaze fixed on Molly, and her hands blurred as she raised her bow and notched an arrow.
Molly walked the shadows to the other side of the courtyard. And not a moment too soon – the blue-eyed woman's arrow shattered against the very spot Molly had been standing. The woman pivoted, bow turning towards Molly's direction.
It was time to go. But first Molly needed Mazael's baggage, his supplies. Where would he have hidden them? Someplace safe, someplace secure...
In the ruined tower.
Molly strode the shadows an instant before the next arrow drove into the ground.
She reappeared inside the ruined tower, balanced on a pile of eroded rubble. Pack horses stood within the tower's walls, laden with sacks and bags. Wounded men lay upon blankets, but scrambled to their feet when they saw her, reaching for their weapons. A woman stood over the wounded, a baby in her arms. She had green eyes and black hair. Rachel Roland, Mazael's sister. Half-sister, anyway.
Molly's grandfather had mentioned her.
“Who are you?” said Rachel.
Molly looked around.
There. Two pack horses. A cot slung between them.
A dark, misshapen shape resting upon the cot.
The wounded men hobbled towards her, weapons in hand.
“Get out of my way,” said Molly, “or die. I don't care which.” Corvad would have simply slaughtered them all, the woman and the infant included. But Molly did not kill, unless necessary.
Save for Mazael Cravenlock.
“What do you want?” said Rachel.
“Lucan Mandragon,” said Molly. “He's coming with me.”
“No,” said Rachel.
Molly looked at her and grinned. “Do you really think you can stop me? And do you really want to see your brother's men, your husband's men, die to save one wretched wizard? One who turned himself into a monster?”
Doubt flickered across Rachel’s face. Molly heard noise from the courtyard, shouts and clattering boots. Mazael and his woman had sent men to stop her. She was out of time.
“Last chance,” said Molly. “Get out of my way. Or die in front of your son.”
Rachel scowled, but sidestepped. The wounded men hesitated, and then did the same.
“Wise,” said Molly, and walked to the cot.
She looked upon Lucan Mandragon, the Dragon's Shadow, the youngest son of Lord Richard Mandragon the Dragonslayer.