“Can you batter through it?”
-With time, yes. We have sufficient power-
“Then do it,” said Corvad.
So Molly watched as the warlocks launched volley after volley of green lightning at the looming black castle. Blue light shimmered up and down over the towers, writhing with crawling fingers of green light. The Malrag warlocks raised their clawed hands, whispering spells in their grotesque language, arcane power snarling around them. A normal Malrag shaman could not have sustained the barrage, but infused with Corvad's Demonsouled blood, the warlocks possessed far greater reserves of magical power.
Then blue light flashed, and the green lightning ceased.
-The ward is destroyed, great one-
“You are certain?” said Corvad.
One of the warlocks waved its clawed hand, and Molly recognized the spell to sense the presence of magic.
-Yes. There are still numerous wards within the castle, along with several powerful sources of magic. But we can enter-
“You two,” said Corvad, pointing at a pair of infused Malrags. “See if you can open the doors.”
The Malrags obeyed. They climbed the steps and reached for the great steel-banded doors. Molly waited to see if they would trigger the ward, if they would fall in heaps of smoking char.
But the seized the doors, and nothing happened. A moment later the doors swung open with a groan, revealing a high corridor of black stone. More reliefs covered the wall, undoubtedly showing the triumphs of the High Lords of Dracaryl, and Molly saw a faint green glow in the distance.
“At last,” said Corvad. “Inside, all of you. I will not be denied from claiming the Glamdaigyr.”
He strode up the stairs, hand on his sword hilt. The Malrags and the zuvembies, bound to his will and the power of the black diadem, followed him. Molly walked at Corvad's side, watching his expression. She had rarely seen him so eager, so excited, save when the opportunity to kill presented itself.
And the Glamdaigyr would give him the opportunity to kill countless thousands.
Countless thousands like Nicholas?
Unnumbered women who would mourn as Molly mourned?
She shoved aside the thought. She would repay Mazael for what he had done to Nicholas. The rest of the world could burn.
“The strongest source of magical power,” said Corvad to his warlocks, his boots clicking against the floor of cool black marble. “Where is it?”
-The heart of the castle, great one. Under the dome of the central keep, most likely-
“Then we'll go there at once,” said Corvad.
They encountered two more wards sealing the hall, and the warlocks blasted them away. At last the hall ended in a large domed chamber, perhaps fifty yards across, lit by a pale green glow that seemed to have no source. At the opposite end of the round room a broad staircase rose in an archway, leading higher into the castle. At first Molly thought they had reached the central dome, but after a moment she realized it was too small. This chamber was utterly empty, bereft of both furniture and reliefs upon the walls.
Save for the statue standing upon its pedestal beneath the dome.
Carved from some dark stone, it showed a young woman clad in a sleeveless robe, arms crossed across her chest, eyes closed. It looked...real. Disturbingly so. As if it was a living woman of flesh and blood, rather than mere stone. Molly watched the statue for a moment, half-expecting it to breathe.
Corvad frowned, hand tightening against his sword hilt.
“Do you know what that is?” said Molly.
“No,” said Corvad.
He was lying, Molly was sure of it. But why? It was just a statue.
Corvad looked at the nearest warlock. “Does the statue have a spell upon it?”
-Yes, great one. Several, all of surpassing potency. I suspect it is a prison for a summoned spirit of great power-
Corvad's scowl deepened.
“You know what it is, don't you?” said Molly.
“A guardian,” said Corvad. He took a deep breath. “Grandfather thought we might encounter one. He called it an oracle statue.”
“What the devil is an oracle statue?” said Molly.
“A spirit from the spirit world, summoned and bound into the stone,” said Corvad. “They claim to speak only the truth, and will answer any questions posed to them, once they are bound. But the answers are always lies, and crafted in such a way to drive the questioner mad.” He shook his head. “Grandfather always avoided them. He claimed that even he had no defense from an oracle statue.”
Molly felt her eyebrows rise. In addition to the great power of his Demonsouled blood, the Old Demon was a wizard of overwhelming magical might, his spells honed over the long millennia of his immortal life. If he feared something...
“How do we defeat it?” said Molly.
“Simple,” said Corvad. “We ignore it. If the oracle statue speaks to you, do not answer it. If you do not ask it questions, its answers cannot overthrow your mind.”
Molly looked at the statue. “And this creature is a guardian? A dubious means of defense, if one can simply ignore it.”
Corvad shrugged. “The lords of Dracaryl were powerful, but they were not infallible. Otherwise their heirs would still sit in their citadels, and Dracaryl would not have fallen into ruin. Now, come. We waste time.”
He moved towards the stairs on the far end of the room, taking care to circle around the statue. Molly followed, her hand twitching toward her sword hilt. She felt no trace of magic radiating from the statue, save for its uncanny realism. Surely no sculptor had ever created a statue so detailed, so...
The oracle statue's eyes opened, shining with green light.
Molly hissed in alarm.
“Molly Cravenlock,” said the statue in a woman's voice of unearthly beauty. “Daughter of Mazael and Elizabeth. I have seen your approach from afar, and watched as the fire of your pain devours you, and leads you to your doom.”
“What?” said Molly.
“Do not listen to it,” said Corvad, voice urgent. “It will drive you mad.”
“All mortals walk to their doom,” said the oracle statue, “but your doom, demon-tainted child, is far darker than most. Do you wish to know it?”
“What do you mean?” said Molly, taking a step closer.
“Damn it,” said Corvad. “Don't answer it!”
“I see your fate,” said the oracle statue. “I see the doom you have fashioned for yourself, the hell you have constructed through your choices. Even now it awaits you. Do you wish to know it?”
Molly scoffed. “And then you'll tell me something to drive me mad? Keep your lies, spirit.”
“Then would you like to know your heart's desire?” said the statue. “The thing you yearn to know above all else?”
Molly laughed. “I already know everything I wish to know.”
“Do you wish to know why Nicholas Tormaud died?” said the statue.
Molly scowled. “I know why Nicholas died. Mazael Cravenlock murdered him.”
“And how did Mazael murder him?” said the statue.
“Stop this, sister, now,” said Corvad.
“He...” said Molly. “He...”
She realized that she really didn't know.
She knew how Nicholas had died. She had returned to their rooms to find him lying in a pool of his own blood, multiple sword wounds in his chest and belly. He had been too far gone to speak, but clutched her hands as he died, mouthing her name. Later Corvad explained how Mazael came from the Grim Marches to slay her, and failing that, murdered Nicholas to hurt her.
Except...
Molly blinked.
Except nearly a year had passed. Her mind was clearer now, and that story didn't make very much sense.
Why had Mazael come north? He had abandoned their mother, but after that, he had ignored them entirely. Why had he finally sought Molly out after almost twenty years? How had he even found her?
Had he even known she existed?
“Why did Mazael kill Nicholas?” said Molly.
A smile spread across the oracle statue's stone lips. “He...”
“No!” roared Corvad.
He seized her shoulder, spun her to face him. Molly's Skull-trained reflexes took over, and she twisted out of his grip, yanking her sword from its scabbard. She expected Corvad to draw his sword, to attack her.
Instead he only stood at the point of her sword, his hands spread.
“Molly,” said Corvad.
She blinked. He had not called her by name in years, not since they were children.
“Listen to me,” said Corvad. “It is lying to you. It is part of the castle's defenses, the traps the High Lords of Arylkrad wrought to destroy invaders. If you let the statue answer that question, the answer will kill you.”
Molly found herself blinking back tears. “I don't care about dying. Not since...not since Nicholas was killed.”
“But do you care,” said Corvad, “about killing Mazael Cravenlock? About avenging Nicholas's death?”
Molly shivered.
“He killed Nicholas, Molly,” said Corvad, voice hard. “He abandoned us to the Skulls. And when he rebelled against our grandfather, he went to war against us. He came to kill you, to spite our grandfather, and when he couldn't find you he killed Nicholas instead.”
Molly gave a hesitant nod.
“So ask the statue a question if you wish,” said Corvad, “but if you do, you will never avenge Nicholas's death.”
“No,” said Molly, her voice frost. She could not let that happen.
She rammed her sword into its scabbard and walked to the stairs, ignoring the statue. Part of her mind screamed that she might blunder into a ward, but she did not care. She reached the base of the stairs and stopped, breathing hard.
After a moment she heard Corvad join her.
“You made the right decision, sister,” said Corvad. “Together we shall repay anyone who has ever caused us pain.”
“I just want Nicholas back,” whispered Molly.
A sneer crossed his hard face. “He's dead. Accept it. But Mazael murdered him...and you can kill Mazael. Now, come. The key to your vengeance lies ahead.”
Molly followed Corvad up the stairs, the Malrags and zuvembies marching behind. Four of the Malrags bore Lucan Mandragon's cot. Another ward sealed the doors at the top of the stairs, and the warlocks blasted through it with a burst of green lightning, the thunder deafening in the enclosed space. The Malrags opened the doors, and a vast hall yawned before them, the ceiling supported by a forest of thick pillars. Enspelled lights hung from chains, throwing off a ghostly green glow. More of the ubiquitous reliefs covered the pillars, and the floor was a built of a strange dark stone. Molly's reflection danced in it like an image through a murky window.
“Here?” said Corvad.
One of the warlocks whispered a spell.
-Not yet, great one. The strongest power source is above us -
“The Glamdaigyr?” said Corvad.
-Almost certainly-
Molly sniffed the air. No doubt due to the wards, the other chambers of Arylkrad had been odorless. But this great pillared hall smelled...dusty. And there was another odor as well. Something like rotten meat, or perhaps poisoned blood.
“Brother,” said Molly. “Do you smell that?”
“The Malrags stink, sister,” said Corvad, turning from his warlocks. “I thought you'd be used to that by now.”
“It's not that,” said Molly. “This is something else. It's...”
She heard the click of boots against the floor and turned.
A band of Malrags approached from the far side of the hall. Molly frowned, wondering why some of Corvad's Malrags had wandered off.
But these weren't Corvad's Malrags.
They lacked the pulsing crimson veins of the infused Malrags, and wore blood-colored armor, the steel plates adorned with intricate designs in the style of Dracaryl. And the Malrags looked...ancient. Deep wrinkles scored their gray hides, and odd tumor-like growths dotted their jaws and hairless scalps.
Molly felt the weight of their blank white eyes as they approached.
“What?” said Corvad, sword in hand. “How did they get in here? The castle was sealed.”
“Brother,” said Molly, her voice low and urgent. “They were already in here.”
Corvad's eyes narrowed.
“Malrags neither eat nor drink,” said Molly, “and they'll live forever unless something kills them. Those Malrags have been in here since the last High Lord left Arylkrad.”
At least a hundred of the ancient Malrags approached. Rattling noises came from behind the crimson-armored Malrags, and Molly saw skeletal shapes making their way to the Malrags' side. The creatures looked like a great deal like zuvembies, green fire flashing in their empty eye sockets, save that their bones were black, like a skeleton carved out of ebony. And unlike the zuvembies, the ebony skeletons bore swords and shields of black steel.
“What are those?” said Corvad.
One of the warlocks answered.
-Necromantic guardians. Empowered by spells of great potency, far stronger than the zuvembies under the command of your relic-
The ranks of the ancient Malrags parted.
A Malrag shaman in a leather robe the color of blood hobbled forward, leaning upon a staff of twisted black wood. Three human skulls hung from the tip of the staff, and clacked together as the creature limped towards them. The shaman itself looked ancient, older than the castle, yet its third eye blazed with green light.
The three warlocks drew themselves up, clawed hands raised.
-Beware, great one. For the longer our kind dwells in the flesh , the stronger our power grows, and this one has been dwelt in the flesh for long centuries-
Corvad pointed his sword at the shaman. “Name yourself.”
The ancient shaman's milky eyes shifted to Corvad.
-I am the Seneschal. It is my task to defend the master's castle during his absence-
Corvad laughed. “Fool. Your master has been dead for centuries.”
-Unimportant. We are to guard the master's castle until his return, or until one comes who is strong enough to supplant him-
The Seneschal beckoned, and several of the ebony dead moved to join him.