A creature that could crush Lucan like a gnat.
And Lucan had just put himself in this thing's power.
“Get up,” said the Old Demon.
Strength surged through Lucan, and he felt the wounds in his side close. He climbed to his feet and found that he could stay standing.
“Good,” said the Old Demon. His smile exposed yellowed, twisted teeth, like the fangs of some ravenous predator. “You seem unharmed, more or less.” He glanced toward the sky. “And...ah. Your physical body remains alive. It will be interesting to see who proves the stronger, you or Corvad. And if you are indeed the stronger…then you’re going to do a great deal of work for me.”
“That wasn't part of the bargain,” said Lucan.
“It isn't,” said the Old Demon. “But you'll do it anyway. You'll do it of your own free will. You'll do my work because you want to do it.”
“No,” said Lucan. “The bargain was for my conscience, or a promise to let you take it later. Either take my conscience and return me to my body, or leave me alone.”
“As you wish,” said the Old Demon. “Let us return you to your physical body.” He laid his left hand on Lucan's shoulder. His fingernails had changed, becoming long black claws. “There is one thing you should know about me, first.”
“What is that?” said Lucan.
The Old Demon grinned. “That I am a liar.”
His right hand shot forward and plunged deep into Lucan's chest.
Lucan screamed and fell to his knees, blood gushing over his torso. The Old Demon's hand ripped free, holding Lucan's beating heart.
The dragon lifted its head, eyes focusing on the heart.
“The heart is the seat of the soul,” said the Old Demon, blood drizzling from his fingers. “And your soul has been sundered, Lucan Mandragon. One half tainted by the corruption of Mazael's Demonsouled blood, while the other struggles to remain untainted. And I think it's time we fixed that. Don't you?”
He raised his arm and flung the heart into the dragon's waiting maw.
For a moment nothing happened. Lucan swayed on his knees, wondering how he was still alive, still conscious.
“Don't worry,” said the Old Demon. “You'll remember nothing when you wake up.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Though this next part is really going to hurt.”
He gestured, and Lucan burst into flames.
He screamed, screamed until he thought his lungs would burst. Nothing, not Marstan's attacks, not Malavost's invasion of his mind, not even the Old Demon ripping out his heart, had ever hurt like this. Lucan lurched his feet and ran, trying to beat out the flames, gibbering in panic and agony.
Even through the flames, he saw the dragon move.
The fanged maw yawned wide, and Lucan just had time to scream once more before it enveloped him.
Another stab of agony, worse than the flames, and everything went black.
Chapter 32 – Father and Son
The warlocks stopped their snarling chant.
Molly blinked sweat from her eyes, wondering if the spell had finished.
Wondering if Corvad would bury the Glamdaigyr in her chest.
“What is it?” said Corvad. “Why have you stopped the spell?”
One of the warlocks pointed at the stairs.
-We sense the approach of foes, great one. Mazael Cravenlock and his men-
Corvad grinned.
“Good,” he said, lifting the Glamdaigyr's point from Molly's chest.
She almost sobbed in relief.
Yet she still felt the sword's cold aura, like a predator watching her from the shadows.
“So he made it this far,” mused Corvad, gazing at the stairs. “It appears the Seneschal has failed. Little wonder the lords of Dracaryl were overthrown, if they employed such impotent servants. No matter. I will deal with Mazael myself.”
-What are your commands-
“Proceed,” said Corvad, “as I instructed you.”
Even through her fear, Molly wondered what Corvad had planned. He circled to the edge of the dais, the Glamdaigyr waiting in his right hand.
Beside Molly, Lucan thrashed and moaned in his stupor, sweat standing out on his gray skin, red light flickering beneath his eyelids.
###
Romaria walked a few paces behind Mazael, bow ready in her hand. Osric followed her, carrying his shortbow. The grizzled knight had proven a capable archer – she had seen him put an arrow through a Malrag's eye at a remarkable distance. Behind them came Gerald and Kjalmir and the assembled knights, armsmen, and Arminiars, weapons ready.
The stairs ended, and Romaria found herself gazing into a vast domed chamber, larger than all the previous rooms. A balcony encircled the room, and a towering pyramidal dais rose beneath the center of the dome. A ring of Malrags and ebony dead stood at the base of the dais.
Corvad waited at the top.
He wore the ornamented black armor of a high lord of Dracaryl, the black steel marked with reliefs. A winged dragon helm covered his diadem, and power and strength rolled off him in waves. In his right hand he held a black greatsword, its pommel carved in the shape of a dragon skull, the blade flickering with symbols of green fire. Just looking at the weapon made Romaria's skin crawl. The thing radiated icy hunger, as if it wanted to suck away the life and warmth from her body.
The Glamdaigyr.
“Mazael Cravenlock!” called Corvad.
Mazael walked the final few steps into the throne chamber, Lion burning in his hand. “You were looking for me?”
Corvad smiled, and crooked a finger.
The air crackled with arcane power, and Romaria saw the three Malrag warlocks standing behind Corvad, growling a spell. She raised her bow, but her reaction came too late. The warlocks thrust out their clawed hands, and a wall of snarling green flame appeared across the stairs, sealing them off from the throne chamber.
And separating Mazael from her and the men.
Romaria loosed her arrow. But it struck the wall of green flame and shattered into cinders.
###
Mazael whirled as the wall of green flame rose across the entrance. For a terrible moment he thought the warlocks had unleashed their fury within the stairs, loosing a spell that would kill his close-packed men. But though the flames sealed off the stairs, they did not spread.
Trapping him within the throne chamber.
Corvad wanted Mazael for himself.
Mazael turned, waiting for the Malrags and the ebony dead to attack, but they did not move.
“Don't worry,” called Corvad. “They won't attack you. I've commanded them to leave you untouched.” He descended from the top of the towering dais, the Glamdaigyr in his right fist. “You're mine.”
“Brave words from a stripling boy,” said Mazael.
He expected an angry reaction, but Corvad only frowned. He reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped a dozen paces from Mazael.
“Do your followers know?” he said, nodding towards the flames. “What you really are?”
“No,” said Mazael.
“Clever,” said Corvad. “They would not understand. We are Demonsouled. The blood of gods flows through our veins. We were born to rule the earth. They are only insects. Cattle. To do with what we will.”
“They are not,” said Mazael.
“You are a fool,” said Corvad. “I know that the Old Demon offered to make you the Destroyer. You could have ruled the earth, yet you rejected the power. For what?” Again he gestured at the wall of flames. “For some Elderborn half-breed?”
“Because I will not become a monster,” said Mazael. “Not like the Old Demon. Not like you.” He hesitated. “The Old Demon lied to you. You think men and women are cattle, Corvad? Well, we are cattle to the Old Demon. He sires children and grandchildren, and lets them run amok in the world. And when they become powerful enough, he slays them and devours their power, adding their strength to his own.”
Corvad laughed. “He rejected you as unworthy. You were too weak to seize what should have been yours. You are still too weak – it disgusts me that you are my father.” He raised the Glamdaigyr. “But I am stronger than you. Strong enough to become the Destroyer, to smash the realms of men beneath my feet. Then I will rebuild the world in my own image, and rule over it forever.”
“You're a fool, and a mad one,” said Mazael. “The Old Demon will devour you long before you ever gather that much power.”
“No,” said Corvad. “I will kill you myself, father. Weak though you are...you are still a worthy opponent. You slew two other children of the Old Demon. You defeated Ultorin and the Malrag horde. And when I return to the Old Demon with the Glamdaigyr in my right hand and your head in my left...he will know that I am worthy. He will know that I am strong enough to become the Destroyer.”
Mazael spun Lion in his fist. “You'll have to take my head first, boy.”
Corvad closed both armored hands around the Glamdaigyr's hilt. “Easily accomplished.”
He charged forward, moving with the speed granted by Demonsouled power.
Mazael doubted that his shield would stop the Glamdaigyr's spell-forged edge. So he slipped it from his left arm and flung it. Corvad swung the black greatsword, shattering the shield in midair, and Mazael seized the opening. Lion clanged against the side of Corvad's helm, staggering him, and Mazael stepped back and reversed Lion, intending to drive the burning sword into Corvad's face.
The Glamdaigyr met his blow.
The blades screeched when they met, the scream far louder than mere stressed steel. The Glamdaigyr's green flame and Lion's blue fire struggled like two storms waging war upon the other. Corvad shoved, and Mazael retreated a few steps, Lion's hilt grasped in both hands. Corvad watched him, gray eyes glinting in the shadows of the dragon helm.
“Is that the best the great Mazael Cravenlock can do?” he said. “Pathetic.”
“I'm still alive,” said Mazael. “Which you seem unable to change.”
Corvad sneered. “We'll see.”
He came at Mazael, the Glamdaigyr a blur of dark steel and green flame.
###
Romaria could not see through the wall of raging green flame. Yet even over the roar of the flames she heard the clang of steel on steel, heard the hideous tearing shrieks of Lion's power struggling against the Glamdaigyr's dark magic. Mazael was still alive, and fighting.
But perhaps not for very long.
She cursed and thrust an arrow into the wall of flame. Again the arrowhead twisted and dissolved into molten fragments, the shaft disintegrating into ash. She did not need to guess what it would do to her flesh if she tried to enter it.
“Can you dispel it?” said Romaria.
“Possibly,” said Timothy, squinting at the flame.
“You were able to block the warlocks' mistgates,” said Gerald.
“Aye, sir knight,” said Circan, “but the mistgates are a delicate spell, easy to disrupt. Like throwing a rock through a window of stained glass. If the mistgates were a glass window, this spell is an iron block. Simple raw power. We may not be able to dispel it.”
“Try at once,” said Kjalmir. “Corvad wants to kill Lord Mazael with his own hands, I'm sure, to prove his prowess. But once he cuts down Mazael, he'll order his warlocks to throw their lightning. Their spells will make short work of us.”
“Do it,” said Romaria.
Timothy nodded, and he and Circan muttered incantations.
###
The Glamdaigyr met Lion, a dozen blows in half as many heartbeats, and Mazael took Corvad's measure.
He was as strong as Mazael and a touch faster. Yet the weight of the Glamdaigyr slowed his blows, though the massive weapon gave him a far greater reach than Lion. One blow from that sword would split Mazael in half...if he was foolish enough to stand and receive it.
And he was a better swordsman than Corvad. For all his power and ferocity, Corvad was only twenty years old. Mazael had held a sword every day since he was a child, had been in more fights and battles than he could remember, and survived all of them. He knew the blade in a way that Corvad did not.
They broke apart, circling each other.
“You are as capable as I expected,” said Corvad. “Though somewhat feeble.”
Mazael smiled. “I slew my first man before you were born. And I haven't grown feeble yet.”
Corvad charged Mazael, the Glamdaigyr sweeping around in a sideways cut. Mazael parried the blow, sidestepped, and launched a two-handed swing of his own. Lion's blade clanged against Corvad's side, but bounced away from the ornate black armor. Ancient it might have been, but the armor of Old Dracaryl was hard and strong.
“For all your strength, you could have been so much more,” said Corvad. “You could have been the Destroyer. The world could have been yours! Yet you are a wolf that chooses to live as a sheep.”
“You sound,” said Mazael, “like the Old Demon.”
“He was strong enough to take the power that was rightfully his,” said Corvad. “As am I.”
Mazael's lip twisted. “I know you think of yourself as a wolf, but you're not. You're a puppet, a dupe. You're only a tool to the Old Demon. Even if you prove yourself worthy, even if you become the Destroyer, you'll be only a weapon to him. And when you're no longer useful to him, he will devour you and steal your power for his own.”
For the first time, a flicker of rage burst through Corvad's icy contempt.
He threw himself at Mazael, the Glamdaigyr a black storm in his hands. Mazael parried and dodged as Corvad drove him around the dais. He might be able to defeat Corvad on his own. But if he gained the upper hand, Corvad would order the waiting Malrags and ebony dead to aid him. Where was Molly? Had she abandoned Corvad? For that matter, what about the warlocks? Undoubtedly Corvad's pet warlocks maintained the wall of arcane fire sealing the stairs. If Mazael could find and kill them, his men could come to his aid.
Then Corvad raised the Glamdaigyr for a massive overhead blow, and Mazael saw his chance. He thrust, Lion sinking into Corvad's exposed armpit, the blue fire blazing. Corvad hissed in pain and wrenched himself free, but not before dark blood trickled down his elaborate cuirass. Demonsouled power struggled to heal wounds from Lion, and if Mazael could wear down Corvad...