Soul of Swords (Book 7) (26 page)

Lucan set himself, reaching into the power of the Banurdem.

For Skalatan had made a fatal error. True, by some spell the serpent had beguiled the dragon. But Lucan bore the Banurdem, the diadem fashioned by Randur Maendrag himself, the greatest of the high lords of Old Dracaryl. The Banurdem gave its bearer the power to raise and command the undead.

And, almost as an afterthought, it bestowed its bearer with the power to enslave a dragon.

Lucan summoned the Banurdem’s power and focused his will upon the dragon.

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“My gods,” said Montigard, his jaw hanging open. “My gods. I am not seeing this. I am not seeing this. I swear, my Prince, I did not touch a drop of wine before the battle, even though I sorely wanted to find a whore and get dead drunk. I am far more sober than I wish to be, and yet I am seeing…I am seeing…”

“Shut up,” said Hugh.

“Yes, excellent idea,” said Montigard. 

The dragon shot past the wall, the hellish inferno of its breath turning a siege tower to smoking kindling and lines of runedead to char. Even from a distance, the heat of its breath stung Hugh’s face and made his eyes water.

“A dragon,” said Hugh, unable to decide if he was more terrified or awed. “I never thought to see one.” 

“And it appears,” said Maurus, “to be on our side.” He turned and spoke to another armsman. “My lord Prince, we’ve had messengers from the other Gates. The dragon utterly destroyed the runedead assaulting the Gate of Bishops. The enemy has broken off their assault upon the Gate of Knights, and those runedead are marching to join Lord Malden outside the Gate of Merchants.”

“Good,” said Hugh, unable to think of anything else to say. 

“My lord,” said one of the knights. “What…what should we do now?”

That was a superb question.

Hugh watched as the dragon swooped back and forth, its breath transforming both runedead and living men into blazing torches. Lord Malden’s lines of living and undead soldiers had utterly collapsed into chaos, and Hugh saw a small knot of horsemen around the Roland banner. Malden and his household knights, Hugh surmised.

“We prepare to charge the enemy,” said Hugh.

A chorus of shock answered him. 

“The gods have given us this chance,” said Hugh, though he suspected the dragon was more Skalatan’s doing, “and let no one say the men of Greycoast did not seize the hour when it came to them. Those runedead are under the command of Malden Roland and Lucan Mandragon, and if we can strike down the tyrant and his necromancer, then the runedead will lose cohesion. They will no longer be a mighty host, but a hundred milling bands, and we can destroy them one by one.”

“But the risk…” began Maurus.

“If we do nothing Barellion is lost in any event,” said Hugh. The dragon bellowed a terrific roar and swooped across the runedead, writing lines of fire through the seething mass of undead. “I want every knight and armsman strong enough to ride mounted at the Gate of Merchants immediately.”

He strode from the ramparts, the others following. The wounds on his jaw and arm burned, every muscle and bone in his body ached, and the stench of blood and burning flesh filled his nostrils. Hugh wanted nothing more than to throw himself upon the ground and sleep for a week.  

But he was the Prince, and his people needed him.

###

“Again,” said Skalatan, and the dragon obeyed, unleashing more fire upon Malden Roland’s dwindling host. The creature never tired of destruction, and for all of the dragon’s vast intellect and strength of will, it took a childish delight in destroying the runedead. No matter. The dragon would burn Lord Malden’s armies, both living and dead, to ashes until Lucan interfered.

And then Skalatan and the dragon would destroy him.

The dragon descended for another pass, more fire erupting from its jaws, and Skalatan felt a wave of mental pressure. 

The dragon’s jaw snapped shut. Skalatan looked at the drachweisyr in his carrier’s hands, puzzled, and then back at the dragon. The mental pressure redoubled, and then redoubled again. Yet for all its strength, the mental pressure seemed…ineffective, like a club of hardened clay beating against a shield of steel.

“Ah,” hissed Skalatan as understanding came to him.

“What is this?” snarled the dragon.

“The Banurdem,” said Skalatan, “a relic forged by the high lords of Dracaryl, designed to enslave dragons.” 

The dragon’s laughter boomed like thunder. “Mortal men seek to enslave me with their petty magic? The fools!” 

“Their petty magic would be effective,” said Skalatan, “but you are already bound by a greater magic, the power of the drachweisyr, and the high lords of Dracaryl never commanded dragons with the skill of the Dark Elderborn of old. And our foe has given away his position.”

Skalatan focused his will, seeking the source of the mental pressure washing against the drachweisyr. He followed it to a blue banner with the silver greathelm sigil of the Rolands in the heart of the runedead host, a band of horsemen waiting below it. 

And before the horsemen, Skalatan saw a rider in a black cloak.

“Destroy him,” said Skalatan.

The dragon beat its wings and dove towards the horsemen. 

###

Lucan bent his will upon the dragon, using the power of the Banurdem to command it to destroy the rider upon its back.

But the dragon kept circling over the runedead, and then Lucan heard a strange booming sound.

Laughter. 

The dragon was laughing at him. 

Again he focused his will upon the dragon.

And again nothing happened. His will and the Banurdem’s power slid away from the dragon like raindrops from an oiled cloak. 

“What is happening?” said Malden. 

“I,” said Lucan, watching the great black shape hurtle through the air, “I don’t know.”

How had Skalatan found magic able to counteract the Banurdem? Lucan searched Randur’s memories, Marstan’s memories, and found nothing. A dozen different strategies flickered through Lucan’s thoughts, plans to break Skalatan’s control over the dragon…

“Lucan!” shouted Malden.

A far more important fact forced its way into Lucan’s thoughts.

The dragon was diving right at him, its maw yawning wide, a flare of white light appearing deep in its gullet.

The necromancy that had transformed Lucan into a revenant made him impervious to normal weapons and all but the most powerful magic, but a dragon’s fire would shred that necromancy and reduce his bones to coals. 

And for the first time since his death and rebirth as a revenant, Lucan had the alarming feeling that he was overmatched.

He flung out his hands, summoning all the power that he could muster. A ward flared to life around him, a dome of pulsing blue light that covered both him and Lord Malden and some of the surrounding knights.

An instant later the dragon’s fire hammered into the dome. 

Rivers of flame roared around them, and even over the deafening noise Lucan heard the screams as the fire devoured both men and horses.

The screams did not last long, but the fire continued. Lucan watched in astonishment as his dome flickered and shrank, the ward collapsing beneath the raw power of dragon fire. He had thrown all of his strength into that spell.

And still his ward buckled.

The fire winked out as the dragon shot overhead, and Lucan’s ward collapsed. He, Malden, and a few other knights stood untouched in a circle of green grass surrounded by a field of glowing embers. Heaps of twisted char draped in glowing, half-melted armor surrounded them – all that remained of dozens of knights. 

And the dragon banked overhead for another pass.

Twisted knots of dark metal lay near the remains of the knights, the remnants of their black daggers. Lucan cursed in rage. The dragon’s fire could well destroy the household knights and their black daggers, and then Lucan would have no way to gather the necessary life force to open the Door of Souls.

The dragon turned, fresh fire glimmering over its black fangs. 

It occurred to Lucan that he may have underestimated Skalatan.

“Destroy that dragon!” said Malden. “If it hits us again, we’re…”

“Go!” said Lucan, pointing at the Outer Wall. “Resume the assault and take the city. The defenders will not have much strength left.”

“It will take time to get the runedead back into battle formation,” said Malden, “and…”

“Go, damn it!” snapped Lucan. “Take the city and purge it of the wicked. I shall deal with the dragon myself!” Perhaps Malden would break into Barellion and gather enough life force to open the Door of Souls. Then Lucan could slip away from the battlefield, leaving Skalatan and his dragon to deal with Malden and the runedead. 

Malden turned his horse, shouting orders at his knights, at the runedead, at anyone who would listen. But it had little effect. The dragon’s fire had destroyed too many runedead, throwing their lines and formations into chaos. And most of Malden’s living soldiers fled the field in terror. The men had never seen a dragon before, and had no idea of how to fight one. 

For that matter, Lucan had never seen a dragon before.

But he had fought San-keth clerics. And once he slew Skalatan and broke the San-keth’s control over the dragon, he could use the Banurdem to dominate the beast. 

Lucan sent his horse galloping towards the dragon, green fire burning around his fingers as he summoned power.

###

“Turn,” said Skalatan. 

The dragon came about in a tight circle, the hurricane gale of its passage throwing runedead to the ground. Skalatan spotted Lucan riding towards them, dark cloak billowing behind him.

“The wizard survived my fire,” said the dragon, annoyed.

“His strength is not infinite,” said Skalatan. 

“He is working a spell,” said the dragon.

Skalatan summoned magic. “I shall deal with his spell…and he cannot attack us if his strength is warding away your fire.” 

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Lucan raised his hands, and a bolt of emerald lighting fell screaming out of the cloudless sky. The blast was not aimed at the dragon, but at Skalatan. He knew better than to block that much raw force, so instead he deflected it, the blue light of a warding spell shining around him. The blast struck Skalatan and rebounded to the earth, tearing a dozen runedead to shreds. 

The dragon swooped lower and breathed its flame, and again a river of white-hot fury drowned Lucan Mandragon. Skalatan looked backwards as the dragon passed, and saw Lucan Mandragon and his horse surrounded by the pale glow of a half-collapsed warding spell. Lucan’s magic was sufficient to turn aside the dragon’s wrath, but only barely. 

Lucan turned his horse as the dragon banked over the smoking battlefield, and unleashed his attacks in earnest. One, two, three bolts of green lightning howled out of the sky in rapid succession. But Skalatan had fought Malrag shamans before, and knew how to handle this kind of attack. He deflected each of the blasts, sending the bolts thundering into the runedead. 

Lucan began the spell again, and Skalatan anticipated the direction of the attack. He worked his wards again, angling the power, and the blast of lightning hurtled out of the sky. Skalatan flung out his carrier’s skeletal hands, caught the blast, and threw it back at Lucan himself. 

Lucan’s own wards turned aside the strike.

His horse had no such protection, and the lightning sizzled through the animal, killing it in an instant. Lucan fell backwards off the saddle and hit the ground, rolling away.

“Now!” said Skalatan. “Strike before he recovers!” 

The dragon dove, unleashing its fire.

###

Lucan got to one knee, dazed.

His undead flesh felt no pain, of course. But the sheer power of the deflected spell stunned him, clouding his thoughts and slowing his reactions. He pushed aside the discomfort and forced himself to stand.

The dragon dove towards him, fire lancing from its maw.

There was no time to cast a spell, no time to summon power, no time even to dodge. 

Lucan had only one defense left. 

He raised his right hand and summoned the Glamdaigyr.

Darkness swirled around his fingers, and the massive black sword appeared in his grip. Symbols of green fire marched up its long blade, its pommel carved in the shape of a grinning dragon’s skull. A haze of darkness swirled around the weapon like smoke, and Lucan felt the sword’s raw power, the cold hunger that yearned to devour all life and warmth and leave the world cold and silent. 

He hoped the sword had an appetite for dragon fire. 

Lucan seized the hilt in both hands and thrust the Glamdaigyr at the lance of dragon fire.

The flame washed over him, heat enough to sear the flesh from his bones…and the sword drank the power. The Glamdaigyr pulled the entire blast of dragon fire into itself, the white-hot flame vanishing into the sword’s darkness like water pouring down a drain. Lucan laughed and let the sword drink the fire, preparing to unleash his power upon Skalatan. 

And then the power of the dragon fire poured into him.

Agony erupted through Lucan, and he screamed and fell to his knees. He felt the fire ravaging through him, felt it devouring the spells upon his undead flesh. The Glamdaigyr drained power from its victims and bestowed it upon its wielder…including, it seemed, power that could destroy its wielder. Lucan felt his flesh start to burn beneath his clothing, smoke rising from his collar and sleeves.

He lifted his left palm and screamed, forcing the stolen power into a spell. A bolt of white-hot fire leapt from his hand and shot skyward, wreathing Skalatan in flames. The fire could not touch the dragon, but Lucan saw the firestorm snarl around Skalatan, saw the San-keth’s wards fight to hold the attack at bay. 

He staggered to his feet, the Glamdaigyr clutched in both hands, the burns upon his undead flesh vanishing at the spells repaired themselves.

And as he did, the sound of war horns rang out from the Gate of Merchants.

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“For Barellion!” shouted Hugh. “For Greycoast and Barellion!”