(eng) Jonathan Moeller - Demonsouled 04 by Soul of Dragons

Author:Soul of Dragons [Dragons, Soul of]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 20 – Master of Shadows

The moaning wind never ceased.

Lucan made his slow way along the road, one hand braced against the rock wall of the mountain. The path here was little more than a twisting ribbon of stone, clinging to the mountain's jagged side. The slope wasn't quite a cliff, but steep enough that a fall would kill him.

He laughed a little at the thought.

One needed a physical body in order to die. And what would happen if he was killed here? Would his spirit disintegrate into nothingness? Would the Demonsouled corruption devour him? Or would he be trapped here forever, the reapers and killing him over and over again?

That thought did not make him laugh. Perhaps the Old Demon had lied to him, and his physical body was already dead. Perhaps he was trapped here.

“No,” growled Lucan. He would escape from this place. He would return to his body. Then he would take vengeance upon Malavost, upon his father, upon his brother, upon anyone who had ever caused him pain.

He gazed up at the mountain, at the ruined black city overhead. It was much closer now, and he had a clear view of the gaping holes torn into its black walls. What was the black city? Everything else here was either a manifestation of the Demonsouled corruption or something spawned from the depths of Lucan's own mind. So what did the black city represent? The Demonsouled power of the bloodstaff? Lucan's inner mind? Or something else entirely?

He would find out, soon enough.

Assuming the reapers and the hooded shadows did not kill him first.

Lucan glanced backward, at the foothills and the dead forest and the roiling black sea. He had seen no one else since leaving the burned castle in the foothills, and the long road let him see anyone attempting to ascend the mountain. Not that it mattered – Lucan suspected the reapers would not rely on anything as mundane as walking.

The road widened as it followed the curve of the mountain. Lucan lifted his hand, drawing on power for a spell. The wider road meant that more than one reaper could attack him at once, if they wanted a fight. He kept walking, hand raised, and the road widened into a broad ledge.

Then he saw the ruins ahead.

“Not again,” he muttered.

A courtyard jutted from the side of the mountain, built of the same black stone as the ruined castle and the city atop the peak. Broken statues littered the courtyard, images of men in armor and women in flowing gowns. It looked a great deal like the Court of Swords at his father's castle of Swordgrim.

“What is it this time?” shouted Lucan, stepping into the courtyard, his boots clicking against the black flagstones. “Shall you appear in the form of my mother, and castigate me for my failures? Or will you take Tymaen's shape, and blame all my pain upon my mistakes? Or perhaps you'll take the shape of Marstan, and mock my weakness?” His voice rose to a shout, echoing off the side of the mountain.

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