Chapter 21: DD2 Chapter 015 – Doomhold

The remainder of the journey to Doomhold was almost pleasant. Rinton and his students' perverse magic allowed them to easily ‘recruit’ any creatures that dared to attack their sprawling caravan. Within an hour of Typhoeus and Arilla meeting up with them, the old draft horses that had been gifted from Cawic were noisily eaten and replaced with suitably large magical beasts that made light work of the heavy-wagon laden down with gold. The snaking convoy of people, mind-thralled creatures and baggage made swift time along the Old Road, with junior mages taking turns to burn their mana to clear away the snow that would otherwise slow their urgent pace.

With the students and accompanying servants at Typhoeus’s disposal, he and Arilla enjoyed a relatively luxurious journey with all the amenities that modern magecraft could provide. Still, despite the comparative ease of the second leg of their trip, the dragon much preferred the first, agonisingly-sleep-deprived one, for Typhoeus had two pressing complaints. 

The large sum of gold that they had retrieved from Kalle’s stash called to him insistently from its resting place beneath a leather tarp. Its intoxicating scent and lustrous colour spoke to every one of his draconic instincts and it was a daily struggle for him not to claim it for his own hoard. He knew that it was just a stupid impulse that he should ignore, but a large part of him didn’t care; his recent experiences had left him practically starved for material wealth and the opportunity sitting in front of him was so very tempting. He didn’t dare shift back into his other body, for with his heightened senses and strengthened instinctual urges, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to resist the gold’s seductive call.

The other issue was less draconic in nature and far more personal. Following their talk in Cawic’s hot-springs, Arilla’s disposition towards him had noticeably thawed. Things seemed to be finally getting better between them, which was why it was so painful for him to have to maintain his distance from her while they remained in the company of Erebus’s people. Typhoeus wanted to talk some more, to laugh and to drink, to see what this ‘friendship’ of theirs might naturally evolve into now that they were talking again, but he didn’t dare. Instead he savoured their fleeting moments alone together, where they stood a little closer and shared warm smiles, before they were inevitably interrupted by Rinton or one of his people. The purpose behind their frequent visitations remained unclear throughout the journey, and he had no clue whether the humans were intruding to try and curry favour with a visiting dragon, or to simply spy on him for Erebus. Although in consideration it was likely a combination of the two.

When they were being observed, Typhoeus pretended that Arilla was nothing more to him than a favoured servant, and she played at being a loyal dragon devotee, the disposable blade that he had once wanted her to become. While Erebus was considered to be a deviant amongst draconic society, Typhoeus had no idea how he would react to the revelation that a Sovereign Dragon was in love with his own Dragon Guard. In this day and age such a thing was beyond scandalous! Worse, it was a vulnerability that could and would be exploited. 

As an adult, whatever protections Typhoeus had enjoyed when he had first visited Doomhold years ago were long gone, and his status as an exile meant that he was already risking his life just by returning to the Shadow Dragon’s city. The returned gold from Cawic would certainly help ingratiate him upon arrival, but if Erebus came to learn how he felt about Arilla, then he would be giving the older creature yet another method to manipulate him with. One that wouldn’t even require the Shadow Dragon to break propriety in order to take advantage of him. 

When it came down to it, deception and the loose traditions of a polite draconic host were an extremely thin shield that Arilla was intent on risking her life behind. Yet despite this, Typhoeus’s favourite human remained unwilling to be left outside of Doomhold. While he knew that Erebus would have the information that he wanted, Typhoeus was skeptical that he would actually be able to do anything with the knowledge that the older dragon possessed. 

He knew that he shouldn’t have brought Arilla with him. He could have visited Erebus at any point over the long Autumn that they had spent apart, but the risk to his life was great, and if this was to be the last thing that he ever did, then was it so bad to have said goodbye to her first? Was the danger he was putting her in worth the comfort she brought him even if he had to keep her at wing’s length? Like so many questions that he asked himself, Typhoeus already knew the answer even if he didn’t want to admit it.

“We’re here!” Rinton announced, bringing a brief halt to the caravan. His obvious statement managed to elicit cheers from his travel-weary students, who noticeably picked up the pace when it resumed moving while Typhoeus tutted at their show of obvious enthusiasm.

Looking at it, he was struck by what an uninspired name for a city Doomhold was, especially for one so unlike any other. In the cold light of the early morning, the rising sun to the west cast long shadows from the tips of Doomhold’s spires that reached out to them in the snow beyond the walls like a collection of bared knives, ready to draw blood. Even without the knowledge of the rank 6 dragon inside, it was hard to see past the obvious threat that the city contained.

As they approached the tall gates Typhoeus found himself marvelling at the sheer majesty of the thing. Ornate runework layered in broad silver strokes spanned both sides of the massive oak doors some fifty feet high, extending out to the walls which were more than twice as tall and thicker than most houses in Rhelea, allowing for them to be filled to the brim with waiting soldiers. Each individual rune was immaculate, Erebus having carved them personally over the past century, his subjects and thralls being more than capable of seeing to the maintenance of what he had etched into the mana-infused stone.

The city practically exuded a gloomy magnificence, too clean and quiet by far to compare it to a conventionally populated city. Typhoeus, of course, had been to Doomhold before, but he had been younger then, still a third tier dragon. Naught but a child and welcome in Erebus’s city, provided he was willing to play by the Shadow Dragon’s esoteric rules. In the intervening years the city had grown dramatically, if not in physicality, then in the spirit of the thing, its malevolent atmosphere a reflection of the attitudes of the people who made it their home.

The city was built in a strategically brilliant position, effortlessly controlling the flow of traffic through the long mountain pass that ran through the Dragonspines, effectively separating the Kingdom of Terythia from its northwesterly neighbour, Lintumia. A country where competing Mage Kings still ruled vast swathes of territory in a loose knit alliance that only banded together to push out invading outsiders and ward off the great Epherian Titans; each one a mystical relic from the fallen Magocracy that prevented the erstwhile Lintumian Mages from making a play for the Ivory Throne in Pallas so many miles to the west.  

On either side of the pass, the towering mountains of the Dragonspines could be seen, massive rocky protrusions of truly epic size that reached up to pierce the snow-filled clouds high above him. Despite being so close to his former home, Typhoeus felt nothing but anxiety from their close proximity. While the ambient mana here in the bottom of the mountain pass was almost as strong as it was at the very peaks, he felt no desire to linger. He was all too aware that while the pass wasn’t technically a part of the Dragonspines, it was a technicality that his siblings were unlikely to recognise. If word got back to them, and he was sure that it eventually would, then they would come for him. Their initial reluctance to be labelled as kinslayers would no doubt wane once they learned of humanity's collective failure to finish him off. His eternal exile to unfriendly lands was nothing more than a politer, socially acceptable form of a death sentence.

“Are you ready?” Typhoeus asked as they hung back from the mages who were rushing forwards, no longer bothering to melt the snow in front of them as they hurriedly trudged through it.

“I think so,” she answered.

“Good, and you remember the rules? The plan?”

“Yeah, I remember. It’s not that complicated.”

“I need to hear you say it.”

“Fine. I remember, my lord sovereign.”

“Try it again without the eye rolls. You have to be convincing to a Dragon, not just a bunch of mages too terrified to look you in the eye.”

“You’re enjoying this aren’t you.”

“Only a little, but it is necessary. Once we’re inside, we can safely assume that we’ll be watched constantly. Any slip up and—”

“We’ll both be killed, I know.”

“No. I can probably afford to make a few mistakes, but as a human you can’t. If anyone figures out how I feel about you, they’ll kill you to hurt me,” he said gravely. “Now again, and no snark this time.”

“Of course my, Lord Sovereign,” Arilla stated, dipping her head slightly as she curtsied low to the ground, a remarkable feat for someone wearing armour as badly damaged as hers. 

“That was actually pretty good,” Typhoeus said, surprised.

“Society is very good at teaching the powerless to submit. We even had a whole class on ‘appropriate deference’ back in the orphanage. It doesn’t mean that I enjoy it though. Now, can we move on? I want to get this over with,” she shrugged.

“Okay, let's go then. Just remember that whatever I say or do once we’re inside, I don’t mean it. If you insist on following me, then I’ll have to behave a certain way for your protection.”

“I’ll try to remember that when you’re being a dick to me. Now I take it we should try and catch up with the mages before they make it to the gates?”

“Yeah, we wouldn’t want our grand return to be wasted by being late,” he said, pulling on the reigns and causing the warbeast that the mind mages had thralled and shackled to the wagon to rear back and glare at him with a surprisingly large amount of contempt for a creature lacking any kind of free-will.

“You’re ridiculously bad at driving a cart, you know,” Arilla laughed while Typhoeus only grumbled, handing over the reins without a coherent word which she smoothly took from him before she began to guide the wagon heavy with gold towards Doomhold’s impressive city gates.

Once they caught up with the mages standing huddled together before the imposing rune-etched fortifications, Rinton nodded once in their direction and produced a small silver amulet from beneath his robes and held it aloft. A pulse of magic emanated from the hunk of jewelry, and the massive gates trembled as they slowly opened inwards. It took minutes for them to stop moving, the view of the street on the other side gradually expanding until it became clear what, or rather who, was awaiting them.

On the other side of the walls, they were greeted by a platoon of soldiers clad in mail and leather, exactly fifty bronze-rank figures, standing to attention in a perfectly square formation. Too perfect by far for humans. Typhoeus sniffed the air and winced. The stench of well-preserved carrion confirmed what Typhoeus had feared.

Shades.

The corpses of Doomhold’s century dead civilians reanimated through Erebus’s necromantic magic. That the old dragon had gone to the trouble to finally revive them should have been confirmation enough that the end was approaching, not that Typhoeus really needed any more proof about that. Shades were more human than most forms of undead, literally shadows of their former selves inhabiting their dead flesh. Almost perfect copies of the living, although there was a tendency for bitterness to seep in. Whether that was an inherent part of the necromantic process, or just the grim reality of waking up to find yourself dead and under the complete control of a necromancer, Typhoeus didn’t know, but either way it wasn’t good news.

There was only really one fundamental limit to necromancy that Typhoeus was aware of, and it was that corpses could not heal. They could be repaired in a fashion, but usually it was more effort than it was worth. Manaburn gradually accumulates when any action is performed by the reanimated dead; even one as simple as moving will eventually cause an undead creature to irrevocably break down. With strenuous activity and a large disparity between a creature’s level when it was alive and when it wasn’t, the rate of decay only increased.

To the best of Typhoeus’s knowledge, Erebus had been sitting on the preserved corpses from when Trayla fell for all this time. Each one carefully preserved in case of an emergency that it appeared had finally arrived.

As the apparent leader of the undead soldiers emerged in front of their ranks, the mages immediately prostrated themselves, burying their heads in the snow as they kneeled down on the ground. Typhoeus ignored them all, gesturing to Arilla to follow him as he hopped off the wagon’s seat and strode past the mages and towards the leader of the soldiers who bore the marks of a lochos. In the hierarchy of the old draconic military, it was a fairly honoured position denoting a leader trusted with the care of fifty men, not that the Sovereign Dragons who had once ruled Astresia would ever have given such a position to an undead parody of a human like the one standing before them. 

[Shade level 100].

At iron rank, the shade should have very few limitations. Of course, with its reanimator being Erebus, a rank 6 being with a full complement of classes, the true limits to his necromancy were far beyond what Typhoeus could reasonably predict, and so the Shade, whilst half his level, remained a dangerous mystery to him. Still, as he looked at the array of dead faces composed of flesh as dry as old parchment, he took comfort in the knowledge that old corpses burned much brighter than fresh ones. He looked to Arilla and saw her hand straying for the hilt of her sword as she looked to him for confirmation. A subtle shake of his head and she stopped. 

“What brings you to Doomhold, humans? You have arrived with a number of our own and what I can only assume is a tribute to our Master, which is the only reason why you are still breathing. Explain yourselves,” she said, the corpse deceptively feminine, her rasping voice echoing off of walls that didn’t exist.

“I don’t need to explain myself to a corpse,” Typhoeus said whilst making a show of looking at his nails. “Summon your Master’s attention or at least something with a pulse.”  

A look of anger washed over the dead thing as she reached for the sword by her hip. “You dare—”

Typhoeus unleashed his aura. Roiling waves of draconic power that emanated out from his small human form. The intense energy visible as golden light, even to those who lacked mana-perceptive skills. In the recent past he had used his aura to harm others and to protect him, but now for the first time in years he used it to loudly announce his presence. Like a glowing beacon of his intent, he pushed the boundaries of his self outwards. Only Arilla, his Dragon Guard, was spared from the impact of it, but the corpses standing before him fell to their knees like the mages already in the snow, who merely grit their teeth and endured.

“Kneeling before me is appropriate,” he said calmly, relishing the look of hate on the Shade's face as she looked up at him, unable to stand before the brunt of his aura.

For a few seconds all was well. Arilla even seemed to be wryly amused, although it was clear to him that she was unsettled by the Shades. Then abruptly, the world shifted. The lochos smoothly rose to stand tall, her eyes blazing with a new intensity as a voice, smooth as cultured silk, poured through its dry cracked lips. 

“Typhoeus, what an unexpected pleasure. Please wait here, I’m sending a carriage for you. Do try not to break any of my Shades. Good corpses are surprisingly challenging to find these days,” Erebus said, eyeing Typhoeus up and down appraisingly with a confident smile that simply didn’t fit on the corpse’s face. Before Typhoeus could respond, the intense green fires burning in the pits of her dead eyes dimmed, nearly guttering out entirely before she fell to the ground on her hands and knees gasping for whatever passed for breath.

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A part of him almost felt a pang of sympathy for the creature so thoroughly used by its master, but he knew enough to know that any outward show of concern would be taken advantage of in the coming days. As the Shade retched in the snow, while its soldiers remained on their knees silently watching the proceedings in perfect stillness, Typhoeus walked forwards to the creature with a sweet smile on his face. He squatted down low to the ground where he asked, “When you are done with whatever this is, do you think you could provide me and my guard with some light refreshments?”

The shade looked up at him, still on its hands and knees with undisguised hatred burning just as bright as the green fires in her eyes. The lochos spoke without hesitation, although the venom laced through every word that passed between her gritted teeth kind of ruined the compliant sentiment of the offer. 

“Of course, Lord Sovereign.”

The carriage ride to the palace was extremely comfortable. The undead horses who pulled the opulently furnished vehicle did so at a perfectly even pace that was made all the more smooth by the cleared streets ahead, that ensured they never slowed from a brisk canter. There was no driver, so inside the carriage, Typhoeus and Arilla had the illusion of privacy. The Mages were being diverted to their own part of the city whilst the gold was being towed by its own set of reanimated horses behind them.

From the clear windows inside the carriage they both had good views of the streets as they blurred past them, although Typhoeus was admittedly observing more through his sphere of perception than he was through his limited human eyes. Doomhold was a marvelous city, far larger than Rhelea, the buildings taller, grander and better maintained by far. The roads were clean and clear, with nothing but pristine polished flagstones that managed to be the closest mimicry to the Old Roads that Typhoeus had ever seen with his own eyes. All of this was unsurprising considering that despite the multitude of armed soldiers lining the sides of the streets as they were swiftly carried past, none of them would ever breathe, perspire or shit again. The city of the dead was as eerily clean as it was quiet.

Typhoeus had toured the human district when he had last visited Erebus, and it was an experience that he had no desire to repeat, much less with Arilla present who would no doubt raise a stink at seeing her own people in such a subservient state. The descendants of those who had either refused to or been unable to flee the city when Erebus arrived, heralding the end of Trayla, had failed to flourish under the Shadow Dragon's dubious care. While they all lived in large houses with easy access to food and water, there was something about being under the constant supervision of their deceased countrymen that had dampened their spirit somehow, something he had been personally unable to appreciate prior to spending so much time in Rhelea.

The Mages had been a perfect example of a Doomhold resident as far as Typhoeus was aware, pleasant and jovial on the surface, but indescribably afraid beneath all that outward confidence. They were simply too tightly strung, like they could all snap dramatically at a moment's notice.

Typhoeus swirled the crystal tumbler in his hand as he held the contents up to the light, examining the golden-brown coloured liquid contained within. It was exquisite. The texture was almost thick and oil-smooth while the taste was intense, fleetingly sweet with spiced waves of smoky salt and pepper. He loved it, he’d seen it on sale in Rhelea before, but he could never justify the exorbitant price of spending gold talents on a few sips of the heady liquor. Yet here it was freely given and not even the most impressive thing on offer in the opulent interior of the carriage.

“You’re drooling,” Arilla commented.

“I am?” he asked, checking the corners of his mouth and finding them practically sodden. “Gross.”

“Truly,” she deadpanned.

“Is everything alright? You seem off,” he asked, concerned that she was already slipping. 

“I’m fine, I just…”

“Just what?”

“I thought it would smell.” 

“What?”

“The city, Trayla or Doomhold or whatever. I thought the city would smell, but it's so clean,” Arilla explained.

“I’m sure that it does in places, the city isn’t entirely dead after all, but the death aspected mana that animates the Shades stops them from rotting. If you get close enough you’ll notice that they don’t smell all too dissimilar from dusty old books,” he pointed out, sipping his whisky, his toes discreetly curling with delight as he put his feet up on the soft cushioned seat opposite him.

“I’m not sure I plan on getting any closer to them,” she stated, resolutely ignoring the luxuries available to her, which was odd. He knew for a fact that there were several vintages of wine she had once lusted over herself inside the carriage.

“Right. Necromancy is quite the taboo in Terythia,” he remembered.   

“And it isn’t amongst dragons?” she asked.

“Not particularly, although only the weaker dragons have an affinity for it, so it’s not that widespread.”

“And where did he get all these corpses from? I knew that a lot of people died here during the fall, but I was under the impression that most of the deaths were from the migration south, not a grand battle.”

“I don’t know. Maybe he bought them from Kalle or someone else? It’s likely he has similar arrangements with the villages on the other side of the pass. I’m sure you’ll be able to ask him yourself if you’re genuinely curious, we’re practically there after all,” Typhoeus said, looking out of the window.

As predicted, the carriage came to a smooth stop outside of Erebus’s palace. Like everything in Doomhold, it was grand, gaudy and looked to be totally deserted by the living. Tall and imposing, the palace featured fortifications almost as impressive as the outer-walls, although these were more obviously manned by hundreds of Shades, each one standing silently vigilant and motionless atop the battlements.

The doors to the carriage opened by themselves, which was a cute touch, infuriating only because Typhoeus didn’t have a clue as to how the doors opened. Arilla exited first as was appropriate for his guard, and together they climbed the wide marble steps flanked on either side by rows upon rows of bronze rank Shades dressed in ornate ceremonial armour.

A living human was waiting for them at the top of the stairs, the first they had seen so far. He was diplomat tagged, and Typhoeus had to resist the urge to nudge Arilla to reassure her that humans did in fact live inside the city. The mages she had already met had seemingly failed to reassure her of that fact. The diplomat exchanged a subservient greeting, practically grovelling in their presence before he led them inside the palace where the sheer amount of wealth immediately on display nearly made Typhoeus whimper with jealousy.

The rooms of the palace seemed to be almost full to bursting with treasures. After turning off from a wide, well-decorated hallway, the first room they were led through was filled with so much gold they literally had to climb over the piles of the stuff to reach the doors on the far side. The diplomat managed to do so with practiced ease, whilst Arilla struggled to climb the clattering coins under the cumbersome weight of her new sword, and Typhoeus briefly flew over the obstacle. The second room was filled with cut gemstones, the third runic weapons and armour, the fourth artwork. After passing through a fifth room filled to the brim with assorted treasures Typhoeus had grown impatient, Erebus’s not-so-humble brag was becoming increasingly stale as he was forced to view levels of obscene wealth that he knew he would never be able to attain. 

“Okay, we’re done with this,” Typhoeus declared, leading Arilla away from their guide and through a series of halls directly towards the swirling mass of mana on the edge of his perception that he knew marked the location of the Shadow Dragon. The two of them ignored the guide's worried protestations as they made their way to the main hall in good time where they found Erebus sitting on a grand throne of sculpted onyx and gold.

Erebus’s human form was that of a man approaching middle-age, but still full of vital energy. Well-muscled, handsome and with flawless skin so dark that it was almost a shade of violet, he was wearing armour, an impressive set of half-plate that left more of his skin exposed than could possibly be considered sensible, but it was ultimately all for show. The armour was worn because it was of such a high percentage of adamantium, the sword at its hip because the blade was made from a single carved ruby, his crown moulded diamonds. The obscene amount of wealth draped on his human form somehow fell short of being vulgar, as every instinct that Typhoeus possessed screamed at him to bare his teeth in challenge and to fight him for what was on display.

He pushed the suicidal impulse down deep, focusing his attention instead on the man and not the clothes. Erebus’s chosen form was so physically pleasing that he noticed Arilla was discreetly biting her lip, her cheeks flushed with colour, all from a fleeting glance in the older dragon’s direction. The surprising jealousy that accompanied this simple act along with Typhoeus’s recollection of her previous crush on Caeber—an adventurer who bore some striking similarities to the transformed dragon—was not a welcome one. Not after being so viscerally reminded of the gulf in wealth, status and power that existed between the two dragons.

Of course it was impossible to mistake Erebus’s human form for that of a true human like Typhoeus appeared to be. Whatever skill the Shadow Dragon used to take on his current guise left his shadow unaltered, the imposing size filling the entirety of the grand hall as the truly massive dragon, far larger than Typhoeus could ever dream of becoming, loomed over them, his gargantuan proportions only vaguely linked to the comparatively small figure of the tall human seated before them.

“I was wondering how long you would put up with that,” Erebus said. His silky-smooth voice emanated from his perfect human lips that were mirrored by the giant jaws of his draconic shadow that moved in perfect synchronization. The implicit threat of how easily he could swallow Typhoeus and Arilla both in a single bite was not lost on either of them.

“And?” the Sovereign Dragon responded.

“Let's just say that I’m not too disappointed. Neither am I unimpressed with your tribute, even after I take into account how much the people of Cawic owed me. I take it you resolved things in my favour with their Steward?” Erbeus asked.

“I’m glad it’s acceptable to you.” Typhoeus said earnestly. “I believe so; I have a missive from their new Steward to clarify things, but first I need to know, do you accept us as your guests?”

Erebus paused, the man still, but the shadow was nothing if not predatory as it silently raced along the walls of the room, wings outstretched, claws and fangs bared.

“Your tribute is sufficient only in terms of wealth, not in deference. If you want my protection for the duration of your stay—especially when considering who your enemies are—I will need an additional show of respect.”

“Surely that isn’t necessary,” Typhoeus began to explain.

“—You are a child no longer. It is necessary because I say it is,” Erebus declared firmly, the danger in his voice obvious for the first time.

Typhoeus bit his tongue, and kneeled down on the cold floor, his head lowered until it touched the marble, the heat of his humiliation dispelling the coolness of the polished stone.

“I submit.”

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