Mask of Swords (17 page)

“About three months ago,” said Sigaldra. “He was always a truculent and unwelcome neighbor, and made no effort to hide his disdain for the Jutai. Yet fear of you kept him in line. Then his pet sorceresses came to Banner Hill, and started pouring their poison into his ear.”

“Sorceresses?” said Mazael.

Sigaldra shrugged. “Or priestesses. Or both. The rumors say both. They accompanied him to Greatheart Keep when he made his threats the last time.”

“What do they looked like?” said Mazael.

“Two of them wore hooded black robes, and I could not see their faces,” said Sigaldra.

“Like the soliphage in Castyard,” said Mazael. Could Earnachar have truly been stupid enough to ally with the soliphages?

Of course, if the soliphages were responsible for the spiders in Agaric and the others, Earnachar might not have had much choice in the matter.  

“The third, then,” said Mazael. “You saw the third?”

“Aye,” said Sigaldra. “She called herself the Prophetess.”

Mazael blinked. “The Prophetess? Are you sure of that?”

“I heard it with my own ears,” said Sigaldra. 

“What did she look like?” said Mazael.

“Young,” said Sigaldra. “Maybe about thirty. Red hair and green eyes, very pale skin. I suppose most men would find her comely.” 

Mazael recalled no one who looked like that.

“You know her?” said Sigaldra.

“No,” said Mazael. “But at Gray Pillar I fought and killed a valgast wizard…”

“Vrokul,” said Sigaldra.

“I’m sorry?”

“A vrokul,” said Sigaldra. “That’s what the valgast wizards call themselves. They’re not really wizards, though they know spells. They worship a goddess called Marazadra, and try to capture sacrifices in her name.”

“That…makes sense,” said Mazael. “The…vrokul, you say? The vrokul at Gray Pillar spoke of someone named the Prophetess. The Skuldari worship some goddess or another. This goddess could be the unifying factor behind our recent troubles. Perhaps your Prophetess is a priestess of Marazadra, and the Skuldari, the valgasts, and the soliphages all worship her.”

“And they converted Earnachar?” said Sigaldra. “Earnachar is too much of a Tervingi to follow a soliphage goddess or work with valgasts.”

“I doubt they converted him,” said Mazael. “Perhaps he simply thinks to use their power.”

“Fine,” said Sigaldra, crossing her arms over her mailed chest. “What do you think is happening, hrould?” 

He considered how much to tell her. Mazael had promised to tell her the truth, but that did not mean he had to tell her all of the truth. 

“What do you know of the Old Demon?” he said. “The creature the Tervingi named the Urdmoloch?” 

“A great evil,” said Sigaldra. “Ragnachar and his pet orcragars worshipped him. Wait. I should have mentioned this as well. Earnachar has an orcragar with him, a man named Rigoric who wears a peculiar mask wrought in the shape of miniature sword blades.”

“I banished all the surviving orcragars from the Grim Marches under pain of death,” said Mazael. “Earnachar and I shall have much to discuss. But we wander from the main point. What else do you know about the Old Demon?” 

“The loresingers said he was ancient and evil beyond the capacity of man to grasp,” said Sigaldra. “That he was the father of all the Demonsouled, and he wandered the earth working woe and misery.” She looked him in the eye. “That Lucan Mandragon was his servant – and that you slew the Urdmoloch on the last day of the Runedead War, the day the runedead were destroyed.”

“I did,” said Mazael.

“Preposterous,” said Sigaldra.

“I told you,” said Mazael, “that I wasn’t going to lie to you.”

She said nothing for a moment, a muscle working in her jaw. “Fine. You slew the Urdmoloch. What does that have to do with anything?”

“The Old Demon was subtle and patient,” said Mazael. “He spent years corrupting Lucan into an instrument of his will. Before that, he spent thousands of years siring generations of Demonsouled, unleashing them upon the world to wreak havoc and grow strong so he could kill them and devour their strength. He spun plots and plans that no mortal could comprehend. And I think some of those plots were pacts he laid upon the Skuldari, the valgasts, and the soliphages.” 

Sigaldra’s frown deepened. He suspected that she always frowned, but this time it had more puzzlement than anger. “Why would he do that?” 

“To use them as his servants, most likely,” said Mazael. “The realm of Old Dracaryl that your ancestors fought in ancient days? He raised up the high lords of Dracaryl and then arranged their destruction once they had served his purpose. Or perhaps he wanted them out of his way so they could not interfere with his plans. Or maybe he simply did it to be cruel. He enjoyed cruelty.” The Old Demon could have simply destroyed Lucan, but he had made sure the wizard had known the depths of his folly before the final death. Of course, that cruelty had turned upon him in the end. Had he simply killed Mazael, he would have had victory. Instead he had made sure Mazael would suffer…and that had undone everything. 

“Do you have any proof for that?” said Sigaldra. 

“Think about it,” said Mazael. “The valgasts used to only raid your people twice a year, on midsummer’s day and midwinter’s day. Why?”

“I…do not know,” said Sigaldra. “I never considered it before. I thought that it was their custom, or simply their nature.”

“Or the Old Demon bound them to a pact,” said Mazael. “Forbidding from coming to the surface save for those two days a year. Perhaps he did the same with the Skuldari, too. Until this year, they never ventured from their mountains. They killed anyone who entered their borders, but they never left their lands. Now they attacked Adalar on his way to Castle Cravenlock, and we’ve received reports of additional raids. Did you know that the Skuldari worship the soliphages?”

“They do?” said Sigaldra, crinkling her nose. “I thought your church and its Amathavian gods were outlandish, but at least they were not malicious. What fool would worship the soliphages?”

“The same sort of fools that worship the serpent god of the San-keth,” said Mazael. “Though they don’t actually worship the soliphages themselves. They think the soliphages are messengers of their goddess, hold spiders as sacred…”

“Goddess?” said Sigaldra. “The Prophetess talked about a goddess.”

“So,” said Mazael. “The valgasts and the Skuldari worship a goddess, one likely named Marazadra. The Skuldari think the soliphages are emissaries of their goddess, and a soliphage was leading the attack on Castyard, while Earnachar’s men are infested with spiders. Where do these facts lead us?”

“To the conclusion,” said Sigaldra, “that the Skuldari, the valgasts, and Earnachar’s men are unified in worship of this goddess, this Marazadra, whatever she is.” 

“Aye,” said Mazael, “and now that the Old Demon is dead, whatever strictures he placed upon them have been lifted, and the followers of Marazadra are free to do as they wish.” 

“What shall we do?” said Sigaldra.

“Tonight,” said Mazael, “we shall inter Sir Nathan in the chapel. Tomorrow, we will ride for Banner Hill. I have some questions for Earnachar, and he had damn well better have some good answers for me.” He pointed at Sigaldra. “You shall ride with me as well.”

“We shall come in any event,” said Sigaldra. “It is my people that Earnachar threatens. I would see him called to account for these crimes.”

“He will answer for them,” said Mazael. 

Sigaldra nodded. “I will call the muster, then.” She hesitated. “The Prophetess…”

“What about her?” said Mazael.

“My sister was afraid of her,” said Sigaldra.

“That seems reasonable, if she is a dark sorceress of some kind,” said Mazael.

“No,” said Sigaldra. “Very little frightens Liane, save for some of her visions. Not even the prospect of wedding Earnachar frightened her. But the Prophetess…Liane said she was filled with shadows and dark magic. She said the Prophetess was coming for us.”

“Perhaps,” said Mazael, touching Talon’s hilt, “but if she comes for you, she might find someone else waiting for her instead.” 

Chapter 9: Bones and Ashes

Adalar wandered alone through the streets of the village of Greatheart Keep.

Though not alone, not really.

The ghosts were always with him. 

He stopped in the village square at the foot of the keep’s hill. The smithy stood on one end of the square, smoke rising from the forge. An inn stood on the other end of the square, and a small domed church to the south. The hill and the keep rose overhead, stark and gray against the blue spring sky. 

All the same as he remembered…and yet now completely different. 

A Jutai smith and his apprentices now labored in the smithy. The front of the inn had been carved with the elaborate swirling knots and stylized beasts that both the Jutai and the Tervingi preferred. The church had been set aside as a village hall, no doubt where the holdmistress resolved disputes among her people. The impropriety of it stunned Adalar. The church ought to have had a priest. Perhaps in time the Jutai could be weaned away from the worship of their ancestors and the Elderborn gods and brought to the Amathavian faith. Or perhaps the barbarians would spread their practices through the Grim Marches.

Adalar found he did not care either way. 

He took a few steps closer to the keep. Mazael and Sigaldra and most of the others had withdrawn there to discuss their plans. Tomorrow they would march north and make their way to Banner Hill to confront Earnachar. 

Adalar was not sure he wanted to go with them.

Wesson wanted to go. Once upon a time Adalar would have wanted to go, too. He would have jumped at the chance, eager to ride into battle against a worthy foe and prove his skill and bravery. Surely the valgasts and the Skuldari with their giant spiders were worthy foes. Yet Adalar could not bring himself to care, could only regard the situation with a numb indifference. 

He knew that he ought not to feel that way, that there was something wrong with him. He had come through the Runedead War alive, the lord of vast lands in Mastaria. He was wealthy and he had friends among the lords of Knightreach. Adalar ought to have been overjoyed, or at least content. Instead he felt nothing but a weary exhaustion. 

They were all going to die, if not from the valgasts and the soliphages then from illness and old age. Did it really matter how?

Jutai men and women went about their business in the square, giving him a wide berth. Nearly fifteen hundred people lived in the village now. He recognized none of them. Adalar stood in the place where he had been born and had grown up, and he was a stranger here. He had known the blacksmith and the innkeeper and the village priests, and they were all dead now, slain when the runedead rose…

“Sir knight?” said a woman’s voice, calm yet hesitant.

Adalar blinked, shaken out of his dark thoughts, and turned. A woman of about thirty or thirty-five stood nearby, a bit of soot upon her face and brown dress, her sweaty hair tied back with a kerchief. Unless he was mistaken, she was Marcher-born, not Jutai. 

“Yes?” said Adalar, more harshly than he intended. 

“You…looked a bit ill, sir knight,” said the woman. “Would you like some water?”

“I…yes, forgive me,” said Adalar. “I was lost in thought. Some water would be welcome.” He realized that he had forgotten to eat and drink and rebuked himself. Riding and fighting were strenuous work, and he had to keep his strength up. It would not do for the Lord of Castle Dominus to pass out in the middle of the village. 

He followed the woman to the smithy, and she gave him a clay cup of water. It was cool against his dry throat and made him feel a little better. In the background a dozen apprentices, young Jutai and Marcher men, toiled at the forge. 

“Thank you,” said Adalar. “What is your name?”

“Helen, sir knight,” said the woman. “My husband Vorgaric is the village smith and one of the holdmistress’s bondsmen.”

Adalar nodded. “I…saw him at the gate.” He hesitated. “You were born in the Grim Marches.” 

Helen nodded. “Aye. A village near Cravenlock Town. Isn’t there any longer, I fear. The Malrags wiped it out, and we moved to Cravenlock Town.”

“You married a Jutai man,” said Adalar. “May I ask why?”

“I was married before,” said Helen, “but he died fighting the runedead on the day of the Great Rising.” She sighed. “I scraped by as best I could after that. Then I met Vorgaric when he came to Cravenlock Town on business. We got on well, and he kept visiting…and when he invited me to come back to Greatheart Keep with him, I said yes.” She smiled. “Vorgaric is a good man, and being the wife of the village’s best blacksmith is preferable to being a maid in Cravenlock Town.”

“I suppose it is,” said Adalar. 

She shrugged. “We have all lost so much. Everyone I know lost someone to the Malrags or the runedead. Yet old Lord Richard defeated the Malrags, and the runedead were destroyed when Lord Mazael killed the Dragon’s Shadow at Knightcastle. We must carry on as best we can.”

“I suppose so,” said Adalar. 

“If you will forgive my impertinence…you lost someone, didn’t you?” said Helen.

“No,” said Adalar. “My father died before the Great Rising, and I have no other family and no wife. But…”

She was silent, waiting for him to speak. 

“I grew up here,” said Adalar, his voice quiet.

“Oh,” said Helen. “I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” said Adalar. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Well, Lucan Mandragon’s, but he died.” He rubbed his face for a moment. “I shouldn’t have come back here. There’s no point. The runedead killed everyone I ever knew here. I…went west to pursue my fortune, and they died while I was gone.”

“If you had remained behind, likely you would have perished as well,” said Helen. 

“I know,” said Adalar. “Mastaria had it worse than the Grim Marches. The runedead here were random, and Lord Mazael crushed them quickly. In Mastaria the runedead were…organized, led by a mad wizard named Caraster who wanted to kill as many people as possible.” 

“The Tervingi hate and fear wizards,” said Helen, “and I cannot blame them that.”