Mask of Swords (14 page)

Adalar braced himself, preparing for a final charge.

The ground shuddered beneath his boots in the familiar rhythm of charging cavalry. Three of Adalar’s armsmen thundered past him, clad in chain mail and green Greatheart tabards, their maces and hammers flashing. The valgasts were short enough that it was hard to strike them from horseback, but the horses themselves made up for it by smashing their way through the creatures. One of Adalar’s armsmen fell from the saddle, a valgast dart jutting from his elbow, and Adalar ran to the fallen man’s side, killing two valgasts that stooped over him. More horsemen poured into the square, followed by Arnulf’s spearthains and swordthains. The valgast attack began to collapse, the creatures fleeing back to the houses. 

They were winning. Mazael had called the valgasts scavengers, and the description seemed accurate. The creatures were bold enough when attacking weaker foes, but fled in the face of determined opposition. Adalar struck and dodged, his mind working through the implications. How had the valgasts gotten into Castyard? Had they climbed the wall? Or had they tunneled up from beneath the village? Would they flee back to the hills, or would they hide within Castyard? If the creatures decided to conceal themselves, it might take days to root them out…

A flash of light atop the church caught Adalar’s attention. 

A figure in a ragged black robe stood at the edge of the church’s dome, face concealed beneath a voluminous cowl. The figure’s hands were visible, encased in clawed gauntlets of red armor, hands that were starting to glow.

The figure was casting a spell.

Adalar looked around for Timothy, but saw no sign of the wizard. Had he remained with the camp?

The hooded shape atop the church gestured, and there was another flash of light. A roaring sound filled Adalar’s ears, and a half a dozen Tervingi thains went tumbling through the air, flung by the blast of magic.

###

Mazael cut down one of the fleeing valgasts, forcing his way closer to the church. 

His first thought was that another valgast wizard had appeared. Yet the black-robed figure was too tall and too wide to be a valgast, and unlike the wizard he had fought in Gray Pillar, this wizard attacked with blasts of invisible force rather than raging gouts of flame and summoned spirit creatures. That itself meant nothing – a wizard could know many different spells. Yet a wizard’s power could also turn the course of the battle, and if Mazael did not stop this wizard the black-robed shape might well tear his men apart.

Romaria raised her bow and sent three shafts at the robed figure. The arrows slammed into the robed shape’s chest, the black clothing rippling, but the wizard did not even so much as flinch. Likely a magical ward had turned aside the arrows. 

If Mazael could get close enough, he suspected the wards would prove less effective against Talon’s enchanted blade.

The robed shape raised its hands, revealing the peculiar clawed gauntlets of red armor, and began another spell. Before it finished a green burst of light flashed around the robed shape, and it staggered, more rocked by the light than by Romaria’s arrows. Timothy stepped forward, black coat flying around him, his right hand raised and holding the crystal he had used to block Agaric’s sleeping spell. Timothy began another spell, and Mazael expected the robed wizard to do the same. 

Instead the figure whirled, the movement peculiarly fluid, and then sprang from the roof of the church like a missile fired from a catapult. The figure soared overhead, robes flapping around it, and for a brief instant Mazael thought that it had taken flight, whether with wings or a potent spell. 

Then he realized it had simply jumped. 

“Move!” he shouted to Timothy. “Move!”

The wizard’s eyes widened, and he hastened out of the way.

An instant later the robed figure landed where Timothy had been standing, and Mazael was ready. He swept Talon before him in a powerful swing, and the robed figure twisted to the side with inhuman grace. Talon ripped across its chest, and Mazael felt the blade scrape against armor. The sword caught against the black robe, and as Mazael completed his swing the hooded shape stepped back, ripping the robe in half between them.

The creature beneath the black cloth was most certainly not human.

It looked female, her body encased in overlapping plates of form-fitting, blood-colored chitin. Mazael realized that that her armored gauntlets were not metal at all but part of her armor, their jagged spikes her natural claws. Her face was eerily, inhumanly beautiful, and eight white-glowing eyes shone upon her face. Even as she stepped back, four more legs uncurled from the sides of her torso. Those legs were long, far longer than she was tall, knobbed and armored and tipped with heavy black claws. The creature looked like some a cross between a woman and a giant spider. 

Cries of dismay went up from the Tervingi, and some of them reeled back from the sight of the creature. 

“Soliphage!” said Romaria.

So that was what they looked like.

Romaria sent another arrow at it, but the shaft shattered against the soliphage’s armored body as if it had struck a stone wall. The creature wheeled towards her in silence, its extra legs striking the ground and driving it forward with terrific speed. A Tervingi spearthain yelled and drove his weapon at the soliphage, but the spear’s point struck the dark red chitin and rebounded without leaving a scratch. The blow rocked the soliphage for a moment, and Mazael surged forward, slashing with Talon. This time the curved sword ripped across the soliphage’s flank, the golden sigils upon the blade shining brighter, and the sword sheared through the armored hide, black slime bubbling from the wound. The soliphage reared back upon its spider legs with a scream of pain, and lashed at Mazael with one of its long legs. He caught the blow upon his shield, the strength of the impact sending a jolt of pain up his entire arm, and brought Talon around in an answering strike. The curved sword sheared through the leg’s joint, and its clawed tip fell to the ground. 

Again the soliphage screamed in pain, and Mazael darted forward before the creature could recover. Talon’s next blow landed upon the soliphage’s neck. The soliphage raked at him with clawed hands, but his golden armor turned aside the blows, and his next strike took off the soliphage’s head. The creature’s legs went into a mad dance, lashing at the air, and its body collapsed to the ground. 

Mazael stepped back with a deep breath, black slime dripping from his sword. The valgasts had already been wavering, and the fall of the soliphage seemed to have broken their morale entirely. The creatures fled back into the church and the inn, crawling over each other to get through the doors and the windows. Mazael turned his head as Adalar approached, his blade and armor splashed with the greenish-black blood of the valgasts.

“That is madness,” said Adalar. “Why flee into to the church and the inn? They’ll be trapped. We could burn the building down around them.”

“No, they won’t be trapped,” said Mazael. “They’re retreating. And I think I know where we’ll find the villagers.” 

###

The church had a broad stone crypt, ancient and dusty, and the inn had a spacious cellar used to store beer and other supplies.

Both were filled with unconscious villagers.

“They came in the night,” said Sir Edmund Crowhand. The middle-aged knight was paunchy and red-faced, albeit with a chest like a barrel and the shoulders of a blacksmith. “We’d just gotten the warning about the valgast raids, so I had ordered the watch and my armsmen to greater vigilance.” He shook his head, his gray beard rustling. “I didn’t expect them to come up through the ground.”

They stood in the cellar of the inn. The walls were lined with brick and the floor covered with flagstones. Arnulf’s thains and Mazael’s and Adalar’s armsmen were busy at work, carrying villagers that were still unconscious to the square. 

“I cannot blame you for that,” said Mazael.

A huge hole gaped in the corner of the cellar, revealing a tunnel descending into the darkness. Mazael’s men had found a similar tunnel in the crypt below the church. Likely the valgasts had spent days digging their tunnels, and then had burst into the surface all at once, overwhelming the sleeping villagers before they could organize a coherent defense. 

“They were everywhere at once,” said Edmund. “One scratch from their weapons put strong men to sleep. I tried to rally my men, but I took one of their damned darts to my neck…and then I woke up here. If you had not come along when you had, my lord, we would all have been killed.”

“I suspect,” said Mazael, looking at the tunnel, “that they weren’t going to kill you. They wanted to take you back with them.”

Though for what purpose, he had no idea. 

There was a scraping noise in the tunnel, and Romaria climbed up, her face and armor layered with dust. Edmund gave her a wary glance. Many of the lords and knights of the Grim Marches did not know what to make of Romaria. Though to be fair, Mazael had not known what to make of her when they had first met. 

“The tunnel goes down about sixty feet,” said Romaria, wiping the dust off her face. “There’s a cavern down there. Big one. I don’t know how far it goes, but it reeks of valgasts. I suspect it leads deeper into the underworld proper, even to one of the valgasts’ cities.” 

“Did they wish to take us as captives, then?” said Edmund. “As slaves.” He swallowed. “Or food?” 

“I don’t know,” said Mazael. “But I intend to find out.”

###

They left the next morning, riding north along the boundary between the hill country and the plains. Sir Edmund’s villagers had been busy filling up the valgasts’ tunnels. The people of Castyard had had a close escape, and Mazael doubted they would be taken unawares again. 

Edmund had recalled that Agaric and his men had passed through Castyard on their way to Cravenlock Town two weeks past. Romaria had looked at each of the villagers and found no trace of any of the mind-controlling spiders. The only spider they had seen was the soliphage. 

Were Agaric’s spiders related to the soliphages? 

Mazael didn’t know, but he suspected the answers awaited at Banner Hill.

But first they would stop at Greatheart Keep and lay Sir Nathan to rest at last. 

Chapter 8: Hrould

Sigaldra awoke as someone shook her shoulders. 

For a confused moment she could not remember where she was. Were the Malrags attacking? If the Malrags were attacking, Ragnachar and his men would not lift a finger to help them. Likely he would even pull back, in hopes that the Malrags would kill the Jutai and the Tervingi could then claim their supplies. She would have to rally her people, send word to Athanaric and the Guardian to send aid…

Wait. Greatheart Keep, she was in Greatheart Keep. The Malrags and the runedead had been defeated, but the danger to the Jutai had not passed. Earnachar was coming. He had finally discarded his stupid little games, and decided to assail the village. 

Then Sigaldra’s tired mind snapped back into focus, and she heard Liane speaking. 

“He’s coming,” said Liane, shaking her shoulders, “he’s coming, he’s coming, he’s coming.”

“For the ancestors’ sake,” said Sigaldra, sitting up and taking Liane’s hands off her shoulders. For a moment irritation burned through her. Could she not even sleep the night in peace? Yet Liane was the only family she had left. 

“He’s coming,” said Liane, her voice a whisper. 

“Who?” said Sigaldra, “who is coming?”

“He is coming,” said Liane.

“That really doesn’t answer the question,” said Sigaldra.

The door to the small bedroom burst open, and old Ulfarna appeared, already dressed in her widow’s blacks, an axe in her hands. 

“Holdmistress,” said Ulfarna. “Are there foes? I heard shouting.”

“No,” said Sigaldra, pushing the hair away from her face. “The ancestors are gracing Liane with another vision.” 

“He’s coming,” said Liane again.

“I see,” said Ulfarna. “Well, I shall prepare breakfast. I imagine talking to the ancestors is hungry work.”

“Wait,” said Sigaldra. Liane’s visions were often incomprehensible, but they were always accurate. “Send word to Talchar. Perhaps the ancestors are warning us of foes.” Had Earnachar finally decided to risk the wrath of Mazael Cravenlock and attack? Even if he had not, there were any number of other foes, human and otherwise, that would attack villages. 

“It shall be done,” said Ulfarna, and the old holdmistress withdrew, her axe still in hand. 

“He is coming,” said Liane. “He will be here today.” 

“Liane,” said Sigaldra, getting out of bed. She guided her sister to a stool and sat her down. “Tell me. What do you see?”

“I am sorry,” said Liane. She shivered and closed her eyes. “I see…I see such terrifying things.  I do not understand them. I wish I could show them to you. No, I do not wish that, I would not wish for anyone else to see such visions. But words…there are no words for the things I see.”

“What do you see?” said Sigaldra, stroking Liane’s hair. The girl shivered like a trapped animal, eyes darting back and forth behind closed lids. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here, and we’re safe in the keep. Tell me what you see.”

“The fire,” said Liane. “The storm. Blood and war and chaos. All inside one man.”

“This man,” said Sigaldra, “who is he?” 

“The warrior,” said Liane. “The bringer of the storm. He was supposed to die and be devoured, but he overthrew his mortal enemy instead. He was the eye of the first storm, and he shall be the eye of coming storm. I see…masks, masks made of swords and spiders. I see a spider of brass upon a woman’s breast. I see a mountain filled with secrets. I see an altar before a giant spider. I see…I see…an egg.”

“An egg?” said Sigaldra. She thought of the chicken coops that Helen and Kuldura kept behind Vorgaric’s smithy. 

“An egg full of green flame and blood,” said Liane, her voice a shaky whisper, “an egg that will hatch and devour the world. The warrior who brings the storm is coming to us, sister. And he will set us upon the path to the egg.”