Mask of Swords (15 page)

“This warrior,” said Sigaldra, “is he Earnachar?”

Liane let out an unsteady laugh. “No. No, he is not. The warrior makes Earnachar look like a simpering child.” She grabbed at Sigaldra’s arms. “Spiders, sister. I see…I see spiders, so many spiders, coming for us. Coming for us…”

She bowed her head and swayed on the stool. Sometimes the visions fell upon Liane with such force that she was as exhausted as if she had spent the day laboring in the fields. Sigaldra helped Liane to stand and guided her to the bed, and her sister collapsed into it and fell asleep at once. 

She stared at Liane, fury bubbling within her. Not at her sister, but at what her visions foretold

“Blood and death and storm,” whispered Sigaldra. 

Hadn’t the Jutai suffered enough? They had lost their homelands, loved ones, almost all of their material goods. They had suffered so much, and they had just barely been able to claw out a new home for themselves in the Grim Marches. Now someone wanted to bring a new war to them? 

For a moment the rage seemed to choke her, as if it was a suit of iron closing tight around her. 

Sigaldra took a deep breath, stalked to her wardrobe, and clothed herself in her tan dress and leggings and mail, taking her weapons in hand. 

If someone was bringing war to the Jutai, she would be ready. 

She left Liane to sleep off her visions and walked through the streets of the village. Nothing seemed amiss, and no one had seen any of Earnachar’s horsethains outside the walls for several days. Sigaldra made her way to the new gates, intending to speak with the night watchmen. Instead she saw Vorgaric and Talchar One-Eye there, both men wearing their armor as they spoke to a pair of Jutai farmers.

“What is it?” said Sigaldra. “What is happening?”

Talchar grunted, the red crystal in his eye glittering. “Holdmistress. We were just about to send for you.” He jerked his head at one of the farmers with a grunt. “Tell the holdmistress what you saw.”

“I awoke early to tend to my cows,” said the farmer, “and I saw a large band of armed men camped east of my pasture.”

“How many?” said Sigaldra. 

“About two hundred and fifty, I think,” said the farmer. “Knights and Tervingi thains both.”

“Not Earnachar’s, then?” said Sigaldra with surprise. 

“No, holdmistress,” said the farmer. “They flew the banners of lords and knights.”

“Did you recognize the banners?” said Sigaldra. 

“Two of them I did not,” said the farmer. “One was a heart upon green, and the second a gray tower upon blue. But the third…”

“A black banner,” said Vorgaric, “with three crossed swords upon it.”

Sigaldra blinked. 

“Mazael Cravenlock?” she said. “The hrould is coming here?”

“So it would seem,” said Talchar. 

Sigaldra blinked.

“Why?” said Sigaldra. Several possibilities flashed through her mind. Perhaps he had heard of Earnachar’s mischief and had come to chastise his rebellious headman. Perhaps he had unrelated business and was passing through. Perhaps he was coming to visit the Jutai. The liege lords of the realm often visited their vassals to ensure their loyalty. 

Or perhaps he had come to enforce Earnachar’s claim to Greatheart Keep. 

Sigaldra felt her lips press into a hard line. Had not Earnachar fought alongside the hrould during the great battles of the Northwater and of Knightcastle? Mazael needed the loyalty of the Tervingi far more than he needed the loyalty of the Jutai. Perhaps he cared nothing for the Jutai, and had decided to remove them from Greatheart Keep and bestow the village upon Earnachar instead. 

A shiver of fury went through her at the thought. 

“Very well,” said Sigaldra. “Close the gates and call the thains and militia to arms.”

Talchar’s good eye blinked. “Holdmistress? Surely you do not think to revolt against the hrould?”

“No,” said Sigaldra. “But caution has always served us well, and it shall serve us well again.”

And if Mazael Cravenlock had turned against the Jutai, if he had decided to side with Earnachar…a wave of despair went through Sigaldra at the thought. 

She did not know what she would do then.

Her eyes turned to the stone tower of the keep, where Liane slept off her episode, and drew strength from the sight. Her sister needed her. The Jutai needed her. She would not fail them.

If this was their day to die…well, they would make sure the enemy regretted it.

“Let us prepare,” said Sigaldra.

###

“I think,” said Timothy, squinting at the walls of the village, “that something is wrong.”

Arnulf grunted. “I concur.” 

Adalar stared at the village and the gray tower of the keep upon its hill, a churn of emotions swirling through his mind.

He did not really know what to feel as he looked at the village. 

Adalar knew what had happened here. After his father had died, the village had been in the hands of Sir Nathan’s bailiff, a solid, capable man, but one utterly unable to defend Greatheart Keep from the Great Rising. The runedead had slaughtered everyone in the keep and the village, leaving no survivors. Everyone who Adalar had known has a child had died on that day. 

A lot of people had died on that day. 

After the defeat of the runedead, Mazael had settled the Jutai here. That stung a little, but Mazael had been within his rights to do so. After a knight died, his fief passed to his eldest son, but only if the eldest son came to the land, claimed it, and did homage to the lord. Adalar had never returned to the Grim Marches to claim Greatheart Keep. He had been busy in Mastaria, first bringing the lands to order, and then fighting desperately against Caraster and his runedead. When he had fled to the Grim Marches with Lord Gerald, there had been no time to attend to Greatheart Keep or Sir Nathan’s ashes. 

But now he was here, the village was before his eyes, and the enormity of the change struck him. 

Many of the houses were still the same. Yet the village’s walls had been expanded and fortified, augmented with a stake-lined ditch, reinforced gates, and spikes upon the walls to discourage climbers. New barns and granaries in the Tervingi style had been raised inside the expanded walls, and the fields and pastures had been reorganized. It was the same as he remembered, yet different. 

Like meeting a man wearing his father’s armor.

Adalar knew he had no right to feel angry, yet he did nonetheless. 

“It seems everyone fled at our approach,” said Romaria, “and withdrew within the walls. The village isn’t deserted as Castyard was. I see the archers hiding behind the battlements.”

Wesson grunted. “Why do they flee? Do not we fly the banners of their lawful lord?”

“Any bandit with half a brain,” said Mazael, “can find some black cloth with crossed swords upon it and pretend to be the Lord of the Grim Marches. I hung a bandit who tried that last year.” 

Arnulf grunted again. “You have Tervingi thains with you, and the Jutai have reason enough to distrust the Tervingi.” 

“Perhaps they’ve been attacked by the valgasts,” said Wesson, “or the Skuldari.” 

“Or Agaric and his friends,” said Romaria. 

“My lord Adalar,” said Wesson, “you used to live here. Could this village be taken by storm?”

“This isn’t my home,” Adalar heard himself say. “Not any longer.” He blinked and forced himself under control, pushing aside the emotions. “But…aye, a large enough force could surround the village and overwhelm the defenders.” 

“I don’t think there has been a battle here,” said Romaria. 

Mazael said nothing, gazing at the walls. 

“Well,” he said at last, “let’s…”

The postern door in the gate swung open, and three men walked out. The first was middle-aged, a huge man with arms like the masts of a sailing ship. His chain mail hauberk could have held two lesser men, and he carried a war hammer that looked as if it weighed more than Adalar. The second man was also middle aged, lean with a craggy face, sword at his belt and shield upon his back. There was something wrong with his left eye – it looked as if it had been filled with blood, and it seemed to flash in the sunlight.

The final man…no, the final man was a woman. Adalar had not often seen women wearing chain mail. 

She was young, perhaps his own age, and wore a tan dress and heavy boots beneath the chain mail. Her great mass of blond hair had been pulled away from her lean face and into a thick braid, making her cheekbones seem all the starker. Her blue eyes were cold and hard and bloodshot, her mouth a thin, unsmiling line. She had a short sword and a quiver of arrows at her belt, the end of a bow rising over her shoulder. Adalar had spent enough time around the Tervingi to hear the battle hymns and sagas of their loresingers, and they had told tales of shieldmaidens, women so maddened by grief and loss that they had taken up sword and shield and died in the battle against the Malrags. 

He did not know if the shieldmaidens had been real or not (or even if the Jutai had shieldmaidens), but if they had, they would have looked like this grim woman. She was beautiful in the same way that a flower caught by an early frost was beautiful, a beauty cold and hard and dead. 

Bows creaked, and Adalar saw a score of archers taking position over the gate. 

“I am,” called the Jutai woman, her voice ringing over the field, “Sigaldra of the Jutai, the holdmistress of the Jutai and by the laws and customs of the Grim Marches the lady of Greatheart Keep. I bid whatever headman, hrould, lord, or knight that commands this invading force to come forth and parley with me, in the company of two guards. If this offer for parley is not met within ten minutes, I shall assume it is an act of aggression and take all appropriate steps.” 

Arnulf let out a hard little laugh. “She’s lost none of her fire.” 

“Who will you send to speak with her?” said Timothy. “I can serve as ambassador, as can Sir Aulus.”

“No,” said Mazael. “I am hrould. I will go myself. Romaria, too. Your Sight might come in handy.” Especially if this Sigaldra had been infested by the spiders. “Adalar, as well.”

“Perhaps Arnulf should go,” said Adalar. “He has higher rank in the Grim Marches than I do.”

“He does,” said Mazael, “but Arnulf is Tervingi, and the Jutai are suspicious of the Tervingi.”

“If her suspicion leads to her take arms against you, my lord,” said Wesson. “What happens then?”

“Then a lot of people are going to die today,” said Mazael. “Let’s see if we can keep matters from coming to that, shall we?” 

He did not wait for an answer, but started his horse towards the gate at a walk. Romaria followed him, and Adalar shrugged, adjusted his weapons, and followed the Lord of Castle Cravenlock and his wife. He felt the weight of the archers’ eyes upon him as he rode forward, and badly wanted to reach for his shield. But the archers might interpret that as preparation for an assault on their holdmistress, which might lead to the bloodbath Mazael feared. 

So Adalar kept his hands in plain sight as Mazael reined up a dozen paces from Sigaldra and her two men. 

For a moment the holdmistress and the Lord of the Grim Marches stared at each other.

Sigaldra looked away first. “Lord Mazael.” 

“Holdmistress,” said Mazael. Unlike Sigaldra, he seemed utterly calm. “I trust you are well?”

Sigaldra recovered herself and looked back at him. “That would depend upon the outcome of this meeting.”

“True enough,” said Mazael, looking at the huge man with the hammer. “Vorgaric, is that it?” The big man nodded. “One of Sigaldra’s spearthains?”

“A humble bondsman, hrould,” said Vorgaric. 

“Indeed?” said Mazael. “I remember you from the Northwater. Not many humble bondsmen can crush a Justiciar knight’s chest with a single blow of a hammer.”

Vorgaric’s shoulders rippled in a massive shrug. “Not all bondsmen are blacksmiths, hrould.”

“Clearly not,” said Mazael. “And you. Talchar One-Eye. You slew a Justiciar commander in single combat during the Northwater. Still wearing his chain mail and carrying his sword, I see.”

The lean Jutai swordthain grinned. Up close, Adalar saw that his left eye had been replaced with some sort of smooth crystal. The damned thing looked painful, but it lent his face a terrifying aspect. “Trophies won fairly in battle, hrould.”

“That is so,” said Mazael. “And you, holdmistress. My wife told me how you and the Jutai archers stood fast during the great battle of the Northwater. Even before that, during the battle of Swordgrim and the Great Rising, you and your folk turned against Ragnachar and sided with me, and then stood with the lords and knights of the Grim Marches against Lucan’s treachery and his runedead.”

“All this you say is true,” said Sigaldra. “Though I wonder why you tell me of history.”

“Because we have shed blood together and stood in battle together against powerful and terrible foes,” said Mazael. “So I am curious why you greet me now with closed gates, drawn bows, and harsh words.” 

There was a mild hint of a threat in his voice, but Sigaldra did not back down.

“Because,” she said, gesturing at the walls behind them, “this is all that remains of the Jutai people, hrould. All that remains of our nation, our living people and the ashes of our ancestors, are within those walls. I will do whatever is necessary to defend them from any threat.”

“An admirable goal,” said Mazael. “So what do you defend against now, Sigaldra of the Jutai?” He waved a hand at the walls. “The spikes and the additional fortifications. You’ve been attacked by valgasts, haven’t you?” 

“Valgasts?” said Sigaldra. “Aye, we have seen valgasts in the last few weeks. They have been raiding our cattle and trying to snatch anyone out at night. But they have not been bold enough to assail our village. Your lordlings and knights laughed at me when I built the extra fortifications, but are they laughing at the Jutai now?”

“I suspect not,” said Mazael. “Yet this does not explain why you reacted with such hostility to my approach.”

“I prefer to think of it as caution,” said Sigaldra. 

“The Skuldari, then,” said Mazael. “They have been raiding your lands.”