Mask of Swords (23 page)

The big man was motionless, his hands clasped behind his back. The mask of sword blades that covered his face had returned to its normal shape, the tendrils withdrawing from the skin of his neck and shoulders. He had put on additional armor, a cuirass and gauntlets, no doubt to cover the damage Talon had inflicted upon his hauberk. 

For a moment Mazael stared at the orcragar, who stared right back. 

“That mask,” said Mazael, his voice a heavy rasp, “looks like it hurts.”

Rigoric did not answer.

“It looks stupid,” said Mazael.

The orcragar did not even blink. 

“Did it cut out your tongue when you put it on?” said Mazael.

“He has no need to speak,” came a woman’s voice. 

Mazael managed to turn his head and saw the Prophetess. 

She sat upon a stool near the opposite wall of the pavilion, draped in her black robes, her eyes glinting in the light from the brazier. 

“You see,” she said. Her voice had a faint accent. Travian, he thought, from the northern lands of the realm. “He is the Champion of the goddess, her mailed fist to bring her wrath to those who defy her will. His task is not to share the words of the goddess with her foes, but to deliver her wrath.”

“And your task is to share the words?” said Mazael. 

To his surprise, she smiled briefly. “An oversimplification, yes, but essentially true.” She rose from the stool, the black robes stirring. “I share the words of the goddess with the world. I share her truth, her wisdom. The world shall bow before her.” She shrugged. “And for those who refuse…well, the wrath of the Champion will suffice for them, will it not?”

“Is that why I am here?” said Mazael. “So you can share the wrath of Marazadra with me?”

The Prophetess hesitated. “You learned her name, then? It is sacred and you should not speak it lightly. I suppose you learned it form the valgasts. They are loyal servants of the goddess, true…but they are nonetheless filthy creatures. Still. All shall be gathered under the goddess’s shadow in time, even the valgasts.”

“That’s why I am here, is it?” said Mazael. “So you can convert me?”

“No,” said the Prophetess. “You are here because you are the last son of the Old Demon.”

Mazael said nothing.

“Do not bother to deny it,” said the Prophetess. She stooped over him, and Mazael strained against the chains, hoping to break free and kill her. Yet the manacles held him fast and his limbs felt terribly weak. The Prophetess raked her fingernails across his arm, drawing blood, and then stepped back.

A few moments later the cuts vanished. 

“The last son of the Old Demon,” said the Prophetess, pacing away. “The Old Demon killed most of them, and Lucan Mandragon slew most of the rest. There are only a few of you left, and certainly none like you.” 

“If you wanted to talk to me,” said Mazael, “you could simply have come to Castle Cravenlock.” 

“You would not have listened,” said the Prophetess. “Surrounded by your stone walls and your knights and your wealth, you would not have been receptive to the truth of the goddess.” He jerked at the chains again, but still could not muster any strength. “No, do not bother. With your full power, you could have broken free and killed me already. But I wish you to remain there until we conclude our conversation.” 

“What did you do to me?” said Mazael.

“A poison brewed by the apothecaries of the Justiciar Order in ancient days,” said the Prophetess. “Designed for hunting and overcoming Demonsouled. To those entirely human, it is harmless. It is…mostly harmless to a Demonsouled, but weakens you for a span of a few hours. It makes you easier to kill. Or to talk with, as it happens.”

“The Justiciars?” said Mazael with a ragged laugh. “The Justiciars didn’t believe that the Demonsouled existed. Or the San-keth, or the Malrags. They were founded to protect the realm from dark powers, but they didn’t believe those dark powers existed. So where did you really get the poison?”

“When you destroyed the Justiciar Order,” said the Prophetess, “they were at the height of their power and their wealth. Yet they had forgotten their purpose. They were devoted to the Amathavian gods, yet they had forgotten their faith. So Lucan Mandragon corrupted them, and you smashed the empty shell that they had become.” She crossed to the pavilion’s flap, lifted it, and gazed into the night for a moment. “An important lesson for us. A man needs faith, or else he is a rotten shell.” 

“Are you Demonsouled?” said Mazael. “Another child of the Old Demon?” 

“Certainly not,” said the Prophetess, turning back from the tent flap. “I am not Demonsouled. I am not a San-keth changeling, or a soliphage, or an undead revenant of Old Dracaryl. I am merely a human woman of flesh and blood…though I am rather good at magic.”

“And you are the voice of Marazadra,” said Mazael.

“I am,” said the Prophetess. “You should not use her name lightly.” 

“I’m not,” said Mazael. “You attacked my men in the name of the damned giant spider you worship.” Had Romaria gotten away? Had Adalar escaped? Or had those soliphages killed them all? If the Prophetess’s pet spiders had killed Romaria, Mazael was going to kill them all – the soliphages, the Skuldari, and the valgasts. Every last one of them.

“Some of your men were killed, yes,” said the Prophetess. “Some of them escaped back to Greatheart Keep, where if they do not submit to the will of the goddess, we will kill them.” 

“You’re going to regret that,” said Mazael.

“There’s the Demonsouled rage,” said the Prophetess. “Not that it will accomplish anything. You should not mourn their deaths overmuch. They would have died anyway, whether in one of the endless petty wars between petty lords or of disease and old age. This way, their deaths have meaning, preparing the way for the coming of the goddess.” 

“You want Liane,” said Mazael. “Why?” 

“She is special,” said the Prophetess. “She has a mighty destiny before her. You might have a great destiny before you, Mazael Cravenlock. If you are wise enough to heed my words.” 

“You’re going to make me an offer,” said Mazael. 

“Of course I am,” said the Prophetess. “For you put all this in motion.”

“What do you mean?” said Mazael.

“You killed your father,” said the Prophetess.

“I did,” said Mazael. “Do you think to blame me for that? My only regret is that I did not figure out how to kill him years sooner.”

“Not at all,” said the Prophetess. “Your father was a monster. He manipulated the nations for centuries, arranging them to his bidding. The world is well rid of him. He was a monster, yes…but he was a genius. He could not harm anyone unless they attacked him first, but that never hindered him. After the destruction of the High Elderborn, competing powers littered this world – the San-keth, the Trichirabi, the princes of the deep places, so many others. The Old Demon bound them all, one by one, tricking and chaining them with his pacts. Not from benevolence, you understand, but so they would not hinder his plans, leaving him to do as he pleased.” 

“Your goddess,” said Mazael. “The Old Demon bound her.”

“Yes,” said the Prophetess. “In a manner of speaking. You see, Mazael Cravenlock, you slew the Old Demon, and when you slew him, his pacts were broken. He had bound the valgasts to stay in the underworld and the Skuldari within their homeland, lest their raids disrupt his plans. He also banished the goddess from the world.”

“And you’re the one to restore her,” said Mazael.

“Yes,” said the Prophetess. 

“That’s not insane at all,” said Mazael. 

“Those with vision are always considered mad,” said the Prophetess, “until their vision comes to fruition.” 

“And what is your vision?” said Mazael. “Your goddess restored?”

“Yes,” said the Prophetess.

“Let me guess,” said Mazael. “Your goddess will devour the world, and she’ll make you immortal and invincible, and you’ll rule at her side forever.” He glanced at Rigoric. “With a retinue of steel-masked fools to wait upon your every whim, I suppose.” 

“No,” said the Prophetess. “The goddess’s advent will create a new world. An ordered and virtuous world.”

“Virtuous?” said Mazael.

“What makes men virtuous?” said the Prophetess. 

Mazael shrugged. “Laws. Customs. Their own consciences, I suppose.”

“No,” said the Prophetess. “Fear.”

“Fear makes men virtuous?” said Mazael.

“Does it not?” said the Prophetess. “What keeps a thief from stealing? What keeps the merchant from cheating? What prevents a murderer from killing?”

“Tell me. Your answer ought to be entertaining,” said Mazael.

“The fear of consequences,” said the Prophetess. “Yet there are not always consequences, are there? A clever man can escape consequences for his crimes. A strong man can defeat any retribution for his misdeeds.”

“What does this have to do with your precious Marazadra?” said Mazael.

“It is a wicked world,” said the Prophetess, “is it not?”

“Yes,” said Mazael. “And you think your goddess will fix it?”

“She shall,” said the Prophetess, “by bringing fear to the world.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” said Mazael.

“Consider,” said the Prophetess. “The lords war endlessly among themselves, spilling blood for their greed and pride. The merchants cheat and scheme. The clergy of the Amathavian church are corrupt and hypocritical. The peasants are slothful and indolent. Do you know why?”

“Because they’re not afraid?” said Mazael.

“Yes,” said the Prophetess. “Fear alone makes men virtuous. Humanity has been the dominant race upon this world for far too long, and it has made us corrupt. We are without fear. We are too arrogant in our pride, and believe ourselves beyond consequences. When the goddess is reborn and her angels are at her side, they shall prey upon the wicked and the slothful. Fear will come upon man once more.” A note of fervor entered her otherwise calm voice. “All men shall fear the wrath and the judgment of the goddess…and in this new world, we shall be at peace, for no man will dare to be wicked.”

“That,” said Mazael, “is the stupidest thing I have ever heard.”

The Prophetess looked at him, and for a moment there was a glint of irritation in her green eyes.

“Why is that?” she said. 

“Have you ever been a liege lord?” said Mazael. “Or even the lord of a small village?”

“No,” said the Prophetess. 

“Pity. If you had, you would know that you can’t rule people entirely through fear,” said Mazael. 

“Your lords fear you,” said the Prophetess. “Earnachar was terrified of you.”

“If you are a lord, you cannot let your vassals cross you,” said Mazael. “But they need hope in addition to fear. They need to know that if they abide by the laws, they will be rewarded and left in peace. Men cannot live on fear alone. They need hope as well. What hope does your goddess give them? That she will eat them last? Let men live without hope, and in time they will grow desperate enough to rise up against you.”

The Prophetess shook his head. “A naïve view, Lord Mazael. You do not understand the wickedness of the human heart.”

Mazael laughed. 

“Did I say something amusing?” said the Prophetess. 

“I am Demonsouled,” said Mazael, “the last son of the Old Demon. His blood fills me with the urge to fight, to kill, to slaughter and conquer and dominate. I’ve lived with that for forty years…and you think to lecture me about the wickedness of the human heart?” He looked at Rigoric. “Tell me, does your mistress descend into the sea to give the fish lectures about swimming?”

The masked man made no response. 

“You may have the chance to put your theories into practice,” said the Prophetess.

“You want to convert me?” said Mazael. “Why?”

“I am the voice of the goddess, and Rigoric is her champion,” said the Prophetess. “You can be her regent, Mazael Cravenlock. Convert to her worship, and you can rule the world in her name.”

“I heard that offer,” said Mazael, “from a far more effective tempter than you. I refused him, and I refuse you.”

“You would not even need to shed any blood,” said the Prophetess. “Lord Gerald and Prince Hugh respect you and follow your lead. The other liege lords fear you too much to cross you. You could bring them to heel with little effort, and you could rule an orderly realm of virtue and obedience.”

“No,” said Mazael. 

“I thought not,” said the Prophetess. “Fortunately, the goddess gives her servants many tools.”  

She reached into her robe and drew out a peculiar silver dagger. Its blade was about a foot long, and the silver had an odd, dull shine to it. 

“Do you like it?” said the Prophetess. “It is called a maethweisyr. A relic of the Imperium of the Dark Elderborn of old.”

“If you wanted to cut my throat and have done with it,” said Mazael, “you could have spared me the speech first.”

“I have something different in mind for you,” said the Prophetess. She turned the dagger over. “A maethweisyr had a very specific purpose. The Dark Elderborn recognized that certain kinds of blood had magical power. Blood, alas, goes bad so quickly. Therefore they needed a way to store the blood for future use. Hence, the maethweisyr.”

“Blood,” said Mazael. He felt a flicker of alarm. “Is that what this is about? You want to use my blood for some magical purpose. Don’t. Lucan Mandragon did, and look what happened to him.” 

“Lucan Mandragon was a fool,” said the Prophetess. “He believed only in himself, and so the Old Demon led him to ruin. More, he sought to use your blood’s power for himself. I do not seek to use your power for myself.”

She knelt, and in one smooth motion slammed the dagger into Mazael’s chest.

He went rigid with pain, an agonized grunt escaping his clenched teeth. He had been stabbed before, several times, and knew what to expect, though it did not make the sensation any less painful. Waves of pain blurred through him like fire, and his breathing grew wet and heavy. The damned dagger had punctured his left lung. Rage filled him, and if he could have, he would have surged to his feet, ripped the dagger from his chest, and carved the Prophetess and Rigoric to pieces. 

But weakness filled his limbs, and Mazael could do nothing but tremble as the dagger sank deeper into his chest.