Mask of Swords (3 page)

“It is neither midsummer nor midwinter,” said Mazael, wondering if he could coax the dying wizard into revealing more information, “and yet here you are.” 

“Do you not understand, fool?” said the wizard. “The pact was broken. Long ago the Old Demon imprisoned our goddess and bound us beneath the earth, permitting us to come forth only two days a year. But now the Old Demon is dead, and there is no one strong enough to stop us. Our goddess shall rule over mortals as a wolf rules over sheep. Marazadra shall rise again! And I may not live to see it…but you shall, tainted one, and you shall curse the day you were born.” 

The wizard shuddered once and went limp, bubbling black slime dripping from its fangs and onto its white hide. Mazael jabbed the creature with Talon, but the wizard showed no response. Just to be sure, he took off the wizard’s head. Had the wizard been a little stronger, it could have killed them all with a blast of flame before they even noticed. 

“What does that mean?” said Toric.

“I don’t know, not yet,” said Mazael, though he suspected more. He would not share those thoughts with anyone but his wife, his daughter, and her husband. “But I am certain it means there is more fighting ahead of us.”

“What shall we do now?” said Hagen. 

“It is simple,” said Mazael. “If more valgasts or their precious goddess attack us, we make them regret ever setting foot in the Grim Marches.”

Chapter 2: The Lord of the Grim Marches

Mazael waited another day before leaving Gray Pillar.

He oversaw the work of treating the wounded and burying the dead. In truth, he did very little real work. He circulated among the men, praising their valor and promising vigilance against the valgasts. Men needed to know that their lord would look after them, that he would fall with terrible wrath upon any who dared threaten them. 

That was a promise Mazael fully intended to keep. 

Toric augmented the fortifications around Gray Pillar, ordering a ditch dug and spikes driven into the wall to keep the valgasts from climbing it. The work would take time, and until then Toric ordered his spearthains and swordthains to light fires and watch at night. Additionally, the scent of the valgasts had driven the griffins mad with rage, and so two skythains would patrol over the village at night. The skythains hated flying in the dark, but the griffins’ keen noses would warn them if any valgasts approached.

Mazael led a troop of armsmen and spearthains from the village, following the trail of the retreating valgasts. It led to a cave in the foothills five miles from Gray Pillar. Mazael commanded Toric to seal it up, and the headman heartily agreed, but they both knew it would do little good. Caves riddled the Great Mountains, and many of them led to the underworld’s vast maze. For that matter, most of Gray Pillar’s wealth came from the gold mines in the hills, and Toric had just reopened some of the mines. The valgasts could use those tunnels easily enough. 

The folk of Gray Pillar would have to be vigilant, but the people of the Grim Marches were used to vigilance. They had survived the Malrag War, the Tervingi invasion, the Great Rising of the runedead, and the attack of the corrupted Justiciar Order. Mazael hoped they could survive this as well. 

He left Gray Pillar with his men the next day, riding west. 

Stakes now rose over Gray Pillar’s gate, topped with the heads of valgasts, their enormous black eyes staring into nothing. 

Perhaps that would discourage the valgasts from returning.

###

Mazael expected reports of alarm and fear as he rode west, but the countryside seemed calm. 

They passed through villages of Tervingi and Marcher folk both, and nothing seemed amiss. When the Tervingi had first come to the Grim Marches, Lord Richard Mandragon had settled them on lands depopulated by Ultorin’s Malrags. He had also made sure to scatter the Tervingi across the eastern Grim Marches, preventing the Tervingi headmen from gathering a large enough piece of land to declare their own realm. After Mazael became the liege lord of the Grim Marches, there had been far more empty lands available, their former inhabitants slain by Lucan Mandragon’s runedead, and Mazael had further scattered the Tervingi. Many of Ragnachar’s former followers were not pleased that Mazael was hrould of the Tervingi nation. For that matter, many of the surviving lords of the Grim Marches were not happy about Mazael and even less happy about their new neighbors, but fear of the Tervingi kept them loyal to Mazael. 

Mazael had built a tenuous peace, one that could fly apart into bloody war at any moment. But it had held so far, and the Tervingi and the men of the Grim Marches had stood together against the Justiciar Order and the runedead. If the valgasts and their goddess arrived, he hoped they would stand together. 

Mazael spoke with the Tervingi headmen and holdmistresses, with the village knights and bailiffs. There were always rumors. Sometimes people or cattle disappeared. The watchmen saw creatures lurking in the night that matched the description of the valgasts. Mazael urged his vassals to greater vigilance, and they promised to obey. 

He brooded as he rode west, wondering what the valgasts intended. Perhaps that wizard had spoken the truth, and they merely intended to carry off whatever captives and loot they could seize. Or perhaps they were scouting for a larger invasion. 

No answers presented themselves, and Mazael rode on.

###

A few days later they returned to Castle Cravenlock. 

The castle stood upon its rocky hill, grim and strong. More than one person had told Mazael that the castle looked like the stronghold of an evil wizard from a jongleur’s song, and Mazael could not disagree. For that matter, given how much time the Old Demon had spent there masquerading as Simonian of Briault, and how long Lucan Mandragon had kept his hidden workshop there, Mazael supposed the castle had indeed been an evil wizard’s stronghold more than once. 

It was a sour thought. But both the Old Demon and Lucan were dead, and could do no more damage to the world. 

Below the hill, perhaps a half-mile from the castle, stood the expanding walls of Cravenlock Town. Once it had been a sleepy town of four thousand people. The upheavals of the last few years had sent many people fleeing for its walls, and now its population had swollen to nearly ten thousand. Trade had sprung up between the Tervingi and the Grim Marchers and the people of the rest of the realm, and those trade routes converged on Cravenlock Town. 

“Better run up the banner, Sir Hagen,” said Mazael. “We wouldn’t want to startle Timothy and Cramton.”

Hagen snorted. “We wouldn’t want to startle Lady Romaria, you mean.”

“You’ve seen how well she shoots,” said Mazael. “You wouldn’t want to startle her, either.” 

Hagen unfurled the banner, attached it to his lance, and lifted it up. The black field fluttered overhead, showing the three crossed swords of the Cravenlock sigil. Mazael guided his horse to the castle’s hill, and they rode past Cravenlock Town and up the road to the barbican and the gates of the castle. Armsmen in black Cravenlock tabards bowed as Mazael rode past, and he reined up in the hard-packed earth of the courtyard. 

A storm of memories swirled through him as he looked around. He had grown up here, neglected by the man he thought had been his father and mocked by his mother, his sister Rachel his only friend. Master Othar and Sir Nathan had taught him, and likely only their discipline had given him the strength to hold back his Demonsouled impulses, to keep him from becoming a man like Amalric Galbraith or Ragnachar of the Tervingi. He had seen his brother Mitor die here, had faced the Old Demon in the castle’s chapel, and had seen Romaria die at his feet. Mazael had fought San-keth changelings within the walls of his castle, had seen the Guardian heal Romaria from Skalatan’s poison in this courtyard. 

He looked at the tree that still marked the spot, the only green and growing thing in the courtyard, and smiled. 

Two men awaited him below the doors to the great hall, and Mazael turned his mind from the past to the present. 

“Welcome home, my lord,” said the first man, stout and sweating and bearded. Master Cramton had owned Cravenlock Town’s inn until he had run afoul of Mitor’s men. Mazael had rescued him, and after Mitor’s death Cramton had become Mazael’s seneschal. Cramton’s cook Bethy had become the master of Castle Cravenlock’s kitchens and then Mazael’s mistress. After Mazael had married Romaria, Bethy had suddenly met and married a prosperous merchant of Sword Town. In fact, every woman Mazael had bedded at Castle Cravenlock – and he had to admit that there had been more than one – had found herself courted and married within a year. 

For all that Romaria disdained the social life of noble politics, Mazael could not help but admire her skill when she applied herself to it. Though he suspected that Molly had helped her. 

“Thank you, Cramton,” said Mazael. “Any news?” 

“Some,” said Cramton. “Our winter supplies are lower than I might wish, but the weather has been good so I hope the planting can begin soon. There are, ah, other reports as well, stranger ones, but Timothy can speak more of them.” 

The second man stepped forward. He was shorter and much thinner than Cramton, with his brown hair slicked back and his beard trimmed to a point in the Travian style. He wore a long black coat, a black tunic, black trousers, and black boots, the coat and clothes worn by wizards across the realm. 

At least wizards who were members of the realm’s Brotherhood, who had trained at Alborg or one of the colleges under the Brotherhood’s authority. Mazael doubted that the valgast wizard had studied at one. Timothy had, though. He had been sent to Castle Cravenlock to study under Master Othar, and after the San-keth had murdered Othar, Timothy had taken over as the court wizard of Castle Cravenlock. 

Timothy had been a loyal and valuable friend, had stood at Mazael’s side through some very dangerous battles, and Mazael trusted few men as much as him. 

“My lord,” said Timothy, “we found a…creature. I’m not entirely sure what it is.”

“Let me guess,” said Mazael. “Short. About four or five feet tall, rather spindly. Huge black eyes that are apparently made of crystal. Claws and fangs, and fights with poisoned daggers and darts.”

Timothy grunted. “You’ve encountered them, I see.” 

“Aye,” said Mazael. “A large band of them attacked Toric’s hold at Gray Pillar. We fought them off, but not without losses. Did they attack the castle or the town?”

“No, my lord,” said Timothy. “It was an outlying farm. A peasant came home to find his wife and children unconscious and a pair of the creatures trying to drag them away. He was a veteran of the Malrags and the runedead, so he fought them and won. He thought they were a new kind of Malrag, so he brought the creatures here.”

“Good man,” said Mazael, looking at Cramton. “Send him some silver and his lord’s thanks.” Cramton bowed. “Do you recognize the creatures at all?”

“No, my lord,” said Timothy. “Lady Romaria did, said she had encountered some of them during her wanderings years ago.”

“She fought them?” said Mazael.

“Aye, and won,” said Timothy, “though she knew little more about them. She thought the Guardian might know more.”

“Is Riothamus here?” said Mazael.

“No, my lord,” said Cramton. “He departed with Lady Molly for Sword Town two days past to attend to some business there.”

Mazael grunted. “Well, we can speak when he returns.” He swung down from his saddle, and Rudolph hurried forward to take his reins. “Cramton, make sure the men get fed. I will be with Lady Romaria until dinner.”

“Of course, my lord,” said Cramton. 

“Timothy,” said Mazael. “We have wards around the castle and town to warn against undead and Malrags. Could you modify them to include the valgasts?”

“I believe so, my lord,” said Timothy. “I shall start the work at once.” 

“Thank you.” Mazael nodded, handed his shield over to Rudolph, and strode into the castle. 

Mitor and Adalon and all the previous lords of Castle Cravenlock had kept their apartments between the great hall and the chapel, but Mazael had taken rooms atop the King’s Tower and had never left them. Not that the realm had a high king – the various liege lords conducted themselves as petty kings, waging war and ruling their demesnes as they saw fit. Centuries ago, the realm had been ruled by a high king, he had once stayed in the King’s Tower, and so the name had stuck. Yet the liege lords had gone their own ways after the last high king had died. As he climbed the stairs of the King’s Tower, Mazael wondered if his father had played a part in that. The Old Demon had raised generations of Demonsouled only to slaughter them for their power, and a realm perpetually at war would have played to the Old Demon’s purposes. Mazael’s entire life had been shaped by the Old Demon’s manipulations – but Mazael was forty years old. The Old Demon had lived for over three thousand years, and Mazael had seen just the barest part of his plans. 

Had the valgasts and their goddess been part of the Old Demon’s schemes? Some plan that had unraveled after his death? 

He pushed the thought from his mind. The Old Demon was dead, killed at the very instant of his triumph, and could harm no one else. 

But the evil that men did often lived on after their deaths. 

Mazael opened the door to his bedchamber at the top of the tower. He disliked ostentation, and the room reflected that. The only furniture was the large bed, a wardrobe, and a writing table and chair. A rack on one side of the bed held his weapons and armor, and another rack near the door to the balcony held leather armor, a bastard sword, and a bow wrought by the master bowyers of the Elderborn. 

Romaria stood near the wardrobe, wrapped in a blanket. 

She was tall for a woman, only a few inches shorter than him, and her long black hair hung to her hips. Her face was lean and just a little too angular to be human, a sign of her mother's Elderborn blood, and her eyes were a shade of blue so icy it was almost eerie. She was five years younger than Mazael, but if he had not known better he would have said she was anywhere from fifteen to forty.