Mask of Swords (31 page)

“The Old Demon could not take direct action against Marazadra, not unless she attacked him first,” said Riothamus. 

“That never slowed him down much,” said Mazael.

Riothamus nodded. “The lore of the Guardians says that the Urdmoloch hated direct confrontation and preferred to manipulate affairs from the shadows using catspaws and proxies. The San-keth thought that way, too, but the Urdmoloch was better at it. He allied with the San-keth archpriests of the west against Marazadra, while simultaneously allying with Marazadra against the San-keth archpriests.”

“He convinced them to destroy each other,” said Mazael.

“The Urdmoloch promised both that he would provide aid in the final battle,” said Riothamus. “Instead he prepared a trap. Marazadra defeated the San-keth archpriests, but her physical form was destroyed and her spirit imprisoned. The Old Demon bound the soliphages, keeping them away from the realms of the west, where he sired and destroyed most of his Demonsouled progeny.” 

“Like a breeding pen,” said Mazael. He wondered how much of the realm’s history had been shaped by the Old Demon, wondered how many kings and lords and wizards had been manipulated to feed the dark power in Cythraul Urdvul.   

“Gods,” said Molly. “The devil, the snake, and the spider.”

“What?” said Mazael, and Riothamus nodded.

“It’s a song of the Tervingi loresingers,” said Molly. “The snakes and the spiders go to war, and they both ask a devil for help. The devil agrees to help them both, but instead tricks and destroys them. I thought it was just a fable.”

“It is,” said Riothamus, “but a fable based upon truth.” 

“What about the Skuldari?” said Mazael. “Do you know anything about them?”

“I fear not,” said Riothamus. “None of the Guardians ever encountered them. Marazadra was the goddess of the soliphages, but she had many human worshippers, and the soliphages themselves had human slaves, both as servants and as livestock.” He shrugged. “I expect the Skuldari are the descendants of these slaves, though they have forgotten much of their history. Just as the Tervingi forgot that the office of the Guardian is older than our nation.” 

“And the valgasts?” said Mazael. “Did they always worship Marazadra?” 

“To my knowledge, yes,” said Riothamus. “The valgasts are scavengers. They believe that Marazadra will devour the world, and that the valgasts can then feast upon the remnants. I had always thought the valgasts only ventured to the surface upon midsummer’s day and midwinter’s day out of tradition, but it seems that the Old Demon bound them as well. Now that he is dead, they are free to as they wish. I fear they shall remain a constant menace.” 

“They are less dangerous than the Malrags, at least,” said Mazael. “What about the Prophetess? Did the Guardians ever encounter her?”

“I do not believe so,” said Riothamus. “Based on what you have said, I think she is a relatively young woman, albeit one of considerable magical power. Is she Skuldari?”

“No,” said Mazael. “The Skuldari I’ve seen tend to be tall, with dark eyes and hair. She is shorter, with green eyes and red hair, and far paler than most Skuldari. Her accent is wrong, too. She sounds Travian.”

“Travian?” said Riothamus. “Like Timothy, you mean?”

“Aye,” said Mazael. 

“There are female wizards?” said Riothamus. “The Brotherhood of wizards accepts women as students?” He considered. “Is it not a brotherhood?”

“Some,” said Mazael. “Not many. Some of the wizards’ colleges accept women, and some do not. The Dominiars and the Justiciars used to kill any wizard they could catch.” 

“So why is a Travian wizard leading the worshippers of a dead spider goddess in some ragged little war?” said Molly. 

“A very good question,” said Romaria.

“I have been catching glimpses of her with the Sight,” said Riothamus. “Not many, and not clearly. She is powerful enough to cloak herself.”

Mazael grunted. “I noticed.” 

“Yet I have been able to see her, if briefly,” said Riothamus. “She is powerful. Not as strong as the Old Demon or as Lucan Mandragon, but powerful nonetheless. It is unusual to find someone of that age with that much magical power.”

“You’re not that old, husband. Lucan wasn’t that old, either,” said Molly. “He went digging around in the past and found the Wraithaldr, and look what that did to him. Maybe this Prophetess did the same thing.” 

“You think she found some relic of Marazadra and the soliphages,” said Mazael, “and its power set her upon this path?”

Molly grinned. “We can search her corpse after you kill her.” 

“She claims it is for a better world,” said Mazael. “That only fear can make men moral, and that when she finishes her plan, she will bring order and harmony to the world under her goddess.

“She is wrong,” said Riothamus. “A man might rule by fear, but the minute the fear falters his power is gone. Malaric would still be ruling in Barellion if he had not lost the battle to the Aegonar invaders. She is half-right, though. Men are good for two reasons, either love or fear. But love is the more reliable of the two.”

Molly smiled at him. She often smirked, but rarely smiled. Mazael had failed her as a father in every way possible, so when she had come to Castle Cravenlock he had determined to find her a worthy husband. She had met Riothamus on her own, which was just as well. He could not have found a better husband for her than Riothamus, Guardian of the Tervingi.

“What do you think she intends?” said Romaria. “All this scheming. It must have some purpose.” 

“Whatever her intention,” said Mazael, “she has brought fire and sword against the Grim Marches. Her valgasts have attacked villages under my protection. That must be answered.”  

“Then you do intend to kill her?” said Riothamus.

“Aye,” said Mazael. “The Grim Marches have suffered the Malrag attack, the Tervingi invasion, the Great Rising, and the battle again the Justiciar Order, but we have endured. I will be damned if we have survived all that only to fall to the Prophetess and her goddess.” He shrugged. “Whatever her plan, she will not be able to carry it out when she is dead.”

Riothamus nodded, his face grave. “Her goddess feared the Old Demon. Perhaps she should fear to challenge the last of the Demonsouled.”

“Technically,” said Molly, “I am the last of the Demonsouled.”

“Eh?” said Mazael. 

“I’m younger than you,” said Molly, “and assuming we don’t get ourselves killed, I’ll outlive you. So I’m the last of the Demonsouled. You’re the second-to-last of the Demonsouled.”

Romaria burst out laughing. “I must admit, that ‘bride of the second-to-last of the Demonsouled’ does not sound nearly as impressive.” 

“It’s too cumbersome for a formal title,” said Mazael. “Well, then, last of the Demonsouled. How do you suggest we proceed?”

“We go to Greatheart Keep,” said Molly, “defeat the Skuldari, kill any valgasts and soliphages we find, kill Earnachar, and then kill the Prophetess.” 

“That,” said Mazael, “is exactly what I had in mind. Do you have horses you can spare for us?” Molly nodded. “Good. Let’s be on our way. The sooner we get to Greatheart Keep, the better.”

Chapter 17: Fall

Adalar’s eyes opened. 

He sat up, reaching for the weapons next to his cloak. 

“What is it?" he said. "The foe? Have they come over the wall? Are…” His hand curled around the handle of a dagger, and he prepared to strike, expecting to see Skuldari swarming down the walls or a horde of valgasts boiling up from the ground. 

Yet nothing moved, and Adalar realized he was alone.

He took a deep breath and lowered his dagger. 

The alley was quiet around him, and he heard no sounds of battle. The air stank, of course, but the corpses scattered below the wall made certain of that. It had been three days, and the dead were becoming increasingly malodorous. Adalar feared an outbreak of plague if the dead were not buried soon. It would be darkly amusing if the Jutai withstood the siege only for a plague to carry off both the besieged and besiegers alike. 

With Arnulf’s thains, Mazael’s knights and armsmen, and Adalar’s men, the village was full to bursting. The wounded men rested in the church, and every available bed and flat surface hosted sleeping men. Adalar refused to take a bed that a wounded man might need. He would not ask his knights and armsmen to do anything that he would not do himself, so he slept wrapped in his cloak upon the ground. 

He sat up, brushing dust from his armor. Sleeping in armor always made him ache, as if he had slept with a brick or two resting upon his chest. Yet there was no telling when the Skuldari might strike again, and Adalar had no idea when the valgasts might finally break into the village. The cellars had been vibrating for days. He leaned against the wall of the nearby house with a sigh. A few more moments of rest, and then he would return to the ramparts. The Skuldari had not attacked in the last day, and the Prophetess had not worked any magic. Of course, that meant they would likely try something today…

He heard the scrape of leather and reached for his dagger.

Sigaldra came around the corner and stopped when she saw him. 

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know you were here. I will go elsewhere.”

“It is all right,” said Adalar. “I was waking up.” He hesitated, a mischievous thought seizing his tired brain. “Unless you were planning to relieve yourself here. Then it is not all right.”

Sigaldra scowled. “I have issued strict commands. Plague is always a danger during a siege. My folk are to relieve themselves into chamber pots and empty them in the communal midden in the other…ah.” She blinked. “You were making a joke.”

“Not a clever one, I fear,” said Adalar.

He expected her to leave, but instead she shrugged and sat down next to him, her chain mail rasping against the wall as she sat. She looked even more tired than Adalar felt. Dark rings encircled her bloodshot blue eyes, and her face seemed sharper than he recalled, the cheekbones tight against the skin. 

“There is no need for jokes,” she said. “We already are living one.”

“I fail to see how,” said Adalar.

“You might not be living a joke, Lord Adalar,” said Sigaldra, “but the Jutai are. We came here to be safe, to get away from the Malrags. We simply wanted to live in peace, to be left alone.” She shook her head and let out a bitter little laugh. “Now the Tervingi are going to kill us.”

“To be fair,” said Adalar, “they had help from the Skuldari and the valgasts.” 

“Yes,” said Sigaldra, her voice flat and empty. “I suppose that is at least some consolation. The Tervingi could not do it on their own. They needed the help of the Prophetess and her pets.” 

He laughed.

Sigaldra raised her eyebrows. “You find the destruction of my people funny, Lord Adalar of Castle Dominus?”

“Not in the slightest,” said Adalar, shaking his head. “But…I find my impending death funny, my lady Sigaldra. I am still a young man, I know, but I do not feel like one. I have been in so many battles. The San-keth, the Dominiars, the Malrags, the runedead, Caraster’s rebellion…I survived them all when many better men than I fell to the blades of our foes. I never thought I would come back to Greatheart Keep, yet now I am going to die here. I thought I would die in battle against the runedead hordes of Lucan Mandragon…instead I am going to be killed by the ragged followers of a madwoman who worships the soliphages as the emissaries of a long-forgotten goddess.”

“It is grimly funny,” said Sigaldra, “when you put it that way.”

“I confess that it never occurred to me that I would die at Greatheart Keep,” said Adalar.

“No man can see his fate, or so the loresingers claimed,” said Sigaldra. “Perhaps that is for the best. If we saw our fate beyond all doubt, we might die of despair.”

“Then it wouldn’t really be our fate,” said Adalar.

She didn’t laugh, but a brief smile flickered over her lips. “I thought I would die in the middle lands, slain when the Malrags overwhelmed us at last. I thought I would die upon the march, when Ragnachar tired of the Jutai and killed us all. I thought I would die outside of Swordgrim when Lucan Mandragon summoned the runedead, or upon the banks of the Northwater. I never thought I would die within the walls of Greatheart Keep, slain by valgasts and soliphages.” She scoffed. “Though I always knew that Earnachar was a treacherous dog.” She spat upon the ground. “If I can kill him, if I can put an arrow through his lying, treacherous throat, then I can at least die content.” 

“Vengeance is enjoyable,” said Adalar. “Life is better.”

“Yes,” said Sigaldra. “It seems we have little choice in the matter, though.” 

“I fear that is so,” said Adalar. “I wish,” he sighed, “I wish I had done better.”

Sigaldra frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I have seen many men die in battle,” said Adalar.

“We have not lost that many men yet,” said Sigaldra. “More than I wish, surely, but not as many as we could have lost.” 

“Not just here,” said Adalar. “All the other battles, too. I survived, and they did not. I couldn’t save them.” He looked up at the gray tower of the keep upon its hill. “My father…”

“What about him?” said Sigaldra. 

“He would have found a way,” said Adalar. “He was everything a knight is supposed to be. He would have found a way to save Greatheart Keep and defeat Earnachar. I cannot, just as I could not save the others at…”

He frowned, looking at the keep.

“You should not compare yourself to your father,” said Sigaldra. “I have no doubt he was an honorable and valiant warrior, but what man could stand against the runedead and live? What man could hold Greatheart Keep against a larger force for so long?”

“I don’t know,” said Adalar, voice quiet. 

He had dreamed from time to time about how things would have been different if he had killed Lucan Mandragon when he had still had the chance, but he knew that was unreasonable. Mazael had trusted Lucan, and no one had known what kind of monster the Dragon’s Shadow would become. Even Sir Nathan had not lifted his hand against Lucan Mandragon. Yet Adalar could not help but think that Sir Nathan would have done something, would have found a way. His father had been the perfect knight, an exemplar of chivalry and valor.