Mazael killed and killed, Lion’s blade smoking with Malrag blood, but still the creatures continued their assault.
A snarl split the air, and a black shape blurred past Mazael, crashing into the Malrags. Two of the Malrags fell to the earth with roars of pain, their hamstrings torn, and Mazael saw the great black wolf, ivory fangs flashing. The wolf's savage fury drove the Malrags back, and Mazael flung himself into the fray. Four Malrags fell to Lion in as many heartbeats, and the black wolf leapt and pounced, fangs and claws dealing death.
Soon the remaining Malrags broke and ran, fleeing to the south. Not east towards the Great Mountains, not west towards Castle Cravenlock, and not towards Lord Richard’s castle of Swordgrim in the north.
Always towards the south, towards the Great Southern Forest.
Why?
Mazael turned, saw the black wolf staring at him, blue eyes blazing like Lion’s blade. He stepped towards the wolf, and it slunk back, fangs bared. For a moment he thought the wolf would flee, or attack him, but it did not.
It only stared at him, trembling as if enraged, or terrified.
But it did not run, and it did not attack. Still those blue eyes stared at him, full of rage and fear and...longing?
"Who are you?" said Mazael.
The wolf snarled.
"I know you mean me no threat, whoever you are," said Mazael. "But...you must have some reason for aiding me against the Malrags. Who are you? What do you wish of me?"
The wolf growled, snapping in his direction...
###
"My lord?"
Mazael blinked awake.
He lay on one of the benches in Castle Cravenlock's lofty great hall, gazing up at the vaulted ceiling. Light from the sunset streamed through the western windows, filling the hall with bloody light. His shoulders and back ached - he'd fallen asleep wearing his armor again.
Not that there had been much opportunity to remove it, lately.
Rufus Highgate stood over him, concern on his haughty face. Beneath his Cravenlock tabard, the boy wore a coat of black Malrag mail that hung to his knees. He had kept his head and killed two Malrags during the skirmish north of White Rock, and claimed his dead foe's armor as spoils. Mazael let his men claim weapons and armor from the slain Malrags as trophies. It helped keep their spirits up, let them boast of their deeds to their fellows.
Besides, the Malrag armor was very often better than their own gear anyway.
"My lord, the sentinels have seen Lord Richard's banners approaching," said Rufus. "You wanted to be informed at once."
"I did," said Mazael, sitting up. Around him workmen and servants labored in the great hall, carrying benches and raising tables. Tonight he would feast Lord Richard and his vassals, and the Dragonslayer would share his plans.
Tomorrow, they would march to battle against the Malrags.
"Go find Sir Hagen," said Mazael. "Tell him to meet me at the barbican. I'll be along shortly."
Rufus bowed and ran off, his black Malrag mail rattling.
Mazael rubbed his face, his beard scratching beneath his palms, and let out a long breath.
That damnable dream.
What did it mean? At first Mazael thought it had been a sending from the Old Demon. But the Old Demon's dreams had always been visions blood and death and power, meant to tempt Mazael's Demonsouled nature. Later he wondered if a different wizard, perhaps one of the Malrag shamans, had sent the dreams to damage his mind. But Lucan had cast a spell over him, probing for the presence of magic, and found nothing.
Whatever the dreams were, they had not been sent by the Old Demon or another wizard.
But what, then? Was it his Demonsouled essence, trying to take control? Or did it mean nothing at all? Merely his mind forming symbols as he slept?
No. Mazael had seen the wolf with his own eyes when it saved him from the balekhan in Cravenlock Town's square. Whatever the black wolf was, it was no symbol.
He gave an angry shake of his head. The frustration must have shown on his face, because the servants scurried to get out of his way, and he forced himself to calm. Mazael did not like mysteries, did not like lies. The Old Demon had tried to turn him into a puppet. Skhath had masqueraded as a human knight. Morebeth Galbraith had seduced him, hiding her Demonsouled nature.
Gods, but he was tired of being manipulated.
But he could not solve the mystery of the black wolf now, and the Lord of Swordgrim had arrived. And if Mazael was going to defend his lands and his people, he needed Lord Richard's help.
He left the great hall to greet the liege lord of the Grim Marches.
###
Lord Richard's vassals, the lords and knights of the Grim Marches, gathered to feast in the great hall of Castle Cravenlock.
Mazael knew them all. Many he had known as a squire, in the years before Lord Adalon banished him from the Grim Marches. The others he had met after he becoming Lord of Castle Cravenlock. Many feared him. Even those who did not believe he had killed Mitor to take the lordship of Castle Cravenlock.
But no matter what the lords and knights of the Grim Marches thought of Mazael, they had one thing in common.
They all feared Lord Richard Mandragon more than they feared Mazael.
Mazael walked among the lords, his fellow vassals, greeting them and exchanging polite words. Most of the lords, like Mazael, wore armor. Many of them, like Rufus, wore Malrag armor. The Malrags had attacked dozens of castles and towns. Many of the lords had been victorious.
Some had not.
"Lord Robert Highgate," said Mazael.
Robert, Lord of Castle Highgate and Rufus's father, gave him a thin smile. He had the same arrogant expression as his son, albeit on a face that was twenty-five years older and considerably fatter. Nevertheless, Robert knew how to lead men in battle.
The necklace of Malrag claws hanging from his belt proved that. Some of the men had taken to wearing them as trophies.
"Lord Mazael," said Robert. "My leg has been hurting me, lately."
Mazael snorted. "Then you should have guarded your left better, my lord." Years ago, he and Robert had been squires together, and Mazael had broken Robert's leg in a sparring match. "But we have grimmer things to discuss than the fights of our boyhood."
Robert's expression sobered. "Aye. Those damned Malrag devils hit us hard. If Castle Highgate was not so well fortified, they would have swept us away in hours. Aye, we're prepared well enough for war with men. But these unnatural devils? Bah! Give me a man to fight, not some spawn out of the pits of hell." He looked haunted. There was a hint of uncertainty, even fear, in his arrogant expression.
"Devils or not," said Mazael, "the Malrags are still flesh and blood. A sword can kill them. They can be fought, just as any other foe. And if they can be killed and fought, they can be defeated. Just like any other foe. Do you think Lord Richard will let the Malrags roll over the Grim Marches without offering a fight?"
Robert snorted. "Certainly not. Aye, we stood against them at Castle Highgate, even if we paid dear for it. And you, Lord Mazael. We have heard how you harried every Malrag foolish enough to set foot upon your lands. With Lord Richard to lead us, and you at his right hand, we will send these devils scurrying back to their holes!"
He clasped hands with Mazael, and moved on.
Mazael watched him go. Morale, he realized. That was the key. A lord had to keep his men's spirits up, to make them believe in victory. And apparently the lords themselves needed encouragement.
He turned, and saw a dark figure leaning against one of the great hall's pillars, watching him.
Mazael took a deep breath.
Best to get this over with at once.
He walked to the dark figure and gave a shallow bow, one suitable for greeting an equal. "Lord Toraine."
Toraine Mandragon returned an identical bow, smirking. "Lord Mazael."
Toraine, Lord Richard's eldest son and Lord of Hanging Tower, looked a great deal like his brother Lucan. Even the smirk was almost
identical. But Toraine was tall where Lucan was short, and muscular where Lucan was slender. The Black Dragon, men called Toraine, from the interlocking black scales covering his armor, taken from a great dragon that Toraine had slain with his own hand.
That, and Toraine's utter lack of mercy. Before Toraine had become its lord, the Hanging Tower had been known as the Western Tower.
"You've done better than I expected against the Malrags," said Toraine. "I expected to find Cravenlock Town in ashes and Castle Cravenlock in ruins. Instead you have driven the Malrags back and kept your lands secure. Perhaps your reputation is not so overstated as I believed."
Mazael smiled. "And the tales of your exploits match perfectly with your reputation, my lord Toraine."
Toraine lifted an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Because the tales say you've slaughtered every Malrag you've come across," said Mazael. "Perhaps you confused them with peasants?"
Toraine's black eyes narrowed. "Lord Mazael. You are too soft-hearted. War is about killing, in the end. You kill more of them than they kill of you." He shook his head. "Even my father does not fully understand that."
"Oh?" said Mazael.
Toraine grinned. "After you killed Mitor, there were only two members of House Cravenlock left. You and Rachel Cravenlock. And for some reason, my father chose to spare both of you. He should have killed you and your sister. Had he done so, a potential enemy would have been removed, and the lands of Castle Cravenlock would have passed into my family's hands."
"Into your hands, you mean?" said Mazael, forcing himself to smile. Toraine, he knew, would respond to weakness the way a wild dog would respond to the smell of blood. "Lord Toraine of Castle Cravenlock?"
"Why not?" said Toraine. "I see how you coddle the peasants and the townsfolk, letting them flee into your lands. They are unnecessary mouths. You should have let the Malrags slay them, to save yourself the effort of feeding them. You're weak, Lord Mazael. You aren't strong enough to do what needs to be done. When I am liege lord of the Grim Marches, I will not tolerate such weakness in my vassals."
"You aren't liege lord yet," said Mazael. "Your father is a healthy man, and hopefully the gods shall grant him many long years."
"We may certainly hope," said Toraine. "After all, my father has shown you a great deal of mercy. Though he might change his mind, once he learns how you have been plotting with Lord Malden against him."
"Have I?" said Mazael. "Do enlighten me. I haven't spoken to Lord Malden in over a year. How have I plotted with him?"
Again that thin smile flashed across Toraine's face. "By joining your blood to his."
"My sister married Gerald Roland over a year ago," said Mazael. "Lord Richard has yet to express his disapproval."
"Perhaps my father will change his mind," said Toraine, "once he learns that Lady Rachel has given birth to a son."
Mazael blinked in surprise. "She has? The last letter I had from Knightcastle was five months past. She said she was pregnant, but I've heard no word since."
"Not surprising," said Toraine. "The Malrags have been killing anyone they can find. No doubt the courier bearing the news rode right into a Malrag warband. The boy's name is Aldane Roland. Which means your nephew is a son of House Roland, the mortal enemies of the Mandragons. When war between Mandragon and Roland comes - which it will - with whom shall you side, Lord Mazael? Hmm? Will you keep your oaths, and ride with my father? Or will you side your blood, and ride with Lord Malden against my father?"
Mazael laughed.
Toraine blinked, a scowl spreading across his face.
"To side with my blood," said Mazael, "would cost me more than you could possibly imagine, my lord Toraine. And I needn't worry about the choice. Neither Lord Richard nor Lord Malden can go to war with the other without my help. And they shall not have it. Knightcastle and the Grim Marches shall remain at peace."
Toraine's eyes narrowed.
"A good evening to you, my lord," said Mazael. "It is always a pleasure speaking with you."
He moved on before Toraine could answer him. That had not been wise, he knew, provoking Toraine like that. Lord Richard was not immortal. Someday he would die, and Toraine would become liege lord of the Grim Marches. And Toraine wanted Mazael dead, would not hesitate to kill every last man, woman, and child in Mazael's lands.
Part of Mazael's mind murmured that it would be best if Toraine met an "accident" while at Castle Cravenlock...
No. That impulse came from the Demonsouled part of Mazael's heart, and he would not give in to it. Not after the price Romaria had paid to save him from his Demonsouled essence.
Though perhaps it would be better if Toraine did die in the upcoming battles...
Mazael shook aside the thought and stopped. A lean man with a thin face and a crooked nose stepped into his path, green eyes glinting with amusement. He wore a green surcoat, embroidered with a black crow perched upon a gray rock.
"Lord Mazael!" said the thin-faced man, grinning. "Good to see you again. Though I hope this time you won't punch me in the face. That gets rather unpleasant, you know."
"Sir Tanam," said Mazael.
Toraine might have been Lord Richard's mailed right fist, but Sir Tanam Crowley of Crow's Rock was Lord Richard's cunning left hand. If Lord Richard wanted to put fear into his enemies, he sent Toraine after them. But if he wanted something done quietly, competently...then he sent Sir Tanam.
"You've been in the field?" said Mazael.
"Aye," said Tanam, making a flourishing bow. "Someone's got to keep an eye on these Malrag devils for Lord Richard. And if I happen to kill a few of them in the process...well, a man's got to have his fun, does he not?" He shook his head, locks of gray hair sliding over his pale forehead. "For all their cunning, the Malrags are dumber than rocks."
"How?" said Mazael. "The ones I've fought have been clever."
"Aye," said Tanam, "but they love killing too much. And they love preying upon anyone weaker than themselves. Send in one man on a horse, have him feign wounds, and you can lure the Malrags into a lovely trap. Worked my way through three warbands, doing that, on my way to your castle."
"Good," said Mazael. "The more you kill, the better."
"I agree," said Tanam. "Though this won't be over until we find and kill the Malrags' leader." He lowered his voice. "I spoke to Lucan, once I arrived...and I think I might have found the Demonsouled leading the Malrag host."
Mazael frowned. "You have?"
"Aye. And I think the Demonsouled is a Dominiar knight."
"A Dominiar," said Mazael. "But there are no more Dominiars. Amalric Galbraith killed their leadership, and I killed Amalric. The Order collapsed after that. The church withdrew its support of the order, and the Justiciar Order and Lord Malden divided the Dominiars' lands between them."
"The Dominiar Order is no more," said Tanam, "but there are still Dominiar knights left. Some have renounced their vows. Others turned to brigandage, or became mercenaries. And a few, I am told, have sworn revenge upon you, personally, my lord." He grinned. "It seems they hold the Battle of Tumblestone against you."
"That's hardly surprising," said Mazael. "But how would a Dominiar knight end up commanding a host of Malrags..."
And even as he spoke, the answer came to him.
"I spoke to Lucan," said Tanam. "He told me that only a powerful Demonsouled can command the Malrags. And you claimed that Amalric Galbraith was Demonsouled."
"I didn't claim he was Demonsouled," said Mazael. "He was Demonsouled." Mazael's half-brother, in fact, another child of the Old Demon. He remembered the way the sword of the Destroyer had blazed with blood-colored flames in Amalric's black-armored fist, the forest of corpses impaled upon the stakes raised around Tumblestone.
Tanam shrugged. "I believe you. I saw what Simonian of Briault did, after all. But if Amalric was Demonsouled...then some of his men might have been, as well." He lowered his voice. "My men have been scouting the Malrag warbands, and they've brought back reports. The Malra
gs do not ride horses, yet a group of horsemen ride with the warbands, all in black armor. The horsemen fly the Dominiar banner, an eight-pointed silver star upon a black background, and the Malrags take orders from the horsemen."
"It is a Demonsouled," said Mazael, voice thick. "Amalric was in his late twenties when I killed him. More than old enough to have fathered a son." So was Morebeth - she had claimed to have never borne a son, but every word she had told him had been a lie. "Or it could be another Demonsouled, one that served Amalric."
Or it could be another child of the Old Demon, like Mazael and Amalric. Or even the Old Demon himself. Mazael knew his father had not forgotten him, that the Old Demon would someday come to fight him once more. Had the Old Demon loosed the Malrag warbands upon the Grim Marches?
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