The city sat upon an outthrust spur of Mount Tynagis, perhaps three hundred feet above the foothills, with its walls rising another forty feet. Inside he saw houses and towers built in the same graceful style as the ruins atop the mountain, though constructed of the mountain’s gray stone rather than white marble. Massive oak trees also grew within the walls, rising over the houses and some of the towers as well. Behind the city, Mazael saw terraces climbing up the mountain’s sides, lush and green with crops. Hundreds of traigs dotted the hills below the city, all of them facing outward, as if to watch for enemies.
“Earth magic,” murmured Lucan.
Mazael glanced at him. Lucan looked worse than ever, his face almost white, his eyes glittering and feverish.
“That’s how those trees are growing inside Deepforest Keep,” said Lucan. “The soil should be too rocky to support them. Earth magic. The walls are enhanced with it, as well, warded against magical attack.” He almost smiled. “Which means Malavost and the shamans won’t be able to simply blast the walls down.”
“And the city is strongly situated,” said Mazael, looking it over. “East, west…and south, I think, we have nothing to fear. The mountain is too steeply pitched for anyone to assault the walls from those directions. The city is only vulnerable from the north, where the spur joins the rest of the mountain. Ultorin will have to order the Malrags to climb that road, there,” he pointed, “and then circle to the south.”
“And that road goes directly under the western wall,” said Lucan. “Where the Elderborn will be able to pour down arrows.”
“Aye,” said Mazael. “An attacker would need an ocean of blood to take Deepforest Keep.”
“And Ultorin has oceans of Malrag blood to spend,” said Lucan. “He will not care how many Malrags are slain, so as Malavost and the San-keth can reach the temple atop the mountain.”
"Ultorin may have Malrags beyond count to spend," said Mazael, "but we need only spill his blood."
"To deal with the Malrags, yes," said Lucan. "I suspect Malavost will prove more troublesome."
"Perhaps," said Mazael, "but Malavost is still only a mortal man. A blade through the throat will slay him, just like any other man."
Lucan lifted an eyebrow. "Bloodthirsty today, my lord."
Mazael pushed back his anger. "You are right. But, gods, it makes me angry. The men of Deepforest Keep live in peace. Save to trade, I doubt any of them have left the Great Southern Forest for years. And yet Ultorin and Malavost and the San-keth have made war upon them, and for what? Some magical bauble from the temple." He made a fist, forced himself to relax. "It reminds me of Amalric Galbraith. Or of Morebeth. Both of them were willing to trade away anything for power. And Ultorin and Malavost are willing to slaughter everyone in Deepforest Keep for power. No. I will stop them, Lucan."
"Be careful of that," said Lucan, his voice soft. "The temptation to wield the necessary power...the consequences can be unpleasant."
"I know," said Mazael. "And I know of what you speak. But I will not use that...part of myself. I will defeat Ultorin as a man, not as a monster. Or I will die trying."
Lucan stared at him a long moment, then bowed his head and looked away. No doubt he thought Mazael a fool. But Mazael did not care. He knew that if he gave in to his Demonsouled nature, he would have vast powers at his disposal. And he knew the price those powers would carry, how they would twist him into a ravening monster like Amalric Galbraith or Ultorin. And he would not do that.
Romaria had paid too steep a price for it.
“Perhaps you are right,” said Lucan, his voice faint. He rubbed the black metal staff he always carried. “Perhaps…I always thought that power was worth any price, because once I had power, I could do good with it. I could keep innocents safe from dark magic, keep them from suffering as I had suffered. But perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps the price is too steep,” he looked in the direction of Sil Tarithyn’s Elderborn, “if innocents pay the price for my power.”
“He who fights monsters must take care,” said Mazael, “lest he become one.”
Lucan blinked at him.
Mazael shrugged. “Sir Nathan and Master Othar used to tell me that when I was a boy. Some ancient priest said it – I don’t remember his name.” He snorted. “Though, considering who and what I am…it turned out to be good advice.”
“Excellent advice,” murmured Lucan, and a shout caught Mazael’s attention.
“Mazael!” Gerald strode to his side, armor clanking. “Someone’s coming.”
A group of armed men hurried down the road from the city, thirty or so of them, clad in mail with long spears in their right hands. At their head walked a tall man, perhaps ten years Mazael’s junior, with the hilt of a bastard sword jutting over his shoulder.
“We’ve been seen,” said Mazael. “Tell everyone to stop.” Athaelin and Romaria came to the head of the column, staring at the approaching men. “And stay calm. I’m sure the men of Deepforest Keep are eager for aid, but it’s best to remain polite.”
The column stopped, and the men from Deepforest Keep approached them.
The leader frowned at Mazael. He looked a great deal like both Romaria and Athaelin, with the same strong features, the same blue eyes, and the same thick black hair. Unlike Romaria, the man bore no trace of Elderborn ancestry upon his face or ears. A half-brother, Mazael thought, a son Athaelin had gotten on a human woman.
Then the leader saw Athaelin, and his eyes widened.
“Well, Rhodemar?” said Athaelin. “No greeting your father? Or for your sister?”
“Father!” said Rhodemar, grinning, and walked over and caught the older man in a vigorous hug. Still grinning, he reached over and pulled Romaria close, and she laughed in surprise. “It is good to see you. Especially in this dark hour.” He stepped away, looking at Romaria. “And you, sister. I had thought you dead, slain at the hands of some lord in the north.”
“Not quite,” said Romaria, stepping between Mazael and Rhodemar. “This is Mazael, Lord of Castle Cravenlock.” Mazael offered a grave bow, and Rhodemar answered in kind. “And he saved my life.”
Rhodemar looked at Athaelin, and then back at Romaria. “And he is the one in the Seer’s prophecy…”
“Aye,” said Romaria.
“So the Seer’s prophecy did indeed come true,” said Rhodemar. “And I hope he spoke truly, as well, when he said you would save Deepforest Keep.” He looked at Mazael. “I am glad Father brought you here, Lord Mazael, along with your men. We are sore pressed, and every man or Elderborn able to swing a sword or draw a bow is welcome.”
“What news?” said Athaelin. “Have any Malrags attacked the city itself yet?”
“No,” said Rhodemar. “The outlying farms have been raided, with grievous loss of life. I have ordered all the farmers and herders within the walls – their farms and flocks can be rebuilt, but their lives cannot. Every man able to fight has been impressed into our militia, and the Elderborn tribes have sheltered within our walls as well. When the Malrags come, we shall have three thousand fighting men, and fifteen hundred Elderborn with their bows.”
Three thousand spearmen and fifteen hundred Elderborn archers. Even with the strong walls of Deepforest Keep, that would not be nearly enough against one hundred and fifty thousand Malrags.
"How far are the Malrags from the city?" said Athaelin. "We have gathered every Elderborn we can, and led them here, but our scouting ability is limited."
"We didn't dare send out too many scouts," said Gerald, "lest the Malrags follow them back, and send numbers enough to overwhelm us."
"There are Malrag warbands prowling all over the foothills," said Rhodemar. "None of them have yet come within a day's travel of the city, though that will change, I deem, once more arrive. The Elderborn say that the main host of the Malrags is no more than two days' march from Deepforest Keep."
Two days.
Mazael looked at the towering height of Mount Tynagis.
Within a week, this would be
settled. Either he would slay Ultorin and break up the Malrag host, or the Malrags would raze Deepforest Keep and Ultorin would seize the ruins atop the mountain.
"What of provisions?" said Athaelin.
"As many foodstuffs and flocks as we could manage have been gathered within the walls," said Rhodemar. "We food enough to last for a year."
"Good," said Athaelin. "Very good."
"That won't be necessary," said Mazael.
Father, son, and daughter looked at him.
"Ultorin has one hundred and fifty thousand Malrags," said Mazael. "Even with my men, Deepforest Keep has four thousand defenders. Ultorin has strength enough to simply storm the city."
"This Ultorin - I assume he is the leader of the Malrags - will pay a grievous price for doing so," said Rhodemar, "and we have the magic of the druids to aid us."
"But Ultorin doesn't care about the price," said Mazael, and he explained to Rhodemar about the bloodsword and Malavost's desire to seize the temple atop the mountain. "The Malrags are nothing more than his tools, his weapons. He cares nothing for them. If he has to butcher every last one of them to destroy Deepforest Keep and take the ruined temple, he will do it. No, this will not be a long siege. Ultorin will try to take Deepforest Keep by storm. In a week's time, either we all shall be dead - or we will kill him first."
"Gods of wood and stone," said Rhodemar, shaking his head. "What sort of fool would wield a blade forged in the blood of a Demonsouled?"
Lucan stepped to Mazael's side, gazing at Rhodemar, face expressionless.
"Come," said Athaelin. "Join me in the Champion's Tower. We must discuss our defense."
"That is why I am here," said Rhodemar. He took a deep breath. "The High Druid requests the presence of the Champion and his guests, in the courtyard below the Great Traig."
Romaria's face grew hard.
Athaelin sighed. "Ardanna wants to speak with us, does she? I suspect she did not quite say it that way, Rhodemar."
Rhodemar nodded. "She demanded your presence, Father. As if you were a servant."
"No matter. Come, then," said Athaelin. "Let us see what Ardanna has to say about the defense of Deepforest Keep."
Chapter 22 - The High Druid
Rhodemar led them through the gates and into the main plaza of Deepforest Keep. Houses and towers of gray stone lined the plaza, their walls faced with lichen and long green vines. A massive oak tree rose overhead, looming higher than both the towers and the houses. A group of spearmen in mail drilled in the square, following the directions of a grim-faced sergeant.
“Find quarters for Mazael and his men,” said Athaelin.
Rhodemar nodded. “We can quarter them in the Northern Tower, along with the horses. Lord Mazael, Sir Gerald, and Lucan Mandragon will be our guests in the Champion's Tower.”
Mazael left his men and Gerald's at the foot of the Northern Tower, a tall fortress of gray stone, telling them to follow the instructions of Rhodemar's men. Then he followed Athaelin and Rhodemar into Deepforest Keep, Romaria, Gerald, Rachel, and Lucan following after him. Romaria walked at his side, her face grim, her right hand clenching and unclenching.
“Is she that bad?” said Mazael.
Romaria gave a sharp nod. “You'll see for yourself, soon enough.”
He looked at Deepforest Keep as they walked. Mazael had visited numerous cities in his younger wanderings, but he had never seen one quite like Deepforest Keep. Gardens and groves lay among the stone houses and towers, tended with skill and care. Some of the gardens had white traigs, their sides spotted with lichen. The great oak trees were enormous, often bigger than the towers. Most cities smelled of smoke and waste, but the air of Deepforest Keep was clean and clear, the sun shaded by the trees.
The Champion's Tower, a round tower of gray granite, stood at the southern corner of Deepforest Keep's walls, overlooking the foothills below. A ring of smaller oak trees encircled a courtyard at the base of the Tower, surrounding an enormous traig, twice as large as any of the others Mazael had seen. This traig bore a stone sword in either hand, its head concealed with a crowned helm.
The Great Traig itself, no doubt.
A dozen Elderborn women waited below the Great Traig, each clad in a ragged robe made from animal furs. Every woman bore an oak staff in her right hand, and wore strange amulets of polished bone and stone. Piercing eyes of gold and silver and purple fixed upon Mazael.
“The druids,” murmured Lucan. “Each one is powerful. Tread carefully.”
Mazael nodded.
One of the Elderborn women stepped forward, her oaken staff tapping against the weathered flagstones of the courtyard. Her amulets were more intricate than the others, and she wore a diadem of woven cord and uncut sapphires. Her golden eyes gleamed like coins, cold and hard, and swept over Mazael and his companions.
Then the golden eyes narrowed as they fixed upon Romaria, and Romaria glared back.
Ardanna, Mazael realized. The High Druid of the Elderborn.
“Athaelin,” said Ardanna, her voice clear and cold as a crystal. “So good of you to come, and deign to fill your responsibilities as Champion of Deepforest Keep and the Defender of the Mountain.”
Athaelin made a grand bow that had more than a hint of mockery to it. “And it is good to see you again, most noble High Druid.”
“Do not make a joke, Champion,” said Ardanna. “I weary of your japery. And this latest joke is the worst of all.” She looked back at Romaria. “I see you have brought your pet abomination to Deepforest Keep.”
“Mother,” said Romaria, her voice ice.
Ardanna ignored her. “I told you not to bring it back to Deepforest Keep, after you sent it north to investigate the undead. And I was relieved when I heard word that it was dead. And yet you have returned it to Deepforest Keep. In this hour of trail, when both the Elderborn and your people face grave threat, you choose to run north and chase after your pet abomination.”
“I chose to go north and avenge my daughter's death,” said Athaelin, all trace of good humor gone from his tone. “I returned with my daughter, our daughter, still alive, and allies willing to fight on our side against the Malrags. And instead you choose to mock our daughter and scorn me, instead of discussing the danger.”
Ardanna's nostrils flared in rage. “You insult me by bringing this abomination into my presence, and...”
Rhodemar frowned. “Should we not discuss our defense? The Malrag host is almost upon us. This is not the time to bring up old quarrels.”
Neither Athaelin nor Ardanna heeded him, and both began to shout.
“Enough!” said Romaria, glaring at the High Druid. “You will not discuss me like I am a piece of furniture, Mother. Not when I am right in front of you.”
Ardanna's voice dripped with contempt. “I have nothing to say to you, abomination.”
“It seems like you have plenty to say,” said Romaria. “You have always had plenty to say, even if you are too cowardly to say it to my face. Plenty to say, while Father does the hard work of defending Deepforest Keep.”
The golden eyes flashed. “Cowardly, you call me, you miserable vermin?” She stepped closer to Romaria, every inch of her body taut with rage. “Then let me tell you the truth. To your face, if you prefer. You were a mistake. No child is supposed to be born of the ritual coupling between the High Druid and the Champion. When I learned of you, I would have purged my womb of your tainted presence, but the Champion and the druids forbade it. When at last you were born and I was free of you, I would have left you to die of exposure in the woods, but again your foolish father forbade it.”
Ardanna continued to rant, and Romaria said nothing, but Mazael saw the muscles twitching in her face, and he had heard enough.
“Stop,” he said. “Not another word.”
“Do not interfere, human lord,” said Ardanna. “You think her worthy? I will prove you wrong.”
Ardanna pointed her staff, and Romaria went rigid.
“She is half-human, half-E
lderborn,” said Ardanna, the tip of her staff glowing with blue light. “The Elderborn live in harmony with themselves. But a half-breed, an abomination, cannot. Sooner or later the Elderborn half of her soul will overwhelm her, and she will become a ravening beast, out of harmony with herself and the world. Sooner or later...or sooner, if I hasten the process. As I should have done long ago.”
The blue light around the staff brightened, and Romaria began to shudder. Mazael saw claws appear on her fingers, fangs upon her lips, and black fur sprout from her hands. Rhodemar reached for her, and she growled, face looking more wolfish by the second.
“Stop!” said Athaelin. “Stop this now, Ardanna! Damn you, stop this now!”
But Ardanna ignored him. The Greenshield, Mazael realized, had no power over the High Druid.
Demonsouled Omnibus One Page 104
