The echoes died away, and Mazael felt the weight of thousands of eyes turned in his direction.
“Mazael of the House of Cravenlock has called for this moot of the Tervingi nation,” said Riothamus, “and wishes to address the assembled thains and headmen.”
He beckoned, and Mazael climbed atop the boulder.
“I am Mazael Cravenlock,” said Mazael, Riothamus’s magic making his voice boom over the moot, “and you chose me as your hrould after the Battle of Swordgrim and the Great Rising. You chose me as your hrould for my renown, for I had led the horsemen against your nation at the Battle of Stone Tower. I have slain a dragon in the icy peaks of the Great Mountains.” The golden scales of his armor flashed in the torchlight. “I have twice defeated the Dominiar Order in battle, and I broke the siege of the Malrags at Deepforest Keep. Yet I have always wished for peace and prosperity for my lands…and that is why you chose me as your hrould. For I wished you to live in peace upon my lands, that the Grim Marches might grow strong and prosperous again.”
No one spoke.
“I was almost slain,” said Mazael, “at the hands of Malaric son of Everard of the House of Chalsain. My wife Romaria was almost slain, dying of a vile poison. For Malaric attacked us at the command of Skalatan, an archpriest of the San-keth. Skalatan provided the poison, and I went west in pursuit of him, aided by the magic of your Guardian.”
“For since the days of Tervingar,” said Riothamus, “the headmen and thains of a hrould have pledged to protect him with their lives. An attack upon him is an attack upon them.”
“I went west,” said Mazael, “and found that Skalatan has control of the Aegonar, a nation of fierce warriors from the western isles. With the Aegonar he has conquered most of Greycoast, and the Prince of that land, Hugh Chalsain, aided me against Malaric. I promised to return with aid, to bring the armies of the Grim Marches and the Tervingi with me to honor my debt and to avenge the insult Skalatan offered to the Tervingi nation.”
A murmur of approval went up from the Tervingi thains.
“I learned,” said Mazael, “that Skalatan desired to conquer Knightcastle for some nefarious purpose of his own, that Greycoast was simply in his way. He sent Malaric to kill me, lest I interfere with his plans. This concerned me, for my sister, her husband, and my nephews resided at Knightcastle. But if I joined Hugh and defeated the Aegonar, I thought, no harm would come to my kin. Then I received grave news from Knightcastle. Lucan Mandragon, the man who worked the Great Rising, the man who raised the corpses of Tervingi thains slain in battle as runedead, had come to Knightcastle. There he has corrupted the mind of the Lord of Knightcastle, and gathered a host of runedead to attack us.”
The sound of alarm came from the Tervingi host. They all knew what had happened at the Battle of Swordgrim and the Great Rising. They knew how close the runedead had come to wiping out the Tervingi.
“How is Lucan Mandragon even still alive?” shouted a woman towards the front of the assembly. Mazael recognized Ethringa daughter of Jordanic, a holdmistress and a woman held in terror by half of the Tervingi. “You drove your sword through his heart, and his father’s castle burned around him. How does he still live?”
“He doesn’t,” said Mazael. “He rose as an undead creature, a revenant, as the high lords of Old Dracaryl once did.”
“A tomb-wight!” said Earnachar. “He has become a tomb-wight, the sort of horror our ancestors once faced! Even mighty Tervingar struggled to overcome a tomb-wight!”
Gerald stepped forward. “I would address the moot, if I may, Guardian.”
Riothamus struck his staff against the boulder. “Gerald, the son of Malden of the House of Roland, and the wife of our hrould’s sister Rachel, wishes to address the moot.”
Gerald climbed atop the boulder and stood before Riothamus, gazing at the assembled Tervingi warriors. Once, Mazael knew, the prospect of addressing so many men at once would have daunted him, just as the prospective of becoming the new Lord of Knightcastle would have been overwhelming.
But he had changed, had grown beyond the boy Mazael had first met outside the gates of Knightport. The wars with the Dominiars and the Malrags and the runedead had hardened him, and his wife and children had given him someone to protect. Mazael looked at Rachel, watching her husband from the boulder’s shadow, and was glad that she had wed Gerald.
“I am Gerald, son of Lord Malden of Knightcastle of the House of Roland,” said Gerald, Riothamus’s magic amplifying his voice. “When the Great Rising came, my brother Tobias and I led our father’s armies against the runedead. My father’s health failed, and we prepared for Tobias to become the new lord.” Gerald shook his head. “But Lucan Mandragon arrived, wearing a false face, and used black sorcery to heal my father. He twisted the minds of my father and the Grand Master of the Justiciars, bending their wills to his. He gave them black daggers that drain the lives of their victims, making their wielders stronger and younger.”
Much like the Glamdaigyr. Mazael wished that cursed sword still lay in the black depths of Arylkrad, that Corvad had never found the damned thing. Then the Great Rising would never have happened, and Lucan would not have brought the darkness to Knightcastle.
“My father has betrayed his oaths to his vassals and peasants,” said Gerald. “His men and the Justiciars rampage through villages, claiming to seek the wicked, but murdering to feed themselves with those black daggers. Lucan has gathered a vast host of runedead under his command, and my father and the Grand Master plan to lead those runedead on a war of conquest. You know, men of the Tervingi, you know better than most the power of the runedead. None will stand before them for long, and sooner or later my father and Lucan’s runedead will come to the Grim Marches.”
The Tervingi stared at him, rapt. Gerald, Mazael noted, had developed quite the flair for oratory.
“They will come for you, one day, if you do not first smash them,” said Gerald. “Men of the Tervingi, sons of great Tervingar of old, I ask for you aid. I ask as the husband of your hrould’s sister. I ask to defend my people and my lands from the darkness that has swallowed them. But more, I ask for your sake. For if Lucan and the runedead are not defeated, they will come for you, come for your wives and children and homes the way they have come for those of my folk.”
The moot shouted their approval of him, the spearthains and swordthains banging their weapons against their shields in a thunderous, rhythmic roar.
“Guardian!” said Molly when the sounds faded away. “I would address the moot.”
Riothamus smiled at her. “Molly, the daughter of our hrould, will address the moot.”
Gerald and Mazael had climbed atop the boulder, but Molly simply walked through the shadows and reappeared next to Riothamus in a swirl of darkness. A ripple of surprise went through some of the Tervingi, but not very many. Most of them had seen Molly in battle against the runedead.
“You all know me!” said Molly, pointing at the moot. “You’ve seen me fight, whether against you or Lucan’s rotting corpses. I know you called me the Lady of Shadows when I led Arnulf’s and Toric’s men against Ragnachar and his lot!” She grinned. “And you know I lured your Guardian into betrothing himself to me.”
Many of the Tervingi laughed.
“I have as much blood on my hands as any of you,” said Molly, “and I’ve seen my share of battle. So when I tell you that Lucan Mandragon is a monster, that I should have killed him the moment I first laid eyes on him, that turning into a...revenant or a tomb-wight has only made him worse, then you should believe me. I’ve seen the kind of man he is, and I’ve seen the power he wields. The Great Rising was dire, aye, but he’ll work worse unless we stop him.” She pointed at them. “Unless the men of the Tervingi stop him. I may not be one of you, but I will wed your Guardian…and he has told me about you. How the Tervingi stood against the Dark Elderborn, the Malrags, the San-keth, the princes of the east, and a host of other foes! You did not yield to any of them, and you will never yield to the run
edead!”
Again the Tervingi roared their approval, drumming their weapons against their shields.
“Good speech,” murmured Mazael.
“Why, thank you, father,” said Molly. “Sometimes I surprise myself.”
“Men of the Tervingi!” said Mazael, once the clamor had died away. “Behold!” He gestured to the side, where Ardanna stood with Rhodemar and a guard of Elderborn hunters. She gazed at the Tervingi with aloof disdain. “The Elderborn of the Great Southern Forest have come to aid us. They, too, have seen the threat rising in the west, the dark power gathering in Knightcastle. In this hour the legends of the Tervingi come to war.”
“Thains and headmen,” said Riothamus, “headmistresses and freemen, as Guardian of the Tervingi I put this question before you. Will the Tervingi nation follow its hrould to war? Will we make war against Lucan Mandragon and his runedead, against Skalatan and his Aegonar?”
“Aye!” thundered the Tervingi. “Aye! Aye!” The cries thundered over the plains, so loud that Mazael wondered if they were audible in Knightcastle itself. He looked at the men and felt a pang. He would lead many of them to their deaths, he knew.
“But if you do nothing,” Morebeth’s voice murmured in his ear, “then our father will destroy them anyway.”
“The moot has spoken,” said Riothamus. “So be it.”
###
Mazael walked with the others to Castle Cravenlock.
“My lord!”
Rufus ran across the courtyard. The boy looked alarmed, and that put Mazael on his guard at once. Rufus had been his squire since the first Malrag attacks, and the boy’s arrogance had been tempered with steel.
If he was alarmed, something must have truly gone amiss.
“What is it?” said Mazael. “What’s wrong?” The lords and headmen behind him began to murmur.
“Sir Tanam says you must come at once, my lord,” said Rufus. “He says the runedead are here. They’ve come for us.”
###
“I thought it prudent to send some men to the western edge of the Grim Marches,” said Sir Tanam Crowley, rubbing his jaw, “in case the enemy decide to steal a march upon us.”
“It seems that was the course of wisdom,” said Mazael.
His vassals and the Tervingi headmen gathered in the great hall of Castle Cravenlock. The castle rang with activity as pages and squires ran back and forth, and the captains of the armsmen bellowed orders as arms and armor were gathered.
They had been preparing for war…but war had come to them.
“Three of my best men killed their horses getting here,” said Taman, “but they survived. They say a great host of runedead marches through the wilderness west of the Grim Marches and north of the Great Southern Forest.”
“How many?” said Mazael.
“At least eighty thousand,” said Tanam. “Perhaps as many as a hundred thousand.”
An alarmed murmur went through the gathered lords and headmen.
“And they have sigils of crimson fire upon their foreheads,” said Tanam, “not green. These aren’t any random runedead, my lords.”
“Lucan’s,” said Gerald. “Those runedead are Lucan’s, and he’s sent them in pursuit of us.” He shook his head. “I have brought this evil upon you, my friends.”
Arnulf shrugged. “He would have come for us sooner or later.”
“Aye,” said Earnachar. “If Lucan has transformed himself into a tomb-wight, then his devilry will know no end. Such pestilence must be stamped out.”
“It gets worse,” said Tanam. “There are at least fifteen thousand men marching with the runedead, heavy footmen and knights.”
“Lord Malden?” said Mazael. If Lucan controlled Malden, he might have sent the Lord of Knightcastle to invade the Grim Marches.
Tanam shook his head. “Their banners are blue with a silver star.”
“The Justiciars,” said Gerald. “Lucan has sent the Justiciars to deal with us.”
Sir Commander Aidan stepped to Gerald’s side. “Caldarus never forgave Lord Richard for seizing the Order’s estates in the Grim Marches. With the runedead under his control, Caldarus has his chance to reclaim the lost lands.”
“That is what he is telling himself, I am sure,” said Gerald, “but Lucan is the one controlling him.”
“He is acting as he did in Knightreach, Lord Gerald,” said Tanam. “There are a few villages in the wilderness, and the Justiciars and the runedead have gone through all of them. The Justiciar officers slaughtered hundreds with those black daggers, claiming they were worshippers of the San-keth or secret supporters of Caraster.”
Why was Lucan unleashing the black daggers upon innocent people? Skalatan had claimed that Mazael and Molly were the last of the Demonsouled. Did Lucan need to murder innocent people in order to reach Cythraul Urdvul? Some spell that required spilled blood?
“He will do the same,” said Gerald, “when he reaches the Grim Marches.”
Mazael saw the fear in the room. Every man here had faced the runedead before…but never so many at once. The lords of the Grim Marches and the Tervingi headmen between them had mustered thirty-five thousand men, and those thirty-five thousand would have to face the runedead horde and the might of the Justiciar Order.
“We will march at dawn,” said Mazael, “and teach Caldarus that no one commits such atrocities and the Grim Marches and lives.”
Or Caldarus would simply crush them.
###
The next morning, Rachel Roland hurried through the courtyard of Castle Cravenlock.
Gods, but how she hated this place.
She had grown up here, miserable and alone. Mitor had slowly corrupted her to the worship of the San-keth here, and Skhath had so twisted her thinking that she had been ready to wed him and give birth to San-keth changelings.
She thought of Aldane and Belifane with the black-slit yellow eyes of calibah and shuddered.
Gerald had rescued her from all that, but time and time again she had returned to Castle Cravenlock. When Malavost had stolen Aldane, they had followed him here. When Gerald had ridden with Mazael in pursuit of Corvad and Molly, Rachel had remained here with Aldane.
And now she would remain here with Belifane and Aldane as Gerald rode to war again.
Gods, but she was tired of that, too. Would they ever have peace?
She found Gerald by the stables, clad in his armor and surcoat, his helmet tucked under one arm.
“Husband,” said Rachel.
“Rachel,” said Gerald, catching her hands. “It is early yet. I thought you would sleep…”
She smiled. “And miss the chance to say farewell? No.” She gestured at the keep. “Elsie is with the children. Though the poor woman is afraid the Tervingi will go berserk and cut our throats in our sleep.”
Gerald laughed. “Not likely. Those are the nephews of their hrould. The Tervingi would have to go to war against themselves.” His smile faded. “And the gods know we have foes enough without warring against ourselves.”
“Do you think we can win?” said Rachel.
“Perhaps,” said Gerald with a shrug. “Mazael has won great battles against tremendous odds before. There were as many Malrags at Deepforest Keep as Caldarus has runedead, and we still won the day.”
“Because Romaria woke the traigs,” said Rachel.
“I know,” said Gerald. He took a deep breath. “Rachel…if the battle goes ill…”
“Don’t say that,” she said.
“If the battle goes ill,” said Gerald, “I have spoken to Rhodemar Greenshield. The Elderborn and the men of Deepforest Keep have not forgotten how you slew Malavost atop Mount Tynagis. If the battle goes ill, the men of Deepforest Keep will give you refuge. The Keep is isolated, and even if Lucan’s runedead overrun the rest of the world, they may never enter that far into the Great Southern Forest.”
“No,” said Rachel. “Lucan is too much like his father. He will not stop this mad quest to kill the Demonsouled until he has butche
red everyone he can find. If the battle goes ill…we shall all perish together, I fear.”
“Perhaps,” said Gerald. “But perhaps not. Promise me, Rachel, that…that if the worst happens, you will flee with the children to Deepforest Keep.”
“I promise,” said Rachel, squeezing his hands, though she knew that if the runedead prevailed, there would be no place of safety anywhere. “But only if you promise me that you shall return.”
Gerald hesitated. “That is…”
“Promise me!” said Rachel. “I know you want to reclaim Knightcastle, to make your father and Lucan pay for what they have done. But you are more important than any of that. We have been through so much, Gerald. The San-keth, Malavost, the Malrags, the runedead and Caraster…and you are still my husband and I am your wife. Promise me that you will return to me.”
“I promise,” said Gerald, “if I can.”
He would return, Rachel told herself. Mazael would break the runedead, and the combined host of the Grim Marches, the Tervingi, the exiled lords, and the Elderborn would throw down Lord Malden and put an end to Lucan’s evil. And then they could at last live in peace.
Rachel could almost make herself believe it.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“I love you, too,” he said, and kissed her.
Then he swung up into his saddle and rode to join the others.
Rachel climbed to the curtain wall and watched the army leave. Thousands of Tervingi spearthains and swordthains, of militia spearmen and archers, of armsmen in chain mail and plate. Wings of horsemen, both knights and armsmen in heavy armor, and Tervingi horsethains with their spears and javelins. The huge, brown-furred shape of the Tervingi war mammoths, their backs topped with platforms for archers and spearmen, their tusks bound with jutting blades of razor steel. Skythains circled overhead on their griffins, and mounted scouts screened the sides of the army.
Soul of Swords (Book 7) Page 16
