Mask of Spells (Mask of the Demonsouled #3)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Ah,” murmured Azurvaltoria. “There, in the corner. Hiding away from the world, just as I thought.”

  In the corner was a large table, unoccupied save for a valgast wizard. Like all the valgast wizard-priests, this valgast had a bone-white hide adorned with scarred sigils that flickered with magical light. Unlike the other valgast wizards Mazael had fought and killed, this wizard was tremendously fat, so fat that Mazael wondered if he could walk without assistance. He had a staff topped with a human skull, similar to the one Timothy had claimed, but it leaned against the wall so both hands could grip his massive wine cup.

  The valgast wizard looked up. The valgasts all had the same gleaming black eyes, and Mazael knew from experience that those eyes were as hard as diamond, impenetrable to any weapon. Consequently, he had never seen a valgast with bloodshot eyes, but there were dark circles beneath the valgast wizard’s eyes, and a faint sheen of sweat glittered upon his pale hide.

  “Humans,” the wizard rumbled, setting down his stone cup with a clank. A bit of wine slopped over the edges and onto his clawed fingers. “I suppose humans are permitted within the plaza of the Outer Gate, but that does not mean I have to tolerate your presence. Be gone from my sight.”

  Azurvaltoria smiled, lifted the skirts of her coat, and sat across from him.

  “What impudence is this?” said the valgast wizard, a quiver of rage going through him. “You presume to address a priest of the great goddess Marazadra.”

  “Oh, Zanaxar,” said Azurvaltoria. “Zanaxar, Zanaxar, Zanaxar. You’ve really let yourself go, haven’t you? How much do you spend on slaves to carry your bloated carcass from place to place? Probably not as much as you spend on wine, I imagine.”

  “You dare!” said Zanaxar, slapping his meaty palms against the table. He started to rise so he could tower over Azurvaltoria, changed his mind and slumped against the stone bench once more. “You dare such impudence to a priest of Marazadra.” He started to reach for his staff. “I shall blast you to ashes! I shall rend the flesh from your bones. Or I shall take you and sell you to the slavers. Let us see if you can keep a haughty tongue once the slavers give you to their porters as breeding stock! I shall…”

  “Oh, do stop posturing, Zanaxar,” said Azurvaltoria. “It wasn’t amusing in the caverns of the Veiled Mountain, and it’s not amusing here.”

  When Azurvaltoria mentioned the Veiled Mountain, Zanaxar flinched as if she had jabbed him with a dagger.

  “What did you say?” hissed Zanaxar.

  “Forty years it has been,” said Azurvaltoria, folding her hands on the table and smiling her mad, white smile. “Before the haughty Prophetess was even born, I imagine. Forty years ago your high priest had a brilliant plan to defeat the guardian of the Veiled Mountain and bring the Mask of Marazadra back to Tchroth, to say nothing of the vast wealth and the ancient magical treasures piled in the caverns. It was such a brilliant plan that you went along with it, didn’t you? But it led you to nothing but death and dragon fire.”

  Zanaxar shrank back, his huge eyes fixed on Azurvaltoria. “You…”

  “The guardian killed your high priest, and all the other priests save you,” said Azurvaltoria. “And you threw yourself on your knees before the guardian and begged for your life, and she decided to spare you, in exchange for your help one day. I have good news for you, Zanaxar. It is time to discharge your debt. The day has come at last.”

  Stark terror came over the valgast wizard’s face.

  “It cannot be,” he whispered.

  “Yes,” said Azurvaltoria. “You were much younger when we last met, Zanaxar. And, if I am honest, considerably slimmer. But you’re still a survivor, aren’t you? Right now you have another chance to survive if you repay your debt to me.”

  “How?” said Zanaxar. “It is not possible…”

  Azurvaltoria waved a hand in an airy, dismissive gesture. “I took human form to spare your mind. Should your people see me in my full glory, the terror of my majesty would shatter their minds like glass.”

  Mazael kept himself from laughing. That was a grandiose way of admitting that she had been locked into human form and could not resume her true shape.

  “It is not possible,” said Zanaxar.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” said Azurvaltoria. “You saw me kill a high priest of the goddess and a dozen other priests, all of them potent wizards, and a hundred of your warriors. Do you really think I cannot do whatever I wish?”

  Zanaxar swallowed. The expressions of the valgasts were alien, at least compared to human expressions, but the fear was nonetheless obvious.

  “Then have you returned at last to slay me?” said Zanaxar. “To finish the work you began long ago?”

  “What?” said Azurvaltoria. “I told you not to be an idiot. If I had wanted to kill you, I would have done it at the Veiled Mountain. I told you that someday you would do me a favor. That day has come.”

  “Then what do you want from me?” said Zanaxar. “Will you ask me to defy the wills of the high priests and the warlords? Then you might as well kill me now. If I defy them, they shall slay me without hesitation.”

  “I don’t want you to defy them,” said Azurvaltoria. “Once you have performed your little favor for me, you are free to continue drinking yourself into an early grave.”

  Zanaxar shook his head. “I cannot. The high priests and the warlords have commanded an assembly of the warriors and the priests of Tchroth. The Prophetess of the great goddess has come, and it is said she has found the instruments for the rebirth of Marazadra. She will address the valgasts and then summon Marazadra to the world once more, and all the nations shall bow before the claws of the valgasts.”

  “You might go to the assembly,” said Azurvaltoria, “but I wager you will slink into the corner of the great courtyard and continue drinking.”

  Zanaxar gave a weak little shrug. “Then what do you want from me?”

  “Nothing onerous or even difficult,” said Azurvaltoria. “Humans are forbidden from entering Tchroth, save for the Shadow Market and the plaza of the Outer Gate. We require entrance deeper into Tchroth.”

  Zanaxar let out a wet laugh. “Easily accomplished. Sell yourselves into slavery, and you shall be permitted within the boundaries of Tchroth. Assuming your masters permit it.”

  Azurvaltoria smiled, tapping one fingernail against the bone table. For some reason that made Zanaxar flinch, fresh sweat beading upon his pale hide.

  “You can suggest a better solution, I hope,” said Azurvaltoria.

  “Yes,” said Zanaxar. “Yes, yes, of course.” His leathery tongue darted over his needle-like fangs in nervousness. “There is another way. Another group of humans has been permitted to pass through Tchroth and enter the Tower of the Spider.”

  Azurvaltoria frowned. “Who?”

  “Skuldari humans,” said Zanaxar. “Priests and priestesses of the goddess. Only the valgasts are the true servants of Marazadra, of course, but the Prophetess has commanded that all followers of the goddess gather beneath her banner, and so we must march alongside them.” He scoffed. “Of course, in time the valgasts shall devour and enslave all of humanity.”

  “Of course,” said Azurvaltoria in a dry tone. “Now. These human priests?”

  “Yes,” said Zanaxar. “The easiest way for you to enter Tchroth is to disguise yourselves as priests of Marazadra. I suggest the two females disguise themselves as priestesses,” he turned an indifferent glance over Romaria and Sigaldra, “and that the two males act as their warriors. Several dozen such priests and priestesses and their bodyguards have passed through the Tower of the Spider to the Heart of the Goddess, there to witness the return of Marazadra.”

  Mazael frowned. There were already priests and priestesses of Marazadra at the Heart of the Spider? That would pose a problem. Perhaps it was just as well he had sent Timothy and Earnachar and Basjun to summon aid from the Grim Marches.

  “I believe,” said Zanaxar, “the king of the Skuldari humans is there as w
ell.”

  “Basracus?” said Mazael, anger flashing through him.

  Zanaxar blinked. “Yes, that is his name. How humans tell each other apart, I’ll never know. He arrived just before the Prophetess and will join her for the assembly. Then they shall ascend to the Tower of the Spider.”

  “I assume we shall require proof,” said Azurvaltoria. “Even human priests of Marazadra are not allowed to roam freely through Tchroth.”

  “No,” said Zanaxar. “I shall give you my seal, the seal borne by all priests of the goddess in Tchroth.” He reached into his robe and produced a seal of dark stone adorned with a stylized spider glyph. Mazael blinked in surprise. He had seen a seal exactly like that in the cave of the soliphage who had taken Sigaldra captive.

  Come to think of it, Mazael still had the damned thing in his pack. Perhaps it would prove useful after all.

  “So long as you carry the seal, none shall question you,” said Zanaxar, “assuming you remain disguised as Skuldari priests.” He shrugged. “Of course, you shall be unmasked and killed, and then I will claim you took the seal from me by force.”

  Azurvaltoria smiled. “Are you so sure your high priests can overcome me by force?”

  Zanaxar shuddered again. “No. I am not. Perhaps you will prevail, or perhaps the goddess shall return. I do not care what happens, so long as there is mushroom wine to drink.”

  With that, he joined word to deed, and lifted his stone cup to his face, making a slurping noise as he drank.

  Chapter 10: Prophecy

  Once again, Sigaldra disguised herself as a Skuldari priestess of Marazadra.

  It was just as well that Romaria still had that blue face paint.

  They ducked into a deserted side room of the Tavern of Blood. Mazael and Adalar guarded the door, while Romaria produced her jar of paint. With quick motions she painted Sigaldra’s face with the markings of a Skuldari priestess of Marazadra, drawing a stylized blue spider over her face, the legs sweeping over her temples and down her cheeks and jaw. The paint gave off an odd, sickly smell, like overripe berries, and felt cool against Sigaldra’s skin.

  “Finished,” said Romaria, straightening up. “My turn.”

  Sigaldra nodded and took the jar of paint, marking Romaria’s sharp-featured face with the symbol of the stylized spider. With her eerie blue eyes and long black hair, Romaria looked more like a priestess of Marazadra than Sigaldra did. It helped that she was taller, as well.

  “I’ll need the disguise as well,” said Azurvaltoria.

  “Can’t you cast an illusion spell?” said Mazael, watching the door to the tavern’s main room.

  “Certainly,” said Azurvaltoria, “but the valgast wizards might become a trifle curious if I start walking around with an active spell. And if they happen to dispel it…well, that will mean awkward questions.”

  “A good point,” said Mazael.

  “I’ll do it,” said Romaria, much to Sigaldra’s relief. Azurvaltoria looked human, but the thought of touching the transformed dragon’s face made her skin crawl.

  Fortunately, no one seemed to notice her hesitation, and Romaria painted Azurvaltoria’s face in a few moments.

  “That smells vile,” said Azurvaltoria, blinking.

  “It does,” said Romaria, “but it washes off quickly.”

  “How do I look?” said Azurvaltoria.

  “No more villainous than usual,” said Sigaldra.

  “In other words,” said Mazael, “like a hairless monkey with a blue spider painted upon her face.”

  “Splendid,” said Azurvaltoria. “Shall we?”

  They walked through the door and back into the common room. Zanaxar still huddled in the corner over his massive cup of mushroom wine and did not look up as they approached. Neither did the rest of the valgasts, who appeared lost in their cups of mushroom wine. Mazael and Adalar led the way across the common room, with Sigaldra, Romaria, and Azurvaltoria following as if they were priestesses of Marazadra in truth. Mazael usually strode anywhere with perfect confidence, but now he swaggered, glaring at the valgasts as if daring them to attack. It was a fitting attitude for the guard of a Skuldari priestess, but Sigaldra hoped it didn’t get them killed. Adalar walked next to the older man, tall and quiet in his armor, an air of quiet menace around him. Sigaldra found she liked that. She also found her mind turning back to the mountain path, to the kiss that they had shared…

  She rebuked herself. Now was not the time to think of such things, and she felt guilty for thinking of them while Liane was in mortal danger. Yet Sigaldra was walking into no less danger than Liane. If she was going to die, she would prefer to die while thinking of something pleasant. Sigaldra wondered if Liane had foreseen this with the Sight. She had kept talking about the rusted knight, and she had known of Adalar’s coming. Had she known that his path would cross with Sigaldra’s?

  Sigaldra wondered what else Liane might have foreseen.

  Their deaths, perhaps?

  She tried to put that thought out of her mind.

  They returned to the plaza below the Outer Gate, the air of the cavern cool and damp against Sigaldra’s face and neck. Fewer valgasts occupied the plaza, but the crowd at the base of the Tower of the Spider had at least doubled. The valgasts were assembling to hear the Prophetess of their goddess.

  Another archway rose on the other end of the plaza, leading deeper into Tchroth. A half-dozen valgast warriors stood guard there, armored in cuirasses grown from bone, spears in their hands. Mazael made no effort to slow as he strode towards them, and the valgast warriors stiffened, raising their spears.

  “Halt!” said one of the warriors. “Humans are not allowed in the sacred precincts of Tchroth!”

  Mazael glared at them. “Three priestesses of the great goddess come to offer their devotions and hear the words of the Prophetess of Marazadra, who soon shall summon the goddess back to our world once more. You would presume to deny the will of the servants of the goddess?”

  “Only the valgasts are the true servants of the goddess,” sneered the valgast warrior, tapping Mazael’s chest with the end of his spear. “When the goddess manifests, the valgasts shall rule all nations, and the humans shall be our cattle and our slaves.”

  “Maybe you have it backward,” said Mazael. “Maybe the Skuldari shall rule the earth, and mouthy valgasts shall be used as beasts of burden.” The valgast warrior bristled, but Mazael kept talking. “Let us pass before I grow impatient.”

  The valgast warrior snarled and jabbed the spear again. “Turn around, human, or else…”

  Mazael punched him.

  Sigaldra had never seen the hrould punch anyone before, but she had seen Mazael use his sword to take off an enemy’s head with a single blow, so it was no surprise that the valgast’s head jerked back with an audible snap. The valgast fell to the ground, blood pouring from his shattered nose and broken jaw, and Mazael flexed his fingers with a wince. The other valgasts raised their weapons, but Mazael lifted the black stone seal he had taken from the soliphage’s cave.

  “I suggest,” said Mazael, “that you let us pass. Or we summon the priests and ask them why you will not permit the servants of Marazadra entry.”

  Another valgast grunted. “You could have simply shown us the seal and saved yourself the bother, human.”

  Mazael shrugged. “I was bored.” He gave the stunned valgast a kick in the ribs. “And I wager he’s a troublemaker.”

  The valgast didn’t quite laugh. “Very well. Proceed.”

  The valgasts parted, and Mazael strode over the unconscious valgast warrior without looking back. Sigaldra and the others followed him. Her shoulders itched, and she wanted to look back to see if the valgasts were pursuing, but she knew they would take it as a sign of weakness.

  “How did you know?” said Sigaldra.

  “Know what?” said Mazael.

  “That the valgasts wouldn’t attack,” said Sigaldra.

  “You can always tell a troublemaker,” said Mazael. “The seco
nd valgast? His helmet was more ornate than the others. That means he was in charge, but the first valgast did all the talking. Hence, troublemaker. If Earnachar was a valgast, he would look like the one I punched.”

  Sigaldra started to laugh and then stopped herself. A Skuldari priestess would not demean herself by laughing. “So you did the valgast commander a favor.”

  “Aye, I’m the very soul of generosity,” said Mazael. He stopped, looking around, and Sigaldra followed suit. Beyond the plaza stretched a pool of water, linking to the rest of the vast lake that filled the cavern of Tchroth. A wide causeway crossed the pool, leading to the massive plaza around the Tower of the Spider. Hundreds of valgasts crossed the causeway, joining the thousands filling the plaza around the base of the temple. If they realized who Sigaldra and the others really were, they would attack without mercy.

  It was possible some of them had seen Sigaldra and the others before. Many valgasts had fled from the battle in the valley, and some of them might be only a few yards away.

  “What do you think?” said Mazael in a low voice to Romaria and Azurvaltoria.

  “We should not come any closer to the temple,” said Romaria. “Not for any reason. If the Prophetess sees us, we won’t make it a dozen yards before we’re overwhelmed.”

  “No,” said Azurvaltoria. She pointed, the gesture making her red coat flare around her. Hopefully, the valgasts would not realize that Skuldari priestesses did not usually wear coats of red leather. “That stalagmite. Do you see?” It rose from the lake like a small mountain, and from its apex stretched a walkway that reached to a nearby stalactite. A dozen different walkways branched off from the stalactite, and one of those stone walkways passed within a few yards of the dark mass of the Tower of the Spider.