They passed closer to one of the walls, the massive blocks of its surface covered with countless reliefs. Mazael passed scene after scene showing spiders triumphing over humanity, or a woman-headed spider reigning over groveling human slaves. The scenes were chilling, but he nonetheless felt a flicker of amusement. They did indeed resemble the reliefs he had seen in San-keth temples, and it was amusing that the San-keth had stolen their artistic style from the soliphages. It was almost a pity that Mazael had purged the San-keth from the Grim Marches. Else he might have been able to turn the serpent priests and the soliphages against each other and let them fight it out while the men of the Grim Marches watched.
Romaria picked her way around a fallen column, stepping over a carved image of Marazadra, and came to a sudden stop.
“What is it?” said Mazael.
She opened her mouth to answer, and then whirled, raised her bow, and shot an arrow into the air. Mazael looked up just in time to see the arrow pierce the wing of a motaylakar circling overhead. The arrow pinned the creature’s left wing to its carapace, and the motaylakar let out a horrid shriek, its remaining wing flapping like a banner caught in the wind. The moth-like creature crashed to the ground again the stone column, the iridescent colors starting to flare along its carapace.
Before it could mesmerize them, Mazael stepped forward and took its head off with a sweep of Talon. The head bounced away and rolled to a stop at the foot of the relief-carved wall.
“Was that the only one?” said Mazael.
“No,” said Romaria with an irritated shake of her head. “No, there were two. One kept flying towards the courtyard, but the second hovered and saw us. When they realize that the motaylakar went missing, they’ll start searching, and we’ll have a fight on our hands.”
“One we cannot win,” said Sigaldra in a tight voice. “If we try to fight against that many at once, we’ll lose.”
Mazael opened his mouth to answer, and then Romaria spoke again.
“The sky to the east,” she said. “Look.”
Mazael raised his hand to shade his eyes. Far to the east, over the broken wall, he caught a glimpse of a distant shape of white and gold circling. He saw it only for a second, but that was more than long enough to recognize the shape.
It was a griffin, one most likely ridden by a Tervingi skythain.
“Molly got the message,” said Mazael, smiling. “Timothy and Earnachar and Basjun came through.”
“Then help is on the way?” said Sigaldra.
“Yes,” said Mazael, calculating the new possibilities. Molly herself would have come with the skythains, and she was almost as dangerous as Mazael in a fight. Riothamus would have accompanied his wife, and the Prophetess had fled the last time rather than face the Guardian of the Tervingi. Timothy would have returned, and he would have brought as many of the wizards of the Grim Marches as the griffins could carry, knowing they would face magical battle.
The plans had changed. This was no longer an ambush.
It was going to be a battle to the death. The Prophetess could not flee, not from here, not from the place she needed to summon her goddess. She would stand and fight…though with the Talisman of Marazadra and the powers of the soliphages, the Spider Guards, the valgast wizards, and the Skuldari priests, she might well prevail.
“All right,” said Mazael. “Time for a new plan. We’re…”
Right about then the enemy proved Nathan Greatheart and Theodoric of the Jutai correct.
No plan of battle ever survived the first crossing of swords with the enemy.
A dark blur soared overhead, and Mazael heard the furious scream of a motaylakar. Romaria struck at once, her arrow pinning the creature’s left wing to its carapace. The creature screamed again, louder than before, and Azurvaltoria cast a spell. A burst of fire slammed into the motaylakar’s head and abdomen, and the creature erupted into flame and crashed into the wall. Cries of alarm echoed through the ruins. If the motaylakar’s piercing scream had not drawn the attention of the enemy, then the fire and the smoke certainly would have.
Fortunately, they would also draw the attention of the sharp-eyed Tervingi skythains.
“You were saying?” said Azurvaltoria.
“New plan,” said Mazael. “We stay here until help arrives. Defend yourselves!”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the first of the foe arrived.
A Skuldari hunting spider sprang into sight, leaping over one of the fallen columns, its jagged legs clicking and tapping against the ancient stones. A Skuldari warrior sat atop the spider, clad in chain mail, a spear in his hand. The Skuldari warrior flung the spear, and Mazael swept Talon before him, sending the missile tumbling away. Both Romaria and Sigaldra loosed arrows, but the spider moved too quickly, leaping from the back of the column to land in front of Mazael. The spider’s mandibles snapped, and Mazael dodged, avoiding the poisoned blades as the spider raised its forelegs to stab at him.
Adalar attacked from the side, stabbing his talchweisyr into the black spider’s side. The creature reared back, mandibles snapping, and Mazael dashed forward and jumped. His left boot came down on top of the spider’s head, and he swung his sword. His footing was off, and his angle was wrong, but he nonetheless dealt a fatal blow to the side of the Skuldari warrior’s neck. Mazael jumped off the back of the spider as the dying warrior slumped in his saddle, and the spider started to turn, intending to pursue him, slime leaking from the wound that Adalar had carved into its side.
Azurvaltoria turned the spider’s head to cinders. The bulbous body shuddered, the black legs thrashing, and the creature collapsed to the ground. The dead warrior fell off the side.
Mazael did not have time to catch his breath. A mob of Skuldari warriors charged after the slain spider on foot, axes and spears in hand.
###
Sigaldra loosed arrow after arrow, drawing them from her rapidly emptying quiver as fast as she could manage.
Mazael had led them to a defensible position, a mostly flat area atop one of the piles of rubble. They would have been vulnerable to archers there, but fortunately, the Skuldari seemed to have no bowmen.
The fighting fell into a familiar pattern. Mazael and Adalar faced the charging valgasts and Skuldari warriors, their curved swords flying. Adalar was the younger man, but Mazael was more skilled and fought with a vicious savagery that Adalar could not quite match, laying waste around him. Adalar nonetheless held his own, cutting down any valgast or Skuldari warrior that drew near to him.
Sigaldra, Azurvaltoria, and Romaria stood behind the two knights. Sigaldra and Azurvaltoria loosed arrows at the enemy, and soon Sigaldra barely had to even aim. So many valgasts and Skuldari warriors swarmed up the hill that she merely had to pick a direction and loose her shaft. Romaria was a blur of motion, her hands moving so fast that Sigaldra could barely follow the motions, her arrows slamming into the flesh of valgasts and Skuldari both, or shifting upward to shoot a motaylakar that strayed too close. Azurvaltoria cast spell after spell, fire crackling around her. At first, she unleashed her fire at the warriors, keeping them at bay or killing them outright.
Then the valgast wizards and the soliphages joined the fray, and the dragon had to turn her attention to them. Magic snarled back and forth as Azurvaltoria contested against the worshippers of Marazadra, her fire struggling against their magical power.
They were losing.
Step by step, the valgast warriors drove Adalar and Mazael back. They left a trail of dead in their wake, the Skuldari scrambling over valgast corpses, but there were too many of the creatures. Mazael had said that he saw the Tervingi skythains approaching, and it was the first time Sigaldra would ever have been happy to see the Tervingi skythains.
Yet the sky remained empty, save for the occasional motaylakar. They no longer came too close, having learned to fear Romaria’s arrows and Azurvaltoria’s spells.
Unfortunately, the rest of their enemies were bolder. More and more valgasts swarmed into the ru
ined fane, and Azurvaltoria looked increasingly strained. If they did not receive any help, they were finished.
Yet Sigaldra saw no help coming.
Mazael must have been wrong. No help was coming, and they were all going to die. A wave of tearing regret went through Sigaldra. She had come so far and so close to rescuing Liane, but she would die within reach of her sister.
Sigaldra saw Adalar dodge beneath a valgast’s spear, his talchweisyr flickering out, and a different kind of regret went through her. She had hoped that if they were successful they might spend more time together. Sigaldra had never thought she would even contemplate taking a husband outside of the Jutai nation, but Adalar Greatheart had changed her mind.
And now it seemed they would die together. More to the point, Adalar was going to die for her. He had no stake in this fight. He had no blood kin amongst the Jutai. Adalar had no reason at all to be here, but he had followed her nonetheless.
A valgast darted past Adalar, racing up the hill, spear in hand.
Sigaldra reached for her quiver and found nothing.
Her quiver was empty. She had used the last of her arrows.
The valgast charged at her, drawing back its spear, and Sigaldra cursed and yanked her short sword from its scabbard. She managed to get the blade loose in time to parry the valgast’s first thrust, knocking the weapon aside. Sigaldra deflected two more thrusts, her arms screaming with the effort as she clutched the hilt of her weapon. The valgast drew back its weapon for a fourth thrust, and Romaria shot it through the neck. She did not even wait to see the creature fall, but turned and kept sending arrows at the valgast warriors.
Romaria, too, was almost out of arrows and Adalar and Mazael were about to be overwhelmed.
Four more valgasts scrambled towards Sigaldra, and she gripped her sword and braced herself for the end.
A black blur shot past her, accompanied by the baying snarl of a furious hound. One of the valgasts went down, squealing as it clutched at a torn throat, and a second valgast fell, hamstrung by the snapping jaws of the biggest, ugliest black dog that Sigaldra had ever seen…
“Crouch?” she said.
A familiar voice came to her ears, a harsh, braying voice that belted out a Tervingi battle hymn without the slightest hint of musical ability. Sigaldra turned just as Earnachar son of Balnachar, headman of Banner Keep, charged into battle. The Tervingi headman raised his mace and smashed the skull of a valgast warrior with a gleeful swing. After him came Basjun, axe in hand, and Timothy, his black coat flaring around him as he ran up the hill, the valgast staff burning with fire in his hand. He unleashed a blast of magical fire, setting a Skuldari warrior afire.
Shadows swooped overhead as scores of griffins flew past, the Tervingi skythains upon their backs shooting arrows. The griffins had the bodies of lions, yet somehow possessed the heads and vast wings of giant eagles, and they soared over the battle with ease.
Hope quenched the despair within Sigaldra. Mazael hadn’t been wrong. Earnachar and the others had indeed summoned help.
“You came back,” Sigaldra heard herself say.
“Of course!” said Earnachar, wrenching his mace from the collapsed ruin of a valgast’s skull. “The rivers shall run dry and the sun shall turn to ice before Earnachar son of Balnachar fulfills not his word!”
It was so absurd Sigaldra had to laugh, and then she saw a swirl of shadow next to one of the valgast wizards.
###
Mazael whipped Talon down in a parry, deflecting the axe of a screaming Skuldari warrior. Around him the enemy reeled in chaos, falling back in shock before the attack of the skythains. Likely neither the Skuldari nor the valgasts had seen griffins before, and would not know how to fight the creatures. The griffins each carried one of the court wizards of the lord and knights of the Grim Marches behind their skythains, and the wizards summoned blasts of fire or strokes of lightning at the unprepared valgasts.
The valgast priests and the soliphages rallied, preparing to send their spells skyward, but a pillar of swirling shadow twisted behind them. A young woman stepped from the writhing shadows, slim and muscular, clad in chain mail and dark leather armor, a slender sword in her right hand and a dagger made from a dragon’s tooth in her left. She had gray eyes and brown hair the same color as Mazael’s own, and she was smiling a mad, gleeful smile that Mazael understood all too well.
Molly Cravenlock flourished her weapons and killed three valgast wizards in as many heartbeats, sending their corpses falling to the ground. The remaining valgast wizards and soliphages whirled to face the new threat, and Molly smirked at them and vanished in a swirl of darkness. She reappeared a dozen yards away, killing a soliphage with a double stab of her weapons, and vanished once more.
White mist swirled over the battle, hardening into a jagged shard of ice the size of a horse. The shard stabbed down, crushing two valgast priests and a soliphage. One of the griffins swooped low over the battle, and Mazael glimpsed the golden fire sheathing the staff of the Guardian of the Tervingi as he rode behind Toric son of Torvmund.
The soliphages and the valgast priests and the Skuldari had seen enough, and fled back towards the central courtyard, no doubt hoping the power of the Prophetess and her Champion would stand against the new enemies.
Mazael lowered his sword, breathing hard, and hurried back up the hill. Adalar trudged after him, and they rejoined Romaria, Sigaldra, and Azurvaltoria.
“It seems your cunning has paid well, Lord of Castle Cravenlock,” said Azurvaltoria.
“Let us hope so,” said Mazael.
“They came back,” said Sigaldra. She sounded stunned.
“Aye,” said Mazael.
“Was that your plan all along?” said Sigaldra, blinking at him. “To have them arrive here at the last minute?”
“No,” said Mazael. For a moment he heard the memory of the Old Demon’s mocking voice. “The key is to set up multiple paths to victory. This is but one, and it is by no means assured. But if we’re going to fight the Prophetess, we’re going to do it on a more even footing. Let’s find Molly and Riothamus and plan.”
Chapter 14: Battles
“Basjun!” called Mazael.
The black-bearded young man hurried over, bloody axe in hand. Crouch loped after his master, his tongue hanging over his teeth. The ugly dog looked almost friendly at the moment, which was a startling contrast from the way he looked while ripping out valgast throats.
“Yes, sir?” said Basjun.
“Good work,” said Mazael. “Another few minutes and things might have become challenging.”
Adalar laughed a little, shaking his head. “Challenging. Yes.”
Basjun nodded. “We were able to move in haste. Fortunately, most of the warriors have gathered in either Armalast or the eastern end of the Weaver’s Vale. Getting past them was a challenge…”
“But I was able to masquerade as a priest of Marazadra effectively,” said Timothy, walking to join Basjun, Earnachar following after him. “Then we joined Lady Molly’s camp. Lady Molly was…ah…”
“She threatened to kill me several times,” said Earnachar.
“Yes,” said Timothy. “Fortunately, I was able to persuade her that we had acted in good faith. Your signet ring helped with that, my lord. The Guardian and Lady Molly decided that the danger was great enough to strike at once, so every available skythain set out for Mount Armyar.”
“It was a remarkable experience,” said Basjun, looking at the griffins. The skythains were beginning to land, their mounts spiraling towards the ground. “I never thought to fly above the ground as the birds do. Truly, sir, I have seen many amazing things since my father sent me with you. A dragon locked in human shape, and now flying upon the back of a griffin.”
“You find my human shape as remarkable as flying upon a griffin’s back?” said Azurvaltoria with a smile. “How very flattering.”
Basjun’s face reddened behind his black beard.
“Come,” said Mazael. “Let’
s find Molly and Riothamus. If we don’t hasten, we might all see the rebirth of a goddess before the sun sets.”
“We shall not,” said Sigaldra, her voice like iron.
Mazael led the way towards the fane’s entrance. The ancient structure was more intact there, which left enough space for the griffins to land. Nearly fifty of the creatures had landed, some of them fluffing their wings with their beaks, some of them raking at the ground with their claws, and some of them lying down to rest until their skythains called them back to battle. Each griffin wore a saddle holding a Tervingi skythain. Many of the griffins also carried a wizard of the brotherhood, each man clad in a long black coat, some of them holding metal tubes or wooden wands or crystal staffs or the other tools of their magical trade.
Darkness swirled next to Mazael, and Molly stepped out of the swirling shadows, carried there by the power in her Demonsouled blood.
“Father,” said Molly.
“Daughter,” said Mazael.
“What a lovely gift you’ve given me,” said Molly, grinning.
“Eh?” said Mazael.
“A battle,” said Molly, rolling her shoulders. “I haven’t had a proper fight since we killed those Skuldari raiders on our way to the camp.”
“I’m glad you’re pleased,” said Mazael, though he understood her dark glee. Keeping his Demonsouled rage in check required endless self-discipline, and to relax that self-discipline with a clear conscience was a splendid feeling. “Don’t worry, daughter. We’ll have enough killing to satisfy even you by the end of the day.”
Mask of Spells (Mask of the Demonsouled #3) Page 21
