“Then we shall go into great battle together,” said Earnachar, “as mighty Tervingar and his swordthains did in the deeps of time against the Imperium of the Dark Elderborn, and…”
“Yes,” said Mazael. Now was not the time to listen to one of Earnachar’s long-winded speeches. “Take cover. Do not move until you see Timothy and Azurvaltoria cast their spells. Good luck!”
Earnachar, Adalar, Basjun, and Azurvaltoria scattered to take cover behind the standing stones. Mazael moved to the nearest stone and ducked behind it, putting its bulk between him and the path. From here he would have a good view of the courtyard, and hopefully, anyone coming up the path would not be able to see him until it was too late. The circle of standing stones was about twenty yards across, and if Mazael and his companions struck with overwhelming force and speed, they might be able to overpower and slay the Prophetess before she brought her magic to bear.
A voice caught his ears, distant and faint. He knew the Prophetess’s voice by now, so arrogant and full of confidence, though now she sounded waspish and irritated. A second voice rumbled after hers, a man’s voice but just as arrogant.
A man’s voice? The Mask of the Champion had taken Rigoric’s power of speech. Had the Prophetess found new allies?
Four shapes came into sight.
###
Sigaldra waited, heart hammering against her ribs. She felt as she did in the final instant before she shot an arrow, her whole mind and body and spirit focused upon the target.
She gripped her bow, her hands steady.
The Prophetess of Marazadra came into sight.
She wore the same close-fitting armor that she had worn during the assembly in Tchroth, the overlapping plates of metal fitted close to the shape of her body, a dark cloak flung back from her shoulders. It left more of her chest exposed than Sigaldra thought useful in armor, no doubt to display the Talisman of Marazadra between her breasts. The metallic spider seemed somehow awake and alive, as if it was surveying its surroundings. The Horn of Doom and Fate hung from the Prophetess’s right hip, and the sheathed maethweisyr and the Mask of Marazadra from her left.
The Champion of Marazadra walked at her side, a silent tower of black armor. Rigoric seemed to have recovered from his duel with Mazael and showed no sign of injury and pain. He wore a new suit of black plate armor, likely because his previous armor had been destroyed in the fall. Like his old armor, this suit had been adorned with elaborate reliefs of spiders. Unlike his old armor, symbols of purple fire glowed upon the plates of black steel. No doubt the armor had been strengthened with magic.
To Sigaldra’s alarm, a second man walked behind the Prophetess and Rigoric.
She did not recognize him at first. He was tall, with a long, thin face, thick black hair, and an arrogant sneer upon his features. From the corner of her eye, she saw Basjun flinch behind his shrine stone, and the memory came to Sigaldra. This man was Basracus, the lord of Armalast who had claimed the title of High King over all of Skuldar, his ambitions backed by the Prophetess’s power.
The Prophetess had transformed him into a Spider Guard.
One of those metallic spider talismans nestled against his muscular chest, its legs encircling his torso. Growths of armor had erupted from his flesh, sheathing most of his body in overlapping plates of chitin. Unlike the older Spider Guards, Basracus did not seem to be in any pain. He carried a huge black sword in his right hand, the edge gleaming razor-sharp.
Liane walked in their midst. She wore a clean green dress and leather boots, and Sigaldra was once again relieved to see that the Prophetess had not mistreated her sister. Though, of course, the Prophetess needed Liane alive and healthy to reach the Heart of the Spider. Liane’s wrists had been bound in front of her, and her expression was calm, even serene, and she looked around with wide blue eyes.
Sigaldra’s hands tightened against her bow. She would find a way to free her sister. She would!
Basracus was speaking.
“I still think it best that we wait until further priests arrive from Tchroth,” said Basracus. Suddenly Sigaldra understood the source of the Prophetess’s irritation. “The wizards of the Grim Marches are strong, but they will not be able to stand against the assembled magical power of the valgast wizards and my Skuldari priests…”
“No,” said the Prophetess in her calm voice, though her green eyes flashed like fire. “This is the work of Mazael Cravenlock, I am sure of it. Somehow he contrived to send word to his vassals in the Grim Marches. He has powerful allies, allies I do not wish to face in battle. Yet neither Mazael nor his allies are powerful enough to overcome the might of the reborn goddess. When we call the goddess back to the mortal realm, her power shall be unconquerable, and she shall drive all her foes before us.”
Basracus let out a scornful laugh. “Indeed? You overrate this warlord, Prophetess. Some lord from the plains of the Grim Marches is no match for the warriors of Skuldar.”
Rigoric glanced at the High King of Skuldar. As ever, the Champion said nothing, but his look managed to contain an entire speech of contempt.
“No,” said the Prophetess.
“Let us rejoin the others,” said Basracus. “With your magic and our skill at arms, we can crush our foes utterly. We will rip the griffins from the sky, and then our vanquished enemies can watch as you call our goddess back to the world.”
“No,” said the Prophetess again, some irritation seeping into her perfect calm.
“We will present the goddess with our defeated enemies,” said Basracus, undaunted. “And with the leaders of our enemies dead, we can sweep across the Grim Marches with ease.”
“You should do it,” said Liane in her gentle voice. “The future is a thousand different paths that converge in a thousand different ways, but if you fight Mazael Cravenlock, it is certain that you will perish. So I urge you to do so at once…”
Basracus’s bluster vanished into a furious snarl. “You will be silent, you impudent brat.” He raised his hand to strike her, and Sigaldra almost shot him then and there, which would have ruined the ambush. But Rigoric moved like lightning, his greatsword whistling out of its scabbard to come to rest against Basracus’s throat. The High King of Skuldar froze, his face a snarl, his hand against his sword hilt.
“Enough!” snapped the Prophetess, her calm breaking at last. “Basracus, I have warned you before. She is to be unharmed and untouched.” She tapped a finger against the Mask of Marazadra at her belt, and Basracus went rigid with sudden pain. “Defy me at your peril. You have been useful to the service of the goddess, and you can continue to be useful to her cause. But if you make an error now, if you hinder the return of the goddess in any way, then you will wish you had fallen into the hands of the soliphages.” Her serene calm had returned, her eyes glittering. “I trust I am understood?”
“Very well,” growled Basracus. “You are the Prophetess, the voice of the goddess, and you are perfectly entitled to ignore my counsel at your peril.”
“I am so glad I have your approval, Basracus,” said the Prophetess. Some of the contempt leaked through her calm mask. In a flash, Sigaldra realized that Basracus reminded the Prophetess of the Prince of Travia who had abandoned her. Perhaps the Prophetess would rid herself of Basracus the minute that Marazadra had been summoned back.
Sigaldra wondered if Basracus realized that.
“My joy is to serve you,” said Basracus with as much false cheer.
“I am sure you delight in it,” said the Prophetess. She took two steps forward, turned, and looked to the south. “Yes. We must hurry. The Guardian and the lady of the shadows move with haste, and our warriors and priests cannot hold them back for much longer. Once the goddess rises in splendor, she shall crush our enemies, and drive them before us like chaff upon the winds of…”
Timothy’s spell hit the Prophetess in the middle of her speech.
The spell looked like a snarling globe of blue lightning that sprayed sparks in all directions. It struck the Prophet
ess in the small of her armored back, for a moment outlining her form in brilliant blue light. She whirled in alarm, her hand coming up to cast a spell of her own but Azurvaltoria was already moving.
A brilliant lance of fire, so hot it was almost white, erupted from the transformed dragon’s hands. It screamed across the circle and drilled into the Prophetess, who fell back with a shriek of agony, fire erupting across the skin of her chest and neck. Romaria loosed her arrow, the shaft striking the Prophetess in the chest.
Sigaldra bared her teeth and loosed her bow. She had never concentrated so much on a shot in her life, and the effort paid off. Her arrow slammed into one side of the Prophetess’s neck and out the other in a spray of blood, and the sorceress fell to her knees, hands flying to her throat.
###
The Prophetess fell beneath the barrage of spells and arrows, and Mazael charged.
The others erupted in motion around him, but Mazael sprinted for Rigoric. The Champion was a deadly fighter, but Mazael had taken his measure.
The presence of Basracus was an unknown variable. Mazael had never fought the man in combat and did not know how capable the self-styled High King of Skuldar would prove in battle. A normal swordsman Mazael could handle without too much trouble, but he did not know how deadly Basracus would prove with the talisman augmenting his physical strength.
Rigoric had already moved, his greatsword coming up, and he placed himself between Mazael and the prone Prophetess. Basracus circled to the side, moving with eerie grace, the black sword spinning in his right hand. He put himself next to Liane, the sword resting near her throat.
Mazael had considered snatching Liane and running for it. So much for that plan.
Rigoric met his charge. Mazael hit the Champion once, twice, three times, Talon rebounding from the spell-armored plate steel. The spells upon the armor kept the blade from biting into the metal. Rigoric whipped his greatsword around, and Mazael had to duck as the blade blurred over his head.
Adalar attacked from the left and Earnachar from the right, Adalar striking with his talchweisyr, Earnachar hammering with his mace. The Dark Elderborn sword flashed with purple light in Adalar’s hand as the blade bounced off the Champion’s armor, and Mazael wondered if the sword would transfer some of the armoring spell to the young knight.
Basjun attacked from behind, and Rigoric twisted, deflecting his axe with a flick of the greatsword. Basjun scrambled back, trying to avoid Rigoric’s next attack, and Earnachar drove his mace into the back of the Champion’s knee. There was a crunching sound, and Rigoric stumbled. The Champion was strong and fast, but he could not be everywhere at once.
Mazael stabbed with Talon, plunging his sword into the gap in the armor beneath Rigoric’s armpit. The Champion staggered again, and his fist snapped out, catching Mazael in the face. He staggered back, blood flying from his mouth, and Rigoric straightened up.
Steel threads erupted from Rigoric’s knee and armpit, and Earnachar retreated as the Champion went into a furious dance of steel. The huge greatsword moved in a whirling blow, and Adalar, Basjun, and Earnachar all fell back, trying to avoid the sweep of the blade. Mazael caught his balance, spitting out a mouthful of blood, his face tingling as his Demonsouled nature healed the damage from Rigoric’s punch. He ran at Rigoric again, exchanging blows with the Champion, and Talon slipped past the Champion’s guard and armor to inflict minor wounds.
Yet the wounds did little. The steel threads erupted from the wounds, healing Rigoric’s injuries as fast as Mazael could inflict them.
Mazael ducked under a blow that would have made his head explode like a melon hurled from the walls of Castle Cravenlock and regained his balance. So far Basracus had not joined the fight, his black sword resting at Liane’s throat. The Prophetess had gotten to one knee, arrows jutting from her neck and chest, her eyes filled with blood and rage.
She screamed, the Talisman and Mask of Marazadra both pulsing with purple fire, and a thunderclap rang out.
A wall of invisible force slammed into Mazael and threw him backward.
###
The Prophetess’s scream knifed into Adalar’s ears, and the explosion of force hurled him to the ground.
He had been struck by such spells before, and he tucked his shoulder and rolled, coming to his feet with only a few more bruises. The others around him were not so fortunate. Sigaldra and Azurvaltoria, perhaps because of their smaller size, were flung a half-dozen yards. Earnachar and Timothy hit the ground hard, and Romaria fell and stumbled, losing her grip upon her bow, while Basjun was thrown into one of the shrine stones. Only Mazael kept his feet, boots scraping against the stony ground as he struggled to keep his balance.
The Prophetess surged to her feet, hands hooked into claws, shadow and purple fire twisting around her fingers like ribbons. To Adalar’s dismay, he saw that her wounds were healing even faster than Rigoric’s.
The Mask of Marazadra had been intended for Liane, but it seemed the Prophetess could tap its power nonetheless.
“Mazael Cravenlock!” spat the Prophetess in fury.
Basracus looked at Mazael, at the Prophetess, back at Mazael, and then laughed aloud.
“It’s over,” said Mazael, pointing Talon at her. “Give up the girl and the Mask, and we will spare your life.”
“You are correct,” said the Prophetess, her glassy calm returning. “You cannot stop me. The return of the goddess is imminent. You have one last chance to surrender. Give yourself to the will of the goddess, and…”
“No,” said Mazael, smiling a hard smile. “I’ve heard this speech from people far more persuasive than you. Your own goddess tried to recruit me, and I rejected her every time. You aren’t going to succeed either.”
The Prophetess sneered. “Then you shall be swept aside when the goddess rises in majesty.”
“The goddess isn’t going to rise in majesty,” said Mazael. Adalar wondered why Mazael was bothering with speech, but then he understood. The others were recovering. Romaria and Sigaldra set fresh arrows to their bowstrings, Sigaldra’s face a cold mask as she glared at the Prophetess. Both Timothy and Azurvaltoria were beginning new spells, and Basjun and Earnachar had regained their feet, lifting their weapons. They were ready to attack again. Rigoric and Basracus had realized the danger, even if the Prophetess had not. Rigoric moved to the Prophetess’s side, his fists grasping his greatsword’s hilt, while Basracus moved behind them both, keeping his sword at Liane’s throat.
Adalar found his eyes drawn to Sigaldra’s sister. Liane was almost always calm, but now a desperate hope flamed in her expression. Perhaps she had not always been quite so calm as she appeared, and had put on a brave front in defiance of her captors.
Adalar thought that admirable.
“You have failed to overcome the Champion so far,” said the Prophetess, flexing her fingers as the purple fire brightened. “And your pet dragon is crippled, locked within the binding the Mask placed upon her. She cannot save you.”
Azurvaltoria only smiled. “Who said anything about saving anyone, thrall of the spider? Perhaps I only wish to see you burn.”
“Even the dragons shall bow before the might of the goddess,” said the Prophetess, “and you…”
Earnachar laughed that annoying harsh laugh of his. “The whore has become mouthy!”
The Prophetess stiffened. “What did you say, barbarian ape?”
“Despite your airs and your ridiculous costume,” he made a dismissive gesture at her black armor, “you are still just a whore, albeit an incompetent one.” Azurvaltoria let out a nasty laugh. “You failed in your whoredom with the Prince of Travia, and now you have failed in your whoredom with the fat spider to whom you pray.”
“You will regret those insults,” spat the Prophetess. “Every one of them, Earnachar son of Balnachar. You will spend an eternity of torment screaming for mercy and begging to be allowed to repent! You…”
“Or perhaps I was wrong,” said Earnachar. “Perhaps you are actually Bas
racus’s whore, yes? That would make far more sense. Perhaps you are Basracus’s whore, and you are trying to pull his strings from the bedchamber when you open your legs for…”
Basracus laughed.
And that, it seemed, was the last straw for the Prophetess.
“Then you will perish for your blasphemy,” she hissed, her eyes wide and wild and furious. It was a far cry from the serene, confident woman who had addressed the priests of Skuldar and the valgasts in Tchroth. “You will all perish!”
She gestured, and invisible force seized Liane and ripped her from Basracus’s grasp. Liane let out a startled cry but floated next to the Prophetess, caught in the grip of the sorceress’s power.
“If you hurt her,” said Sigaldra, “you will…”
“Hurt her?” said the Prophetess. “I will not hurt her, you stupid girl. She shall be honored above all women save myself. She shall become Marazadra reborn, and she shall reign over mankind forever. Basracus!”
The High King of Skuldar stepped to the Prophetess’s left while Rigoric waited on her right.
“You were so eager to test yourself against Mazael Cravenlock,” said the Prophetess, “and now you have your chance. Kill them. Rigoric and I shall ascend to the altar and summon the goddess.”
Basracus hesitated. “By myself?”
“You were so certain of victory,” said the Prophetess, “but fear not.”
“No,” said Mazael. “You shall die here and now.”
“I’m afraid, Mazael Cravenlock,” said the Prophetess with a wild smile, “you are quite mistaken.”
She flung out her hands with a shout, and gray light flashed from her fingers. A sheet of gray mist rolled across the ground between her and Mazael, and three hulking shapes rose from the mist.
Mask of Spells (Mask of the Demonsouled #3) Page 24
