The unearthly wail grew louder and louder, Mount Armyar itself shuddering with the noise.
“Kill her!” said the Prophetess. “Kill her and bring me the Horn. Rigoric, finish them!”
The Prophetess whirled, snatched up the fallen maethweisyr, and ran back to the altar and to Liane. The Crimson Hunters charged at Sigaldra, raising their legs to impale her, and Rigoric attacked Mazael, the greatsword plunging like an avalanche of razor-edged steel.
###
The Horn’s call exploded inside of Sigaldra’s skull.
It was loud, so loud that she thought it would burst her ears, but that was not it. She could hear it in her thoughts, could hear the Horn with her mind and heart. Even if the Horn’s howl shattered her ears, she would still be able to hear the Horn’s screaming call in her mind.
A cold wind howled across the top of the hill as some other power came to Mount Armyar, a power different than the one radiating from the rift. Curtains of mist rose around the hill, towering above them like the walls of a castle. The deep note continued to howl from the Horn, and Sigaldra could not remember the last time she had taken a breath. Her lips seemed joined to the mouthpiece of the Horn, and she could not pull away.
The Crimson Hunters rushed towards her, raising their legs to strike, and Sigaldra could not make herself drop the Horn and flee.
“No!”
A dusty, bloody shape flung itself at the nearest Crimson Hunter. Adalar’s talchweisyr flashed as he struck, and in a single mighty blow, he took off the Crimson Hunter’s head. The head bounced once and dissolved into gray mist, and the body thrashed and unraveled into mist and gray light. It had been a stupendous blow, one worthy of the songs of a Tervingi loresinger, but it had drained the last of Adalar’s strength. He crumpled to one knee, chest heaving, blood and sweat running down his face and onto his chest. The impact against the shrine stone must have hurt him, and it had been nothing short of miraculous that he had been able to fight his way to her side.
It seemed they were to die together after all.
She would have told him that she was sorry, but she could not lift her mouth from the Horn of Doom and Fate.
A thunderclap rang out, and the curtains of mist around the hilltop shone with golden fire.
The Horn released Sigaldra, and she jerked away from it, gasping for breath. The Horn struck the ground and rolled to a stop a few feet away, still glowing with golden flame.
The remaining Crimson Hunters closed around them for the kill.
As they did, the shades of the dead emerged from the mist.
Three warriors charged the nearest Crimson Hunter, armored in shirts of steel scales, round shields upon their left arms, axes in their right fists, and round helms upon their heads. The warriors were just slightly translucent, and lined in a glimmer of golden light. They struck the Crimson Hunter, and their blades bit through the creature’s armored hide, sinking deep into its flesh, gray light spilling from its wounds.
Sigaldra stared at them in disbelief.
Those warriors…she had seen those warriors before.
They had been at the siege of one of the final holds of the Jutai people, fighting to hold the walls against the Malrags alongside her father. The Crimson Hunter vanished in a spray of gray light, and the warriors spun to face their next foe. As they did, more warriors in Jutai armor emerged from the mist, charging into the fray, and Sigaldra knew them all. She had seen them die in the endless grinding battles against the Malrags or during the long, brutal journey to the Grim Marches.
It wasn’t possible.
“Sigaldra?” said Adalar, looking around in bewilderment.
“I…I don’t know,” she said as more ghosts from her past emerged from the mist summoned by the Horn. They might have been ghosts, but their blades bit into the Crimson Hunters. Nearly a score of the giant spiders had emerged from the rift, but now their charge wavered, driven back by the shadows of the long-dead Jutai. “I don’t know what’s…”
“Look out!” said Adalar, staggering to his feet, talchweisyr extended.
A Crimson Hunter lunged at her, and Sigaldra scrabbled backward, its snapping mandibles just avoiding her throbbing left leg. Adalar attacked, the swing of his curved sword taking off one of its legs, and the Crimson Hunter spun. He dodged, but not quite fast enough, and the side of the Hunter’s legs hit his chest and knocked him to the ground. The Crimson Hunter turned as Sigaldra tried to stand, evidently dismissing Adalar as a threat, and loomed over her once more.
A tall warrior in a chain hauberk lunged at the Crimson Hunter, his translucent form outlined in flickering golden light. He wielded a huge two-handed axe as easily as a lesser man might wield a dagger, and he swung the weapon again and again. Before the devastating assault, the Crimson Hunter fell back, and at last, the spirit creature ripped apart in a spray of gray mist.
The warrior lowered his axe and looked at Sigaldra. He was in his early fifties, with a lean, lined face, graying blond hair, and bloodshot blue eyes, his arms thick and his features scarred.
All the moisture fled from Sigaldra’s mouth as Adalar helped her to stand.
“Father?” she whispered.
Theodoric of the Jutai, the last hrould of the Jutai nation, nodded.
###
A battle erupted around Mazael.
Shades of armored warriors had charged into the fray, attacking the Crimson Hunters from all sides. Mazael had no idea what had just happened. The armor and weapons of the warriors looked vaguely Tervingi, though of a different style and slightly different design. If he had to guess, Mazael supposed that Sigaldra had sounded the Horn and called up the shades of the slain Jutai, the warriors rushing to defend the living remnants of their nation.
At the moment, Mazael didn’t care what had happened. The ghostly warriors were allies, whatever they were, and that was what mattered. With the Crimson Hunters pouring through the Heart of the Spider, Mazael’s defeat had been a matter of time.
Now they had a chance.
But only if Mazael could deal with Rigoric and get to the Prophetess.
Fortunately, Rigoric now had as many distractions as Mazael did.
Jutai shades and Crimson Hunters struggled around them, swords and axes flashing against mandibles and razor-edged spider legs. Mazael saw a Crimson Hunter go down, torn apart by Jutai axes, and a half-dozen Jutai warriors vanished into golden mist as the Crimson Hunters struck back. A Crimson Hunter came at him, and Mazael dodged, stabbing Talon into its side. The creature shuddered and ripped free of the weapon, and the Jutai shades swarmed the giant spider, hitting it a dozen times in a single heartbeat. The Crimson Hunter vanished into the spirit world, and Mazael pushed through the melee to find Rigoric.
The Champion slashed around him with his greatsword, cutting down every Jutai shade that approached him. The shades might have been immaterial creatures, but Rigoric was able to wound them, his sword shattering them into mist and wisps of golden light. Mazael sprinted at him, and Rigoric turned, identifying him as the greater threat. The greatsword swept for his head, and Mazael ducked under it, Talon skidding off Rigoric’s armor. The Champion started after him but staggered as a Jutai shade jabbed a translucent sword into the side of his neck, steel threads bursting from the wound.
The Jutai might have been immaterial, but it seemed that their swords could harm the Champion.
And Mazael had his opening. He had been trying to find a way to distract Rigoric, trying to find a way to close with the armored man, but Rigoric had been too canny of a fighter. Now, though, the Jutai shades swarmed over the hilltop, and Mazael had his chance.
He struck again and again, aiming his blows at Rigoric’s black-armored legs. Talon’s edge skidded off the steel armor, though from time to time the curved sword found a gap and bit into the flesh. Rigoric tried to respond, but a mob of Jutai warriors had clustered around him, stabbing and slashing. To keep from getting surrounded, Rigoric had no choice but to fall back, his greatsword ripping apart
a Jutai shade with every swing.
Then one of the Jutai hit Rigoric’s right leg, and Mazael had his opening.
As the Champion stumbled, the wound knitting itself shut, Mazael threw himself forward. Rigoric tried to bring his greatsword around, but his balance was wrong, and Mazael kicked the injured leg before it could heal. Rigoric stumbled, and Mazael slammed into him with all the strength and speed he could muster. The Champion fell hard upon his back with a clang of armor, his greatsword falling from his grasp.
Rigoric reacted at once, reaching for his greatsword and punching for Mazael’s face. Mazael ducked his head, taking the hit on the crown of his head. It felt as if he had been hit with a falling rock, pain exploding down his neck and back, but he had been hit many times before and knew how to keep going.
Mazael rammed the tip of Talon below Rigoric’s chin and shoved, driving the blade into the soft flesh around the metallic edge of the Mask. Rigoric heaved and hit Mazael again, his head ringing with the force of the blow, but this time the punch didn’t have nearly as much power.
He was disrupting Rigoric’s connection to the Mask.
Mazael pinned his knees against Rigoric’s arms, shoving Talon with all his strength. The blade slipped forward another inch with a ghastly ripping noise, and a violent shudder went through the Champion. Mazael dropped Talon’s hilt, gripped the edges of the Mask of the Champion with both hands, and wrenched. For a moment nothing happened. He pulled Rigoric’s head forward, the Champion’s struggles growing feebler.
Then the Mask jerked away with a spray of blood, and Mazael saw just why the Mask of the Champion had cost Rigoric his power of speech.
For the first time, Mazael looked on what remained of Rigoric’s face.
His eyes were intact and darted back and forth in agonized panic. Below his eyes, nothing remained of his face but a seeping crater. Nestled within the crater was a small metallic spider that twitched as the light fell upon it. The thing was the size of Mazael’s thumb, and it had spun a web of steel threads within the bloody crater, the threads sinking into Rigoric’s flesh and weaving into his veins.
So that explained the steel webs that had healed Rigoric’s wounds.
Mazael stood, grabbed Talon’s hilt, and brought the sword down. He took off Rigoric’s head on the second blow, and the Champion’s mutilated head rolled away. The spider scurried out of Rigoric’s skull, and Mazael took one quick step and crushed the vile thing beneath his boot.
Rigoric’s body shuddered as the web of metal in his flesh unraveled, and his corpse simply…fell apart.
That made a mess.
Mazael grimaced, shook his aching head, and hurried to find the others. Romaria, Earnachar, and Basjun all fought back to back, shielding Azurvaltoria and Timothy as they flung fire at the Crimson Hunters. All five of them seemed to have come through the fight alive, though they all looked on the edge of exhaustion.
“What is going on, sir?” said Basjun. “It seems the dead have risen and are fighting for us.”
“They are Jutai swordthains and spearthains,” said Earnachar, his eyes wild. Maybe he feared that the ghostly warriors would realize how badly he had treated the remnant of the Jutai nation. “I saw some of them die during our journey from the middle lands to the Grim Marches.”
“Sigaldra must have sounded the Horn of Doom and Fate,” said Azurvaltoria. She sounded thoughtful. “I did not anticipate this. Sounding the Horn should have killed Sigaldra and done nothing at all. But the Prophetess’s summoning spell has drawn so much magical power to the Heart of the Spider that the results of the Horn’s use are…unpredictable.”
“We can speculate later,” said Mazael. “If the Jutai shades are keeping the Crimson Hunters busy, then we can take the Prophetess.”
“What about Rigoric?” said Earnachar.
“He’s dead, of course,” said Romaria. “Mazael killed him.”
Earnachar frowned. “You saw? When?”
“I didn’t see.” Romaria smiled. “I had faith.”
Earnachar muttered something but fell silent.
“Come,” said Mazael. “This battle isn’t over yet.”
Chapter 19: Competing Destinies
“Father,” said Sigaldra, her voice a croak.
Adalar looked at the old warrior. He could see the family resemblance. Theodoric of the Jutai had the same blue eyes as his daughters, the same blond hair, though his had gone to gray. His face was lined and weary, though he still looked strong enough that Adalar would not have wanted to face him in battle.
Save, of course, for the fact that he had been dead for years.
“Sigaldra,” said Theodoric, his voice carrying a strange, resonant echo. “It is good to see that you still live.”
“I saw you die,” said Sigaldra, her voice shaking. “I saw that balekhan cut you down, though you struck the Malrag down in your death. I burned you and placed your ashes in our ancestral urn with the ashes of my brothers, I saw…” Her hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with astonishment.
The shades of four Jutai men, older than Sigaldra and Liane yet younger than Theodoric, stood behind the Jutai hrould. They looked like younger versions of Theodoric, or perhaps male versions of Sigaldra, and Adalar realized these were Sigaldra’s brothers, all killed during the war of the Jutai against the Malrag hordes.
“Yes, my daughter,” said Theodoric. “I have been dead a long time. We all have. Yet you have called us back to the mortal world.” He looked at the Horn lying discarded upon the ground, its sides blazing with golden fire. “We were beyond the reach of even that mighty relic. Yet terrible powers have been loosed upon this mountain, and in this time and this place your will and the relic called us back.”
“I tried,” said Sigaldra, and to Adalar’s shock, there were tears on her face. During all they had been through together, even during her lowest point after the soliphage had lured her into its cave, he had never once seen her cry. “I tried so hard to protect what was left of the Jutai. We made it out of the middle lands, to the Grim Marches. I hoped we would be safe here, that the Malrags wouldn’t follow us, but there have been new dangers…”
“I know,” said Theodoric, his sons standing silently behind him. “I see the shadow of that pain upon you. I am sorry, daughter. The burden was never meant to pass to you. I wish that it had not been so.”
“Lord Theodoric,” said Adalar, and the shade’s eyes shifted to him.
“Who are you, warrior?” said Theodoric. “I see a destiny upon you.” He tilted his head to the side. “You have bound yourself to my daughter with deeds of courage. She owes you her life. Speak.”
“Your other daughter,” said Adalar. “Liane. She’s still alive. A sorceress is going to kill her and use her blood to raise an ancient goddess of cruelty and power.”
“A vile crime,” said one of the warriors standing behind Theodoric.
“It is, Mardulf,” said Theodoric. “Liane was a special child. Her blood carries power. A sorceress could use her blood to work great evil.”
“It hasn’t happened yet, Lord Theodoric,” said Adalar. “She’s still alive. The spell isn’t finished. If we hasten, we can yet save her.”
“Yes,” said Theodoric. “The Jutai shall march to war one final time. These spider-demons are servants of the sorceress?”
“They are,” said Adalar. “They serve the creature that calls itself Marazadra.”
“The great spider of old,” said Mardulf. “The soliphages pray to her.”
“The sorceress calls herself the Prophetess,” said Adalar, “and is trying to summon Marazadra through Liane’s body and power.”
“This cannot stand, father,” said another of Sigaldra’s brothers.
“It shall not, Algar,” said Theodoric. “Come! Let us conquer these spider-demons and teach this Prophetess what it means to make war upon the Jutai.”
Sigaldra started after them, her left leg twitching. “I shall come with you.”
“You should res
t,” said Adalar, but even as he spoke he knew it was futile.
“No,” said Sigaldra. “Not for anything. I won’t let that wretched woman harm my sister. I can rest when we’re victorious or when I’m dead.”
Adalar nodded and walked with Sigaldra towards the central altar.
The shades of the Jutai warriors followed them.
###
Mazael ran past the rows of flickering, golden-lined shades. All of the Jutai dead were moving towards the center of the circle, and ahead he glimpsed the black carapaces of Crimson Hunters. The rift above the altar had swelled in size, growing larger and wider. More whips of purple lightning coiled and lashed against the sky, and seemed to grow brighter even against the golden light rising from the mist around the hilltop.
A flicker of golden fire caught Mazael’s eye. He spotted the Horn of Doom and Fate lying on its side on the ground, glowing with a golden fire that looked similar to the symbols upon his sword blade and the power of Riothamus’s unleashed magic. Mazael stooped, picked it up, and handed it to Timothy.
“Hold on to that,” he said. “I suspect we do not want the Prophetess to get it back.”
“Mazael,” said Romaria. “That Horn…the magic is of the High Elderborn, like your old sword Lion and Riothamus’s staff.”
“Truly?” said Azurvaltoria.
“I’m sure of it,” said Romaria. “The Sight shows it to me. It’s the same kind of power.”
“We can worry about it later,” said Mazael.
Through the crowds of shades, Mazael spotted Sigaldra and Adalar. Sigaldra was limping, her left leg twitching, and Adalar’s free hand kept reaching towards her, as if wanting to stabilize her, but Sigaldra kept going. Five shades walked around her like a guard of honor, their appearance so like Sigaldra’s that Mazael supposed they were her dead family, called back from the shadows of the grave by the power of the Horn.
“Lord Mazael,” said Adalar.
“What did you do?” said Mazael.
They did not slow as they advanced towards the altar, the host of the dead Jutai flowing around them like smoke.
Mask of Spells (Mask of the Demonsouled #3) Page 27
