Some had not.
This one had not.
Adalar had seen so many dead villages like this one. Large parts of Mastaria had once been filled with thriving villages and prosperous farms, but now were empty stretches of ruin-dotted wasteland. Entire villages and towns had been wiped out in an instant, their people slain and their history forgotten.
In another generation, would anyone remember that a village had once stood here?
Adalar sat upon his horse and gazed at the church, lost in his dark thoughts.
“My lord?”
Adalar blinked.
Sir Wesson Stillwater rode closer, maneuvering his horse around the bushes growing in the village square. When Adalar had met Wesson, years ago, Wesson had been fat and stuttering. He was still stout, but now bore muscle instead of fat, and his stuttering had turned to stoic taciturnity. Like Adalar, he had been knighted after Amalric Galbraith’s defeat, and he had fought in the campaign against Caraster’s runedead and Lucan Mandragon, gaining wide estates in Mastaria. When his father Lord Tancred died, Wesson would inherit Castle Stillwater and become one of the most powerful lords in Knightreach. A dozen of the most prominent noble daughters of Knightreach were vying for his hand. Wesson accepted it all with the same sober equanimity that he accepted everything, whether good or bad.
The war had been good for him.
Adalar could not say the same for himself.
“Sir Wesson,” said Adalar.
“Our column’s moving on,” said Wesson. He scratched at his nose. He had started growing a mustache in imitation of Lord Gerald, as had many of the nobles of Knightreach and Mastaria. “This place is deserted.”
“What about the manor house?” said Adalar. There had been a ruined manor house outside the village. Whether it had burned during the Great Rising, or if bandits or Malrags had burned it later, Adalar could not say.
“Empty,” said Wesson. “It was picked over long ago.” He looked at the sky. “We can get a few miles further before dark. Unless you wish to make camp here? The manor house or the church would be defensible.”
Adalar looked at the ruined church. People had burned to death inside it, and the thought of spending the night there turned his stomach.
“This village,” said Adalar. “Do you know what it was called?”
“I fear not, my lord,” said Wesson. He shrugged. “I don’t know who ruled it, either. This far west in the Grim Marches, it might have been sworn to Lord Mazael. Or maybe to one of the petty lords of the Stormvales. Or maybe they were freeholders, sworn to no lord.”
“And now they are dead,” said Adalar. “As are so many others.”
“Aye,” said Wesson. “We should move on. This is an ill-omened place.”
Adalar nodded.
“Adalar,” said Wesson, and that caught Adalar’s attention. “It does the men little good to see their lord brooding in old ruins.”
“Why not?” said Adalar. “We are on our way to a funeral, after all.”
Wesson gave him a flat look.
Adalar sighed. “As ever, you are right. Very well.” He turned his horse around. “We shouldn’t camp here. We’ll make another five miles before dark, and then we’ll make camp.”
“As you command, my lord,” said Wesson.
They rode to where the rest of their column waited. Fifty knights and mounted armsmen escorted their supply wagons. The lead armsmen held the banners, a stylized red heart upon a field of green for Adalar, and a gray castle tower upon a field of blue for Wesson and the House of Stillwater.
“You needn’t have come, you know,” said Adalar.
“You are my comrade and friend, my lord,” said Wesson. “I met Sir Nathan, too, when we came to Castle Cravenlock with Lord Mazael. He was a noble man, and it is proper to honor him.”
They returned to the head of the column, and it lurched back into motion.
“I should have done this years ago,” said Adalar. “To have left it for so long…”
“You had duties,” said Wesson. “Your father would have understood. When word reached you of his death, we were both on campaign in Mastaria. By the time we returned to Knightcastle, Caraster’s rebellion had begun. Then the Great Rising and the runedead…”
“Perhaps there is no point to it,” said Adalar.
Wesson frowned. “It is always proper to honor the dead.”
“Greatheart Keep isn’t there any longer,” said Adalar. “The runedead would have wiped it out. The Greathearts have been vassals of the Cravenlocks for centuries, and we vowed to defend that land. Now…now that is gone. A dead village. A tomb, like half the world is now.” He shook his head. “We go to bury a dead man in a dead village.”
“Half the world, perhaps,” said Wesson. “But not all of it.”
“Perhaps,” said Adalar, and he sunk into a grim silence and spoke no more.
###
That night they made camp in the midst of the endless plains, and Adalar retired early to his tent.
That was a mistake.
As ever, nightmares awaited him.
The runedead rose around him, their foreheads shining with the fiery green symbols of Lucan Mandragon’s accursed magic. Adalar fought and fought, cutting down runedead after runedead, the screams of dying women and children filling his ears as the undead swept across the land. Lord Malden and his household knights, men Adalar had once admired and revered, grew dark and murderous, corrupted by Lucan’s sorcery.
Again he lived the final battle at Knightcastle, the horrible demon god forming in the sky and gloating over its triumph.
They had won the battle. Mazael and Lord Gerald and Prince Hugh had defeated the runedead, stopping the horrible creature in the sky over Knightcastle. The runedead had been destroyed, the war ended. The war was over.
Adalar had to keep telling himself that.
Not everyone had died. Not everyone had perished the way women and children had died in the courtyard of Knightcastle on the day of the Great Rising, screaming in pain and horror as the runedead tore them apart. Not everyone had died as the men and women under his protection in Mastaria had died, helpless against the runedead.
So many people had died.
Sometimes in his dreams Adalar saw his younger self, when he had still been Mazael Cravenlock’s squire. He had ridden near Lucan Mandragon, the traitorous author of the Great Rising and the Runedead War. Adalar screamed at his younger self, begging the boy to put a blade through Lucan’s heart before it was too late. If Lucan died, it could all be avoided – the Great Rising, the runedead, Caraster’s rebellion, Lord Malden’s fall, all of it.
If only his father had lived a little longer. Sir Nathan would have seen the truth. He would have stopped Lucan before it was too late.
So many people who had died would now live.
Adalar awoke drenched in sweat and sat up. He closed his eyes and coiled his hands into fists, forcing them to stillness. His men could not seem him like this. Wesson could not see him like this. They suspected something was wrong, that their lord was more melancholy than he should have been, but they did not know the truth.
Adalar didn’t know what was wrong, either.
The runedead had been defeated and Mazael had killed Lucan Mandragon, and if the stories were true, even the Old Demon himself. Yet the war itself seemed to have sunk into Adalar’s bones. His thoughts turned again and again to the runedead and the dead of the war. If he was idle for too long he thought upon it. When he slept he dreamt about it.
It was as if the war had left poison in him.
A poison that he could not cure. Maybe it would kill him.
Adalar waited until the trembling stopped in his hands, and then got up, pulled on his tunic and trousers, and stepped out of his tent. He stilled his face to calm. His men might think him melancholy, but he would not have them think him mad. He was still their lord, sworn to protect them, and by the gods he would not neglect that responsibility.
The bonfire at the c
enter of the camp had burned down to coals. Most of his men were asleep in their bedrolls, save for those assigned to the night watch. Adalar stepped past his tent and gazed into the darkness. A thousand times a thousand stars blazed overhead like jewels strewn across a black cloak. It was a beautiful sight, but it sent a chill down his back. He remembered fighting the runedead in the dark, the ghostly light of the sigils upon their brows shining like dead candles …
Adalar gazed into the darkness for a long time, and then returned to his tent.
He did not sleep for the rest of the night, but that was just as well, since he did not have any nightmares.
###
“You ought to see this, my lord,” said Wesson.
“Oh?” said Adalar, shaking off his reverie. “See what?”
The road led east, winding its way across the grassy plains of the Grim Marches. Another few days and they would reach the Northwater inn, likely rebuilt after the great battle against the Justiciars. Then they would cut through the hill country and reach Castle Cravenlock itself in another three days. Adalar could still see the grim mountains of Skuldar to the west, but just barely.
“Something odd,” said Wesson.
Adalar started to make a joke, but the serious look on his friend’s face stilled his tongue. Wesson was always serious, but this time he looked grim. The way he did when a battle was about to start.
“Trouble?” said Adalar.
“It might be,” said Wesson. “Come and see.”
Adalar nodded, commanded the column to halt, and rode with Wesson and a few armsmen to a stand of nearby trees. Most men of the realm thought of the Grim Marches as one endless plain, but Adalar knew better. There were patches of woods and rocky hills, lakes and marshlands, the foothills of the Great Mountains and the Skuldari mountains, the hills bordering the Burning Hills and the Stormvales. A small wooded patch waited nearby, holding a few acres of tough, bristly trees.
“Bandits?” said Adalar.
“If there were,” said Wesson, “I think something might have eaten them.”
Adalar gave his friend a look, and then they reined up.
“There it is, my lord,” said one of the scouts, pointing.
“Yes,” said Adalar. “Trouble.”
At first he thought a sheet of greasy white snow stretched between two of the trees. Then he realized it was an enormous, colossal spider’s web, with some of the strands as thick as his thumb. A wrapped bundle hung in the center of the web. It was the desiccated corpse of a man, still wearing leather ragged armor, a sword pinned to his side, mouth open in a silent scream.
“This is the third time I’ve been to the Grim Marches,” said Wesson, “but I do not recall that spiders of such size lived here.”
“No,” said Adalar. “The rest of the wood has been searched?”
“Aye, my lord,” said another scout. “No other webs, and no sign of whatever creature did this.”
“I heard some of the Tervingi speak of spider-devils, of soliphages,” said Wesson. “But such creatures dwelled in the middle lands, not here.”
“Perhaps a few of them followed the Tervingi during their exodus,” said Adalar. “Lord Mazael will need to hear of this.” He pointed at Wesson. “Keep the scouts out, but they are to go in pairs. They’ll cover less ground, aye, but I don’t want to lose any men to whatever did this.”
They returned to the column and resumed their journey east.
###
Adalar frowned at the road.
“What is it, my lord?” said Wesson.
“I think,” said Adalar, “that we’re about to walk into a battle.”
He was not an expert at reading tracks, but he had been in a lot of battles and knew what to expect. The fresh imprints of horseshoes dotted the road, spaced as if the horses had been running. Footprints marked the road in chaotic spirals, and here and there he saw an arrow sunk into the earth or the distinctive pattern of splinters produced when a sword blade struck a shield.
“I think you are right, my lord,” said Wesson as two of the scouts galloped back.
“Fighting ahead,” said one of the scouts, breathing hard. “Looks like a merchant caravan, my lord. Twelve wagons, about thirty guards. Their foes have the look of savages, with blue-painted faces.”
“Blue?” said Adalar, astonished. The Skuldari tribesmen of the mountains painted their faces blue when they went to war, but they had not come down into the Grim Marches for generations. “You’re sure of that?”
“I am, my lord,” said the scout. “And some of them were riding…spiders. Large spiders, the size of a horse.”
Adalar had never heard of the Skuldari doing that. Though in truth he knew little enough about the Skuldari. No one did. They rarely came to other lands, but killed intruders without hesitation.
“Well,” said Adalar, “large spider or not, a blade of steel will kill almost anything.” He raised his voice. “Battle formation! Lances in the front, swords behind on the wings!”
His men hastened to obey. Adalar pulled on his helmet, strapped his shield to his left arm, and took a lance in his right hand. He designated five men to remain behind and guard the wagons and the remounts, and then urged the others forward. They spread out in a line, moving their horses at a rolling canter, the banners of the Greathearts and the Stillwaters flying overhead.
The battle soon came into sight.
It was as the scouts had said. Adalar saw twelve wagons of a merchant caravan, their beds laden with goods, the oxen stamping their feet and rolling their eyes with fear. Thirty mercenaries armed with crossbows and swords stood guard, and even the drivers had taken up weapons.
The reason was plain.
A mob of a hundred Skuldari men encircled the caravan, shouting threats. The men wore ragged armor of leather and fur, their long black hair bound into braids, their faces painted a dark blue. Many of the men had human skulls hanging from their belts, or wore skulls upon their shoulders. They carried axes and spears and swords, shouting and brandishing their weapons. A half-dozen men, mercenaries and Skuldari both, lay upon the grass. The Skuldari were taunting the caravan, trying to intimidate it into surrendering. If the caravan’s master decided to fight, the Skuldari would overwhelm them.
The spiders would likely see to that.
A dozen of the largest spiders that Adalar had ever seen circled around the fight. The damned things had bodies the size of ponies, black with red stripes upon their abdomens and sides. Their legs looked like bundles of steel wire, and glistening mandibles jutted from their eight-eyed heads. Skuldari warriors actually rode the things, carrying lances in their right hands. Adalar didn’t have a problem with spiders, though he had never seen a spider larger than his thumb.
The Skuldari had their full attention upon the caravan.
“Now,” said Adalar to his standardbearer. “Sound the charge.”
The man nodded, lifted a war horn to his lips, and sounded the blast. Adalar’s men gave a mighty shout and put spurs to their horses, and their mounts surged forward, lances falling to present a wall of razor-edged steel. A ripple of shock went through the Skuldari, some of the warriors turning to face the charging horsemen. The mercenaries shouted and attacked with renewed vigor.
In that instant of hesitation, Adalar’s men struck.
The horsemen thundered into the Skuldari, and a dozen men died as lances pierced leather and muscle and flesh. One of the spiders whirled and charged at Adalar, the man upon the creature’s back howling curses. The spider was damned quick, and could maneuver faster than a horse. Yet momentum and speed were on Adalar’s side, and his lance drove into the spider’s bulbous body just above its neck. There was a sound like ripping leather, and the force of the impact tore the lance from Adalar’s hand. The spider went into a mad dance, its legs ripping at the turf. The rider catapulted from its back, landed hard, and perished as one of the knights galloped over him. Adalar yanked the steel war hammer from his saddle and waded into the melee, swinging rig
ht and left. The Skuldari mob broke apart beneath the weight of the charge. Footmen, Mazael had often said, could stand against a charge of horsemen, but only if the footmen were drilled and disciplined and equipped with proper spears. The Skuldari raiders were neither disciplined nor well-equipped, and Adalar’s horsemen tore through them like a wind.
Those damned spiders proved tougher.
A dark blur shot to Adalar’s left, and one of the spider riders closed upon him. Adalar got his shield up, deflecting the stab of the rider’s spear. The spider itself rose up on its hind legs, its forelegs lashing at Adalar, and its pincers sank into the horse’s neck. The poor beast screamed and reared up, the poisoned wound foaming, and Adalar lost his seat. He struck the ground with bone-jarring force, but he tucked his shoulder and rolled. His horse screamed again and collapsed, and Adalar scrambled to his feet as the spider wheeled to face him, its rider laughing.
He reached over his shoulder and drew his greatsword with a steely hiss. Most of the men of the Grim Marches fought with sword and shield, but Sir Nathan had fought with a greatsword, and some of Adalar’s earliest memories were of his father teaching him to hold and swing the sword, how to unleash devastating blows that no shield could block.
The spider lunged, its mandibles opening wide, and Adalar swung.
The heavy blade sheared through the spider’s front legs and struck home, splitting its head in twain. Yellow slime bubbled from the wound, and the spider came to a sudden halt. Adalar twisted to the side and ripped his blade free as the surprised Skuldari rider tumbled from his dying mount. The warrior came to his feet with a yell, drawing a short sword, but Adalar was already swinging.
Mask of Swords Page 4
