“Bah,” said Earnachar. “We have given you more of a chance than you deserve, you and your band of widows and cripples and fools.”
“Not all of us are cripples, headman,” said Vorgaric, the massive hammer steady in his hands.
“Think on what we have said,” growled Earnachar, turning his horse. “Someday you will remember this day and curse that you were not wise enough to listen.”
He rode away, his men flanking the Prophetess and the other two robed women.
Sigaldra and her men stood in silence for a moment.
“I don’t like him,” said Talchar at last, spitting into the dust. “Talks too much.”
“That could have gone better,” said Sigaldra.
“It could have gone worse,” grunted Vorgaric.
“How?”
“We are not dead,” said Vorgaric.
Sigaldra could not argue with that. “I…”
A scream rang over the walls.
Liane.
Sigaldra raced through the postern gate and up the stairs to the rampart. Liane sagged against the battlements, her pale blue eyes wide as she stared at the departing horsemen.
“I see them,” she whispered. “I see them, I see them, I see them…”
“You see what?” said Sigaldra, talking Liane’s shoulders. “The horsemen? They will not attack, and if they do, we shall send for the hrould…”
“No,” said Liane. “The spiders.”
“Spiders?” said Sigaldra, looking around. Liane had never been frightened of spiders before.
“The spiders riding the horses beneath the black cloaks,” said Liane.
“Those weren’t spiders,” said Sigaldra.
“They had the souls of spiders,” said Liane. “I saw them…sister, we should not be frightened of Earnachar. We should be frightened of the priestess, for she owns his soul now.”
“The Prophetess, you mean?” said Sigaldra. “She is just a woman with silly ideas.”
“No,” said Liane. “She has a soul full of darkness, full of dark magic, and she has marked us. She is coming for us, Sigaldra. She is coming for us.”
She fell into Sigaldra’s arms, weeping.
Chapter 5: Old Friends
Castle Cravenlock hummed with activity.
Mazael walked through the courtyard, the golden scales of his armor flashing in the sun, his black cloak streaming behind him. Around him servants and squires and pages went about their business, loading armor and weapons into carts while knights shouted instructions. Mazael climbed the stairs to the rampart, looking down at Cravenlock Town and the plains below. The tournament field outside the town’s new walls had been cleared, and already the pavilions of knights and the tents of Tervingi thains rose.
A traditional tournament would have been too expensive, and most of the Tervingi preferred to fight on foot, Earnachar’s new horsethains notwithstanding. The spring melee allowed the Tervingi thains and the knights to mingle, which would hopefully prevent violent misunderstandings once inevitable conflicts over land and pasture began. It was also a fine way to celebrate the end of winter and the start of spring.
And though Mazael had not planned it that way, it was also an excellent opportunity to warn the knights and the headmen about the valgast raiders.
“You see someone?”
Mazael turned and saw Romaria standing near him. She was wearing a blue gown with black trim, her hair tied back in an intricate braid. She rarely wore gowns, and followed the social conventions of the Grim Marches’ noblewomen whenever it happened to suit her, but she did make the dress look good. A dagger and a quiver of arrows rested at her belt, and she carried her unstrung Elderborn bow in her right hand like a staff. In other lands, that would have been peculiar, but no one went unarmed in the Grim Marches.
“You’re the one with the eyes of the Elderborn,” said Mazael. “You tell me.”
Romaria laughed and lifted her hand to her eyes. “It’s Arnulf and his swordthains.”
“No sign of Riothamus or Molly?” said Mazael.
“Not that I can see,” said Romaria.
Mazael had hoped that Riothamus would have returned from Sword Town by now. Likely the Guardian knew more about the valgasts and their mysterious Marazadra. Still, the valgast raids had been little more than nuisances. They had taken a few villages unawares, but once word had spread, the people had been more vigilant, and the valgasts had not wreaked any major harm. Perhaps they would be an ongoing nuisance, like bandits from the Stormvales, but would not become a serious threat.
Or perhaps Mazael was simply fooling himself.
“Well,” said Mazael, “let us go greet Arnulf.”
“We could greet him formally in the great hall,” said Romaria.
“For Arnulf?” said Mazael. “He would sleep through it. He’s here to fight and gamble. Shall we?”
She smiled, and they descended from the wall and headed out the castle gate. Of course, Mazael was the liege lord of the Grim Marches, so he couldn’t go anywhere alone, not any longer. Romaria came with him, as did Timothy. Rudolph Larsar followed, dutifully carrying Mazael’s shield in case he needed it, and a dozen armsmen fell in around him. Mazael shook his head. Twenty years ago, he had left the Grim Marches with nothing but a sword, a horse, and the armor upon his back, intending never to return. Now he was the liege lord of the Grim Marches, and the burden of defending the land and its people fell to him.
“What are you thinking, husband?” said Romaria.
“I am thinking,” said Mazael, “that I would like to get drunk and hit someone.”
Rudolph edged back a step.
Romaria laughed. “He doesn’t mean you.”
“The burdens of ruling are ever onerous,” said Timothy.
“True,” said Mazael, tapping Talon’s hilt. “Thought that does mean someone will eventually rebel and I’ll have to hit them.”
A short walk took them to the tournament field. Rows of pavilions and Tervingi tents lined the field, and larger tents stood some distance away, housing the enterprising merchants who came to make a profit off the melee fighters and the spectators. Mazael saw tents selling beer and weapons and food and cloaks and a dozen other things. A group of Tervingi swordthains and spearthains marched to the edge of the encampment, directing a group of bondsmen as they raised a tent. A scowling middle-aged man in chain mail watched them. The man had ragged yellow hair and a bushy beard, and Mazael had yet to see him smile.
“Arnulf son of Kaerwulf,” said Mazael. “Come to crack some heads?”
Arnulf turned with a grunt. “Hrould. I merit the honor of a personal greeting?”
“You won’t weary my ears with a damn speech,” said Mazael. They clapped each other on the shoulder. “How are matters at Stone Tower?”
“Well enough,” said Arnulf. Originally Lord Richard had settled Athanaric at Stone Tower, but Ragnachar had murdered Athanaric and scattered his people. After that, Mazael had given Stone Tower to Arnulf and his bondsmen. “Planting’s underway. Should be a good crop, the old women say.” His perpetual scowl deepened. “Assuming the damned valgasts don’t make too much trouble for us.”
“You’ve had valgast raids, then?” said Mazael.
“A few of the outlying farms have been attacked,” said Arnulf. “Some sheep have been stolen, and we caught a band of valgasts trying to drag away drugged children. Killed all the valgasts, and mounted their heads on stakes as a warning to others. Followed their tracks back to a cave entrance and sealed it up.”
“Best way to deal with them,” said Mazael.
“Aye,” said Arnulf. He stamped one boot against the grassy ground. “It’s so damned flat here. Never expected to find so many caves in the Grim Marches.”
“There are whole networks of them beneath the plains,” said Mazael. “The wizards and the priests think that in ancient days the Burning Hills exploded, and vast rivers of molten stone flowed beneath the plains to carve the caves. Gods only know what’s down ther
e now. Adventurers and fools who wander there tend not to return.”
“The valgasts likely ate them,” said Arnulf. “When I was a boy, every midwinter and midsummer, we would prepare for the valgasts to raid. They never appeared on any other days. Perhaps the runedead and the Malrags have driven them forth.”
“Perhaps,” said Mazael. “Have you ever heard the name Marazadra?”
Arnulf shook his head.
“The valgasts that attacked Gray Pillar shouted that name,” said Mazael. “I suspect it is their deity.”
“Do the valgasts even worship a god?” said Arnulf.
“I don’t know,” said Mazael. “Perhaps we’ll be fortunate enough to capture one and make it talk. I’ve posted a bounty for valgast heads – one silver coin each. I may offer a bounty for a live one.”
Arnulf shrugged. “Worth the effort. Still, whatever…”
“My lord,” said Timothy. “Horsemen, approaching from around the castle’s hill.”
Mazael turned and saw the riders approaching. The horsemen moved in good order, escorting a merchant caravan. The caravan peeled off towards the walls of Cravenlock Town, while the riders kept moving forward. As they drew nearer, Mazael made out their banners. One was blue with a gray castle tower upon the center, while the second was green with the sigil of a stylized heart.
Mazael knew those banners, and he grinned.
“We have more guests,” said Mazael.
The horsemen reached Mazael’s party and reined up, their supply wagons rolling up behind them. Two of the horsemen moved forward. The first was a stout knight, young and broad-shouldered, a well-worn mace hanging from his saddle. Sir Wesson Stillwater had changed a great deal from the pimpled, nervous youth who had come to Lord Malden’s court years ago. Next to him rode another knight, a rangy-looking young man in his early twenties. He had close-cropped brown hair and bloodshot brown eyes ringed with dark circles. He looked…tired. There was no other word for it. Yet there was no hint of sluggishness in his movements as he brought his horse to a stop.
“Sir Wesson Stillwater,” said Mazael, “Lord Adalar Greatheart, welcome to Castle Cravenlock.”
Both men dropped from their saddles and bowed.
“It is good to be here, my lord,” said Wesson. “This is the third time I have journeyed to the Grim Marches, and I had hoped for a quiet trip.”
Had hoped? Perhaps Adalar and Wesson had encountered valgasts.
“My lord,” said Adalar. His voice was solemn. As if he had come to a funeral. Which, Mazael supposed, he had. “Thank you. It is good to be back.” He took a deep breath. “I have put this off for too long. My father’s ashes should have been laid to rest long ago.”
“I think Sir Nathan would understand,” said Mazael. “The last few years have been turbulent.”
“Aye,” said Adalar, his eyes distant, as if staring at something only he could see. He shook his head. “Lady Romaria, it is good to see you as well.”
“And you, Lord Adalar,” said Romaria. She smiled, but she seemed concerned. “You’ve grown quite a bit since last we spoke.”
He smiled briefly. “When last we spoke, you died the next day. So you are indeed looking well.” The smile faded, the grimness returning. “My lord Mazael, there is something you must see.”
“What is it?” said Mazael.
Adalar led the way the wagons. “On our way here, we were attacked.”
“Valgasts?” said Mazael.
Adalar blinked. “I haven’t heard the name.”
“Creatures, green-skinned, about four feet tall,” said Mazael. “Vicious little scavengers. If you had seen them, you would know it. You must have encountered something else.”
“Aye,” said Adalar, stopping next to the final wagon. “A Skuldari raiding party.”
“Skuldari?” said Mazael. He was so astonished that he stopped in place, and Romaria almost walked into him. “You’re sure?”
“Blue-painted faces,” said Adalar. “It was either the Skuldari or someone doing a good impression of them.”
Mazael rubbed his jaw. He had passed Skuldar a few times during his wanderings, had even traded in a few of the towns the tribes permitted outlanders to visit. But the Skuldari never, ever came down out of their mountains and hills. War and chaos had roiled the Grim Marches a dozen times in the last twenty years, and in that time, Mazael had never heard of the Skuldari talking sides or even indulging in a little looting.
What had changed?
He remembered the claim of the dead valgast wizard that the death of the Old Demon had shattered the constraints upon the valgasts. Had the Skuldari been under a similar compulsion?
“Also,” said Adalar, reaching for a large bundle in the wagon’s bed, “there was this.”
He pulled away the cloth, and Mazael reached for Talon’s hilt before he stopped himself.
An enormous dead spider lay in the wagon’s bed, its eight glassy eyes staring at nothing. Its head and carapace had been split open with an axe, and yellow slime leaked from the wound, beading in its bristly black hair and staining the wagon’s boards.
Arnulf grunted. “Damned thing is the size of a pony.”
“Oh,” said Romaria.
Mazael looked at her. “You recognize it?”
“Aye,” said Romaria. “It isn’t good at all.”
###
Mazael paced as Adalar recounted the story of the Skuldari raiding party and Niles Carver’s caravan.
The Lord of Castle Cravenlock had not changed much since Adalar had last seen him. After the defeat of the runedead, Adalar would have expected Mazael to slow down, to run to fat. Most lords his age usually did. Yet save for more gray at his temples and in his beard, Mazael was unchanged. If anything, he seemed restless, eager for action. Perhaps Mazael was the sort of man who could not bear inactivity.
“Marazadra,” said Mazael at last. “He said that? You’re sure of it?”
“Entirely,” said Adalar. “You can question Master Carver, if you wish. I suspect he will be lodging at the town’s inn.”
“I’ve heard the name of Basracus before,” said Mazael. “Some high chieftain among the Skuldari. That’s as much as anyone knows about him. Carver claimed the Skuldari demanded that he surrender in the name of Marazadra and Basracus?”
“Aye, my lord,” said Adalar.
“Captives,” muttered Mazael. “The valgasts wanted captives, too.” He looked at Romaria. “You’ve seen this kind of spider before?”
“Aye, years ago,” said Romaria.
“When?” said Mazael.
“When I visited the mountains of Skuldar,” said Romaria.
Mazael blinked in surprise, and Adalar found himself watching Romaria. He was uneasy around her. She was a striking woman, true, but attractive women did not make him nervous. She carried weapons and used them well, but Adalar had seen enough women fighting for their lives against the runedead horde that the impropriety of it no longer shocked him. Yet there was something otherworldly about Romaria, something eerie. Simonian had killed her during Lord Mitor’s rebellion, yet she had returned to life, and her ghostly blue eyes cut into him.
“When did you go to Skuldar?” said Mazael.
“Years ago,” said Romaria. “Long before I met you. Before I even went to the middle lands. I thought I was going to go mad and die, remember, and I wanted to see as much of the world as possible before I did. I had heard the Skuldari killed any who ventured into their mountains, which made me curious, so I went.”
“Clearly you got out alive,” said Wesson.
“It was a close thing,” said Romaria. “I shouldn’t have gone, but I was young and stupid and bitter. Worse, I was curious.”
“A deadlier affliction by far,” said Arnulf.
“So what did you learn about the Skuldari?” said Mazael.
“They worship the soliphages,” said Romaria.
“Soliphages?” said Adalar, remembering his earlier conversation with Wesson. “You…mean sp
ider-devils?”
“They haunted the Endless Forest, far to the east of here,” said Arnulf. “They devour the flesh of any who cross them.”
“I fear they are more dangerous than that,” said Romaria. “The soliphages are shape-changers. Shapeshifters.” She grinned. “A bit like me, I suppose. They can take the form of human women when they wish to remain unnoticed. Their true form, the form they use when they feed, is that of a hybrid between a human woman and a giant crimson spider.”
For some reason Mazael shuddered at that. “Then they eat flesh and blood, I suppose.”
“Not quite,” said Romaria. “They…drink the life energy, the very life essence, without needing to draw blood.”
“Soul-eaters,” said Timothy. The wizard looked as sober and as industrious as Adalar remembered. Quite different from a dark wizard like Lucan Mandragon or Caraster. “They are creatures of dark magic, and consume the life energy of their victims. I imagine only a desiccated corpse is left behind.”
“Exactly right,” said Romaria.
“I saw such corpses in the Endless Forest,” said Arnulf.
“So the Skuldari worship the soliphages,” said Mazael.
“Not quite,” said Romaria. “More accurately, the Skuldari worship a goddess with the image of a spider, and they believe that the soliphages are her messengers, her angels. So spiders are sacred among the Skuldari, and they raise these spiders,” she gestured at the dead thing in the wagon, “as war beasts.”
“Their goddess,” said Mazael. “Is her name Marazadra?”
“I do not know,” said Romaria. “I never found out her name. The Skuldari do not speak it to outsiders.”
“According to Master Carver,” said Wesson, “the Skuldari raiders spoke the names of Basracus and Marazadra readily enough. Perhaps they have changed their minds.”
“Or Marazadra isn’t their goddess at all,” said Timothy. “Another powerful chieftain like Basracus, perhaps.”
“Then why,” said Mazael, “did both the Skuldari and the valgasts call out the name of Marazadra?”
No one had an answer for that.
“It seems peculiar they would both worship the same goddess,” said Timothy.
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