Mask of Swords

by Jonathan Moeller

  Timothy shouted and clapped his hands, and a brilliant flare of silver light burst from his fingers. It did not trouble Mazael and the others, but Agaric and his men winced, stumbling away from the glare as they tried to shield their eyes. Wesson’s mace crashed upon the head of a Tervingi with a sickening crunch, and the man collapsed, blood dripping from his ears and mouth and nose.

  A dark blur shot forward and an enormous black wolf appeared, a hulking beast with bristling black fur and eyes that seemed to blaze with blue fire. The wolf slammed into the two remaining Tervingi men behind Agaric, knocking them to the ground. They tried to strike at the wolf with their weapons, but she was too quick, and bounded out of reach with fluid, deadly grace. Adalar attacked before the Tervingi could recover, killing one of them with a heavy blow of his greatsword.

  Agaric screamed and threw himself at Mazael, and Mazael dodged the blow, bringing his own sword down. His blade tore across Agaric’s neck, and the Tervingi swordthain fell dying to the ground. Mazael looked around, but no one else moved in the flickering gloom of the cellar.

  “Damn it,” he said.

  “We are still alive,” said Timothy. “That seems cause for relief.”

  “I had wanted to take some of them alive,” said Mazael, cleaning the blood from his longsword. “Perhaps learn the name of their goddess.” He scowled. “Or learn why one of Earnachar’s men tried to kill me.”

  Romaria walked out of the shadows behind one pillar, rubbing her right hip.

  “Are you all right?” said Mazael.

  “Yes.” She shook her head. “It’s just…I never transformed while wearing a skirt before. It is a surprisingly peculiar sensation.”

  “They all had spiders, then?” said Timothy.

  “They did,” said Romaria. Adalar nodded, lifted his greatsword, and began spearing the blade through the chests of the dead men.

  “It seemed foolish,” said Wesson. “Why invite five strangers into their lair? Four armed men? It seems a risk.”

  “I don’t think they believed it a risk,” said Romaria. She pointed. “You see those jars? There are more spiders in them.”

  Mazael frowned. “Live ones?”

  “Aye,” said Romaria.

  Timothy waved a hand, casting the spell to sense magic. “She speaks it true, my lord. They are…sleeping, I think. Their dark magic is latent.”

  “So they thought to stun us with Agaric’s sleeping spell and then put those spiders inside of us?” said Mazael.

  “That seems likely,” said Romaria. “It’s the only reason they would have let four armed men into their lair.”

  “Why?” said Adalar.

  “Because,” said Mazael, a suspicion coming together in his head. “Because I think those spiders can control people.”

  “That is a disturbing notion,” said Wesson.

  “You have a gift for understatement, sir knight,” said Romaria.

  “The San-keth changelings were bad enough,” said Mazael. “But this…this would be worse. If they take people and turn them into puppets or slaves with these spiders, they could take over half of the Grim Marches.”

  “But if Lady Romaria can see the spiders,” said Timothy, “we have an advantage.”

  “That stays in this room,” said Mazael. “No one else can know about it. If these spider-worshippers realize it, they will change their tactics.” Or, worse, they would try to kill Romaria to remove the threat.

  “What shall we do?” said Romaria.

  “For now, we continue with the melee as if nothing has changed,” said Mazael. “We will watch the crowds and find more of these spider-infested men. Then we’ll depart for Greatheart Keep and lay Sir Nathan’s ashes to rest in the chapel…and after that we’ll stop at Banner Hill.”

  “Who is lord there now?” said Adalar. That bleak look came over his face once more. “I suppose the original lord and his people were killed in the Great Rising.”

  “They were, I fear,” said Mazael. “Earnachar and his thains have settled there, and so far the only spider-infested men we have seen have been Earnachar’s thains. I suspect we shall find our answers at Banner Hill.”

  Chapter 7: Tunneling

  Three days later, Mazael Cravenlock and Adalar Greatheart left Castle Cravenlock for Greatheart Keep.

  The melee had concluded without incident, save for a drunken brawl over some gambling debts that took six knights and a score of armsmen to settle. Other than that, the melee had been a success. A knight sworn to Lord Jonaril Mandrake of Drake’s Hall had won the melee, one of Arnulf’s hunters from Stone Tower had taken archer’s trophy, and the drinking and revelry had carried on well until the dark hours of the night. Mazael had heard no talk about a mysterious new goddess. Many had spoken about the valgasts, and there were rumors of Skuldari raids in the west, but no one had mentioned a goddess. Nor had Romaria seen any spider-infested men in Cravenlock Town, the castle, or the crowds watching the melee. It seemed the assassination attempt and the fight below the inn had wiped them all out.

  There were too many separate threads, and Mazael could not piece them all together. Valgasts raiding in the name of their goddess, claiming that the death of the Old Demon had lifted the restrictions upon them. Skuldari coming down from their mountains for the first time in living memory, trying to take slaves back to Skuldar. Now Tervingi thains had been infested by spiders in the name of the same goddess. They were all connected, but Mazael could not yet see how.

  Riothamus might know more. Generations of Guardians had carried his staff, and many of their memories rested within it. Perhaps Riothamus could have told Mazael more, but the Guardian and Molly had not yet returned from Sword Town, and Mazael could not wait for them. If the Skuldari were stirring on the western reaches of the Grim Marches, if more valgasts launched raids upon the outlying farms and villages, he had to take action.

  He left a sealed letter with Cramton for Molly, instructing the seneschal to give it to her and no one else.

  Mazael doubted the Skuldari and the valgasts and the spider-infested Tervingi were all coincidences. What was driving them?

  Mazael sat in his saddle and thought it over as he rode west. Romaria rode at his side with easy grace, the staff of her bow resting across her saddle, the hilt of her bastard sword rising over her shoulder. She had traded the gown for her usual leather armor and wool, a green cloak hanging from her shoulders. Her blue eyes roved endlessly over the plains, her expression serene. She was always happiest when traveling, so it was just as well Mazael spent so much time traveling from one end of the Grim Marches to the other. Rudolph Larsar followed with his shield, and Sir Aulus Hirtan rode nearby, carrying the black Cravenlock banner with its three crossed swords. Timothy rode behind Sir Aulus, a white crystal in his hand. His spell kept watch on the surrounding countryside, letting them know if any foes approached. Behind them rode a hundred of Mazael’s knights and armsmen, all of them veterans of the wars against the Malrags and the runedead. Alongside them walked Arnulf and fifty spearthains and swordthains. When traveling, Mazael preferred to take both knights and armsmen and Tervingi thains with him as a gesture of unity.

  Though the Jutai might respond badly to the presence of the Tervingi. Still, Arnulf had been sworn to Athanaric, not Ragnachar. The holdmistress of the Jutai was a steely young woman, and would keep her thains in check.

  Adalar’s column followed Mazael’s, the banners of the Greathearts and the Stillwaters flying overhead. Adalar and Wesson both rode at its head, and as before, Adalar seemed lost in thought. He had not participated in the melee. Mazael had been half-tempted to take up Grulda’s suggestion and send the boy to the Blood Rose House, but he knew Adalar’s grim mood went deeper than that.

  “He’s not a boy any longer,” said Romaria. As ever, she had a knack for guessing his thoughts.

  “Eh?” said Mazael.

  “Adalar,” said Romaria. “I suspect he feels adrift. His old home was destroyed by the runedead, and the Jutai have settle
d there. His new home was almost destroyed by the runedead. He’s the Lord of Castle Dominus, but there is hardly anyone left living in that part of Mastaria. His past is lost to him, and he thinks the future holds only ruin.” She shrugged. “I understand. I felt much the same way when I left Deepforest Keep.”

  “How did you handle it?” said Mazael.

  “I spent years wandering from one end of the world to the other,” said Romaria, “and then I fell for this bold knight with a temper.”

  “Ah,” said Mazael.

  “You did much the same thing,” she said with a smile, “drinking and whoring your way across the realm for fifteen years until you returned to Castle Cravenlock.”

  “Adalar doesn’t have my temperament,” said Mazael. “Besides, I didn’t have as much responsibility when I was that age, and neither did you. Perhaps laying his father’s ashes to rest will ease his mind.”

  “Perhaps,” said Romaria. “We shall see.”

  Mazael looked back once more. Behind Adalar’s standardbearer rolled the wagon carrying Sir Nathan Greatheart’s ashes. It had been hung with the banner of the Greathearts, Sir Nathan’s sword and armor laid out upon the chest holding the urn.

  “We’re not like him, you and I,” said Mazael.

  “Who?” said Romaria? “Adalar?”

  “Aye,” said Mazael. “You know what I am. I should be as tired and weary of war as he is. Yet I’m not, and I have to hold myself in check lest I indulge myself. You’re not like me…but you’re a huntress. A predator. Were you not wed to me, you would be living in the woods and wandering the earth.”

  “Mazael,” said Romaria. “You’re not a monster. Neither am I, whatever some of the Tervingi think. You’re still a man, and you’ve known losses and grief like any other man.” She shrugged. “So have I. I’ve lost friends, and I saw Ultorin kill my father at Deepforest Keep. Losses are like…oh, a wound, I suppose. Or a limp. Eventually you learn to live with it. Adalar just has to learn to live with his.”

  Mazael nodded, and they rode on.

  ###

  Two days west of Castle Cravenlock, they reached the hill country that filled the land between Morsen Village and the Northwater further to the west. The lands around Castle Cravenlock were devoted to farmland with occasional patches of pasture. The people of the hills focused upon herding, and Mazael saw herds of goats grazing on the grassy hills, watched over by stern-eyed shepherds.

  “There are poets in Barellion and Castle Town,” said Wesson, “who wax lyrical about the rural lives of shepherdesses. I fear they utterly failed to mention the smell.”

  Adalar offered a brief smile. “I grew up with the smell. The peasants near Greatheart Keep used to herd goats and sheep. Some things never change, I suppose.”

  “That smell seems to be one of them,” said Wesson.

  “There’s a village not far from here, a place called Castyard,” said Mazael.

  “I know it,” said Adalar. “I suppose it was destroyed in the Great Rising.”

  “Actually, it held out,” said Mazael. “The village is held in fief by Sir Edmund Crowhand. He has a fortified manor house, and he withdrew inside it with his folk and held out until the Guardian spread the blue flame across the world. Sir Edmund fought off the runedead and held his village.”

  “Truly?” said Adalar, blinking. “I would not have expected that.”

  “We’ll stop there for the night,” said Mazael. “We’ll also speak with Sir Edmund and exchange news. If Earnachar has been doing anything unusual, Edmund will likely have heard of it. And Agaric and his friends might well have passed through Castyard on their way to Cravenlock Town.”

  “We can also see,” said Romaria, “if Agaric seeded any more of his spiders there.”

  “If he did?” said Adalar. “Will we have to kill the infected men?”

  “That may not be necessary,” said Timothy, clearing his throat. “I have been studying the spiders we took from the inn, and I believe I can prepare a potion that will expel the spiders from the bodies of their victims.”

  “Good work,” said Mazael. “Given that Agaric seemed keen to infect people with the spiders against their will, I would rather not kill any of the infected unless necessary.”

  They rode on.

  ###

  The sun was setting by the time they reached the village of Castyard.

  Adalar stretched in his saddle and looked around. Given all the changes that had swept over the Grim Marches, it was shocking to see a place that remained just as he remembered. Castyard sat at the edge of the hill country, houses clustered within an earthwork wall, the stone dome of a church rising from within the wall. A fortified manor house sat on a low hill outside the town. It did not have a moat or an outer wall, yet the stone walls were thick and two battlement-topped wings flanked a central tower. If defended properly, the house could hold out against marauders. Fields surrounded the village, interspersed with grazing pasture. Herds of goats and sheep filled the pastures, and Adalar saw a herd of cows watching the horsemen with placid indifference.

  Mazael’s knights and armsmen, Adalar’s men, and Arnulf’s thains began to raise a camp in one of the empty fields. Mazael stared at the village, frowning. Adalar, who had served as Mazael’s squire, knew that look. Something was troubling him.

  “What is it?” said Adalar.

  “The sheep,” murmured Romaria.

  Adalar looked at them. They seemed healthy enough, shaggy with their winter coats. “I can’t see anything wrong with them.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with them,” said Mazael, still staring at the village. “Their tenders, though…”

  Adalar turned his head back and forth, blinking.

  “There aren’t any,” he said at last.

  “Sheep are valuable,” said Mazael. “Cows, especially. No one in their right mind leaves them unattended.”

  Adalar stared at the village. “There are no sentinels upon the walls. After the events of the last few years, every village in the realm posts a watch upon the wall, even during the day.”

  “Do you see anyone moving around within Castyard?” said Mazael.

  Romaria lifted her eyes to shade them. “No. No one. I see smoke coming from some of the chimneys.” Adalar could not, but Romaria’s eyes were sharper. “Some chickens loose in the streets. But no people.”

  “That is…peculiar,” said Wesson at last.

  “It is extremely peculiar,” said Mazael, turning to Rudolph. “Speak to Arnulf and Sir Aulus and the others. Tell them to have their weapons ready and to come at my call.” He tapped a horn that hung from his saddle. “If there’s trouble, we may have a fight on our hands.”

  “You think foes killed the men of Castyard, my lord?” said Rudolph, taking a deep breath.

  “I don’t know yet know,” said Mazael, reaching for his belt and drawing the curved sword he called Talon, “but if they did, I would rather meet them with my sword in hand than in my scabbard. Go.”

  Rudolph bowed, turned his horse, and galloped towards the half-assembled camp.

  “Valgasts, perhaps?” said Romaria.

  “Aye,” said Mazael. “At Gray Pillar they tried to take captives. The reports we’ve heard from the knights and headmen say the valgasts have been trying to steal people and livestock. Perhaps they’ve gotten ambitious and tried to steal an entire village at once.”

  “If so, they shall regret it,” said Adalar, a flicker of anger going through him. For Castyard to have survived the Malrags and the runedead, only to fall to scavengers like the valgasts…the thought was intolerable.

  “Castyard might be crawling with valgasts,” said Romaria, “and you want to simply walk inside.”

  “Ride inside,” said Mazael. “And I certainly won’t go alone. I’ll take a dozen armsmen with me, and at the first sign of foes we’ll call for aid.”

  “Naturally I shall go with you,” said Romaria.

  “I doubt I could stop you,” said Mazael.

 
; “I, too, shall come,” said Adalar, and Wesson nodded.

  “Splendid,” said Mazael. “Let’s see if we can find the villagers of Castyard.”

  ###

  Mazael rode through the gate and into the main street of Castyard, Talon hanging low in his right fist.

  No one challenged them, which was a sign that something was amiss. The street beyond was deserted, lined on either side with houses of fieldstone and mortar with thatched roofs. Silence hung over the village, and the only moving things were a dozen chickens wandering through the street. The birds scattered at the approach of the horsemen, vanishing between the houses.

  Many of the houses stood with their doors open, which was even stranger.

  Mazael turned in his saddle. Romaria, Adalar, Wesson, and a dozen armsmen followed him.

  “Hold a moment,” he said. “Check the houses. See if you can find anyone, or if anything seems amiss.”

  A half-dozen of the armsmen dropped from their saddles, armor clanking, and walked to the houses. Romaria slid off her horse and walked to the nearest house. Mazael waited, his fingers loose against Talon’s hilt. His back itched, and he felt as if something was watching him.

  “No one inside, my lord,” said the first armsman to return, a scar-faced man of about thirty. “The house was empty. But…”

  “But what?” said Mazael.

  “The floor was dirty,” said the armsman. “My mother’s past sixty, my lord, but she’d die before she would let her floor look like that. My wife, too. It looks as if someone tracked dirt all over the floor. Some things were disturbed, too, as if there had been a fight.”

  “Were there tracks?” said Mazael.

  “Aye,” said the armsman, scratching his beard. “Thought the chickens had made them at first, but those…”

  “Those would be large chickens, armsman,” said Romaria, returning from one of the houses. “Mazael, those are valgast tracks.”

  “Valgasts like to tunnel, don’t they?” said Mazael.