Mask of Swords

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Think about it,” said Mazael. “The valgasts used to only raid your people twice a year, on midsummer’s day and midwinter’s day. Why?”

  “I…do not know,” said Sigaldra. “I never considered it before. I thought that it was their custom, or simply their nature.”

  “Or the Old Demon bound them to a pact,” said Mazael. “Forbidding from coming to the surface save for those two days a year. Perhaps he did the same with the Skuldari, too. Until this year, they never ventured from their mountains. They killed anyone who entered their borders, but they never left their lands. Now they attacked Adalar on his way to Castle Cravenlock, and we’ve received reports of additional raids. Did you know that the Skuldari worship the soliphages?”

  “They do?” said Sigaldra, crinkling her nose. “I thought your church and its Amathavian gods were outlandish, but at least they were not malicious. What fool would worship the soliphages?”

  “The same sort of fools that worship the serpent god of the San-keth,” said Mazael. “Though they don’t actually worship the soliphages themselves. They think the soliphages are messengers of their goddess, hold spiders as sacred…”

  “Goddess?” said Sigaldra. “The Prophetess talked about a goddess.”

  “So,” said Mazael. “The valgasts and the Skuldari worship a goddess, one likely named Marazadra. The Skuldari think the soliphages are emissaries of their goddess, and a soliphage was leading the attack on Castyard, while Earnachar’s men are infested with spiders. Where do these facts lead us?”

  “To the conclusion,” said Sigaldra, “that the Skuldari, the valgasts, and Earnachar’s men are unified in worship of this goddess, this Marazadra, whatever she is.”

  “Aye,” said Mazael, “and now that the Old Demon is dead, whatever strictures he placed upon them have been lifted, and the followers of Marazadra are free to do as they wish.”

  “What shall we do?” said Sigaldra.

  “Tonight,” said Mazael, “we shall inter Sir Nathan in the chapel. Tomorrow, we will ride for Banner Hill. I have some questions for Earnachar, and he had damn well better have some good answers for me.” He pointed at Sigaldra. “You shall ride with me as well.”

  “We shall come in any event,” said Sigaldra. “It is my people that Earnachar threatens. I would see him called to account for these crimes.”

  “He will answer for them,” said Mazael.

  Sigaldra nodded. “I will call the muster, then.” She hesitated. “The Prophetess…”

  “What about her?” said Mazael.

  “My sister was afraid of her,” said Sigaldra.

  “That seems reasonable, if she is a dark sorceress of some kind,” said Mazael.

  “No,” said Sigaldra. “Very little frightens Liane, save for some of her visions. Not even the prospect of wedding Earnachar frightened her. But the Prophetess…Liane said she was filled with shadows and dark magic. She said the Prophetess was coming for us.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mazael, touching Talon’s hilt, “but if she comes for you, she might find someone else waiting for her instead.”

  Chapter 9: Bones and Ashes

  Adalar wandered alone through the streets of the village of Greatheart Keep.

  Though not alone, not really.

  The ghosts were always with him.

  He stopped in the village square at the foot of the keep’s hill. The smithy stood on one end of the square, smoke rising from the forge. An inn stood on the other end of the square, and a small domed church to the south. The hill and the keep rose overhead, stark and gray against the blue spring sky.

  All the same as he remembered…and yet now completely different.

  A Jutai smith and his apprentices now labored in the smithy. The front of the inn had been carved with the elaborate swirling knots and stylized beasts that both the Jutai and the Tervingi preferred. The church had been set aside as a village hall, no doubt where the holdmistress resolved disputes among her people. The impropriety of it stunned Adalar. The church ought to have had a priest. Perhaps in time the Jutai could be weaned away from the worship of their ancestors and the Elderborn gods and brought to the Amathavian faith. Or perhaps the barbarians would spread their practices through the Grim Marches.

  Adalar found he did not care either way.

  He took a few steps closer to the keep. Mazael and Sigaldra and most of the others had withdrawn there to discuss their plans. Tomorrow they would march north and make their way to Banner Hill to confront Earnachar.

  Adalar was not sure he wanted to go with them.

  Wesson wanted to go. Once upon a time Adalar would have wanted to go, too. He would have jumped at the chance, eager to ride into battle against a worthy foe and prove his skill and bravery. Surely the valgasts and the Skuldari with their giant spiders were worthy foes. Yet Adalar could not bring himself to care, could only regard the situation with a numb indifference.

  He knew that he ought not to feel that way, that there was something wrong with him. He had come through the Runedead War alive, the lord of vast lands in Mastaria. He was wealthy and he had friends among the lords of Knightreach. Adalar ought to have been overjoyed, or at least content. Instead he felt nothing but a weary exhaustion.

  They were all going to die, if not from the valgasts and the soliphages then from illness and old age. Did it really matter how?

  Jutai men and women went about their business in the square, giving him a wide berth. Nearly fifteen hundred people lived in the village now. He recognized none of them. Adalar stood in the place where he had been born and had grown up, and he was a stranger here. He had known the blacksmith and the innkeeper and the village priests, and they were all dead now, slain when the runedead rose…

  “Sir knight?” said a woman’s voice, calm yet hesitant.

  Adalar blinked, shaken out of his dark thoughts, and turned. A woman of about thirty or thirty-five stood nearby, a bit of soot upon her face and brown dress, her sweaty hair tied back with a kerchief. Unless he was mistaken, she was Marcher-born, not Jutai.

  “Yes?” said Adalar, more harshly than he intended.

  “You…looked a bit ill, sir knight,” said the woman. “Would you like some water?”

  “I…yes, forgive me,” said Adalar. “I was lost in thought. Some water would be welcome.” He realized that he had forgotten to eat and drink and rebuked himself. Riding and fighting were strenuous work, and he had to keep his strength up. It would not do for the Lord of Castle Dominus to pass out in the middle of the village.

  He followed the woman to the smithy, and she gave him a clay cup of water. It was cool against his dry throat and made him feel a little better. In the background a dozen apprentices, young Jutai and Marcher men, toiled at the forge.

  “Thank you,” said Adalar. “What is your name?”

  “Helen, sir knight,” said the woman. “My husband Vorgaric is the village smith and one of the holdmistress’s bondsmen.”

  Adalar nodded. “I…saw him at the gate.” He hesitated. “You were born in the Grim Marches.”

  Helen nodded. “Aye. A village near Cravenlock Town. Isn’t there any longer, I fear. The Malrags wiped it out, and we moved to Cravenlock Town.”

  “You married a Jutai man,” said Adalar. “May I ask why?”

  “I was married before,” said Helen, “but he died fighting the runedead on the day of the Great Rising.” She sighed. “I scraped by as best I could after that. Then I met Vorgaric when he came to Cravenlock Town on business. We got on well, and he kept visiting…and when he invited me to come back to Greatheart Keep with him, I said yes.” She smiled. “Vorgaric is a good man, and being the wife of the village’s best blacksmith is preferable to being a maid in Cravenlock Town.”

  “I suppose it is,” said Adalar.

  She shrugged. “We have all lost so much. Everyone I know lost someone to the Malrags or the runedead. Yet old Lord Richard defeated the Malrags, and the runedead were destroyed when Lord Mazael killed the Dragon’s Shadow at
Knightcastle. We must carry on as best we can.”

  “I suppose so,” said Adalar.

  “If you will forgive my impertinence…you lost someone, didn’t you?” said Helen.

  “No,” said Adalar. “My father died before the Great Rising, and I have no other family and no wife. But…”

  She was silent, waiting for him to speak.

  “I grew up here,” said Adalar, his voice quiet.

  “Oh,” said Helen. “I’m sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” said Adalar. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Well, Lucan Mandragon’s, but he died.” He rubbed his face for a moment. “I shouldn’t have come back here. There’s no point. The runedead killed everyone I ever knew here. I…went west to pursue my fortune, and they died while I was gone.”

  “If you had remained behind, likely you would have perished as well,” said Helen.

  “I know,” said Adalar. “Mastaria had it worse than the Grim Marches. The runedead here were random, and Lord Mazael crushed them quickly. In Mastaria the runedead were…organized, led by a mad wizard named Caraster who wanted to kill as many people as possible.”

  “The Tervingi hate and fear wizards,” said Helen, “and I cannot blame them that.”

  “No,” said Adalar. He handed the cup back to her. “Forgive me for this. There is…much on my mind, and sometimes it wanders.”

  “You sound like my husband,” said Helen.

  “I hope that is complimentary.”

  She smiled. “It is. The Jutai…their homes are gone, too. The Malrags destroyed them all and wiped out most of their people. They can never go back, and their old homeland is gone forever.” She shrugged. “They can only go forward and make a new home for themselves.”

  “Yes,” said Adalar. “Yes, that makes a great deal of sense. Thank you.”

  “I am pleased to serve, my lord knight,” said Helen. “Though if you wish to buy something on your way out…”

  Adalar laughed and bought a dagger of Jutai make, its wide steel blade adorned with an intricate design of swirling knots. Helen expected him to haggle, but he paid her price without argument.

  He set off for his camp outside the wall. Tomorrow, he decided, he would bid his farewells to Mazael and set off for Knightcastle and Castle Dominus once more. If Wesson wanted to stay, well and good, but Adalar would depart after finishing his task.

  There was nothing for him here but ashes and the dead.

  ###

  Sigaldra opened the door to her bedroom and looked inside.

  “Sister?” she said. “Are you awake?”

  “I am,” said Liane. She was sitting in bed, eating a bowl of Ulfarna’s vile-smelling soup. Sigaldra couldn’t stand the stuff, but Liane loved it, and always ate it after one of her episodes. “I knew you were coming.”

  “A vision showed you, is that it?” said Sigaldra, closing the door behind her.

  “Yes,” said Liane. “Or I heard you coming up the stairs. You stomp when you walk, sister.”

  “I stomp?” said Sigaldra. “If I do, it is because I have work to do and places to go. Or should I glide like these weakling western noblewomen?” She inched forward, ostentatiously rolling her hips, and Liane let out a giggle that turned into a snort.

  “Stop that,” said Liane. “I shall spill soup and stain your blankets.” She tilted her head to the side. “You are in a good humor.”

  “Why should I not be?” said Sigaldra.

  “You never are.”

  “Lord Mazael will side with us against Earnachar and his pet sorceresses,” said Sigaldra. She felt her right hand curl into a fist. “I hope I can see his ugly face when the hrould questions him.”

  “I hope there is no fighting,” said Liane. “There has been too much fighting already.” She shivered. “It isn’t Earnachar that is the enemy, sister.”

  “He damned well is our enemy,” said Sigaldra. “He would have killed us all if Ragnachar had let him, and since we’ve come to the Grim Marches he has harassed us and threatened to steal our lands. I don’t hope to see Earnachar humbled. I hope he fights Mazael. I hope we kill him, and that I get to spit upon his ugly corpse.”

  “Would that bring you joy?” said Liane.

  “Yes,” said Sigaldra. “Or close enough to it that it does not matter.” She shrugged. “I know it makes you uneasy. But I will do whatever necessary to make sure the Jutai people survive. Whatever I must. Joy is for you, sister. Joy is for those who come after me. For myself…I want only the survival of our people.”

  “I understand,” said Liane. “I am sorry this burden fell to you.”

  “It is what it is,” said Sigaldra. “I am Jutai and the holdmistress of our people. I will do what I must.”

  For some reason Liane’s words annoyed her. She wanted Earnachar dead, wanted him dead as badly as she had ever wanted anything. Why should Liane judge her for that?

  “I know,” said Liane. “Thank you. For everything. I would not be here if not for you. The Jutai people would not have survived.”

  “Those of us who are left,” said Sigaldra.

  “But Earnachar isn’t the real enemy,” said Liane. “It is the Prophetess. I’ve seen her in my visions, Sigaldra. Even when I sleep, I see her in my dreams. She is at the center of the web…”

  “Web?” said Sigaldra, chilled as she remembered Mazael’s talk of soliphages and spiders. “Why would you say web?”

  Liane shrugged. “It is what I see in my dreams. She stands at the center of a web, and the threads reach everyone. In her left hand she holds a knife made of blood, and in her right an egg made of green glass. A man wearing a mask of swords stands at her right side. She is full of dark magic and malice, and if her egg hatches it will devour the world.”

  “What does that mean?” said Sigaldra.

  “I do not know,” said Liane. She sighed and pressed the heels of her hands against her forehead. “I wish…I wish I knew. I wish the visions were more useful, or that I could control them.”

  “We might be able to help with that,” said Sigaldra. “Mazael’s wife, Lady Romaria.”

  “The huntress,” whispered Liane. “The lady of the wolves. She has the soul of the Elderborn.”

  “She does?” said Sigaldra, a bit surprised. It made sense. There was something uncanny about Romaria Greenshield Cravenlock, something that matched the Elderborn tribes that Sigaldra had seen during the Runedead War. And what other woman would a man like Mazael Cravenlock take to wife? There was something about him, something that commanded attention and loyalty. His steel-colored eyes had struck her like physical blows. Sigaldra did not think of herself as the sort of woman to have her head turned by charismatic men, but Mazael had something more elemental than charisma. If he had invited her to his tent, she was surprised to realize that she likely would have gone with him.

  Just as well that he had behaved with perfect propriety toward her. Romaria was not the sort of woman Sigaldra wanted to cross.

  “You’re turning red,” said Liane, blinking.

  “I most certainly am not,” said Sigaldra, pushing aside the inappropriate thoughts. “But Mazael told me that Lady Romaria has the Sight. Or a form of it, at least. She can speak with you. Perhaps she can help you to control your visions.”

  “That would be welcome,” said Liane with a sigh. “It is…vexing. At least something useful sometimes comes of it, though.” She blinked. “You should go to the chapel now.”

  “Why?” said Sigaldra.

  Liane’s voice grew faint, her eyes distant. She was having another vision. “There is a knight made of rust, and you need to talk to him.”

  “Are we in danger?” said Sigaldra. “Is he a foe?”

  “Only to himself,” said Liane. “You have to talk to the rusted knight. I don’t know why. I…can’t see why. You must.” She sighed and slumped against the pillows again, her eyes growing heavy, and soon fell asleep.

  Sigaldra stared at her for a while.

  “That was help
ful,” she muttered.

  She pulled up the blanket to cover Liane and left the bedroom, descending back to the great hall. The hall was deserted – Mazael and the other lords had returned to their men, and would return later to dine under her roof. The banners and trophies hung undisturbed from the wall.

  Sigaldra crossed the hall and opened the doors to the chapel.

  The chapel was a small domed room, perhaps thirty feet across. Images of the three Amathavian gods marked the wall, and a stone rail encircled the wall itself. When they had first settled here, some of the Jutai had wanted to paint over the images of the Amathavian gods, but Sigaldra had refused. She did not know if the Amathavian gods were real or myth, but there was no reason to offend them.

  Upon the stone rail sat urns, hundreds and hundreds of urns. Some were made of baked clay, others of stone, some of bronze or verdigris-encrusted brass. The Tervingi buried their dead in mounds, or at least they had until the Great Rising, and Sigaldra neither knew nor cared what the Tervingi did now. The Jutai had always burned their dead and scattered their ashes, save for one pinch that went into the family’s ancestral urn. The urns upon the stone rail held hundreds and hundreds of generations of Jutai ashes.

  This room, this old chapel, was the heart of the Jutai nation. Sigaldra felt the gaze of her ancestors upon her.

  Or, at least, she imagined that she did.

  The Jutai had always believed that the spirits of their ancestors guided them. After the last few years, Sigaldra was no longer so sure. What would happen to the ancestral spirits if every last Jutai perished? Would the ancestors cease to exist?

  Maybe they had never existed at all, had been nothing more than the fantasies of the Jutai loresingers.

  She looked at her family’s urn. It was large and wrought from stone, its sides carved with stylized knots. That urn held the ashes of her mother and her father and her brothers, all of them killed by the Malrags. Someday, Sigaldra’s own ashes would lie within that urn. Assuming any of her family still lived to place those ashes into the urn. Perhaps Liane’s children would inter her ashes, given how unlikely it was that Sigaldra would wed.