Mask of Swords

by Jonathan Moeller

  Earnachar nodded. “You grasp my purpose entirely, hrould.”

  “I’m sure.”

  They stared at each other for moment. Earnachar was lying, Mazael was certain, but the headman was also afraid. Likely he realized his danger, and had decided to betray the Prophetess and side with Mazael. It was a polite fiction, but so many of the arrangements among the lords and knights of the realm were based upon polite fictions.

  “Very well, then,” said Mazael. “What is the next step in this conspiracy?”

  “Greatheart Keep,” said Earnachar. “The Prophetess promised it to me, but she doesn’t care about the village, the keep, or the Jutai. She just wants something within it.”

  “What?” said Mazael. “There’s nothing valuable there. The Jutai have little wealth among them. All they have is their land and their animals.” Which Earnachar wanted to steal. “Why does this mad sorceress want something from within Greatheart Keep?”

  “I misspoke,” said Earnachar. “She doesn’t want something, she wants someone. Liane.”

  “Liane?” said Mazael. For a moment he could not place the name, and then he remembered. “That’s…Sigaldra’s sister, isn’t it?”

  “The only family the bitter little bitch has in the world,” said Earnachar. “Quite fair to look upon, but as insane as she is lovely. She has uncontrollable visions that throw her into wild seizures.”

  “Why would the Prophetess want her?” said Mazael, though he realized the reason even as Earnachar answered.

  Liane had the Sight.

  “Her visions are apparently true visions,” said Earnachar. “The Prophetess is looking for something, and she thinks that Liane’s visions will lead her to it.”

  “Do you happen to know what the Prophetess seeks?” said Mazael.

  “We have not yet reached that phase of her plans,” said Earnachar.

  “Ah,” said Mazael. “She didn’t trust you enough to tell you.”

  Earnachar grunted.

  “Given that you’re betraying her to me, that was a wise decision upon her part,” said Mazael.

  Earnachar’s frown turned sour. “Indeed.”

  “So the Prophetess and her minions are moving upon Greatheart Keep,” said Mazael. “When can we expect their attack?”

  “Within a few days,” said Earnachar. “A large band of Skuldari warriors are north of us, and the Prophetess and several soliphages are with them, and a group of valgasts are moving through the tunnels of the underworld south of here. My horsethains are to keep any messengers from departing Greatheart Keep to summon aid. The Skuldari will besiege the village and keep the Jutai from escaping while the valgasts dig a tunnel beneath the walls. Once they breach the walls, the Skuldari and the soliphages will kill every last one of the Jutai, and the Prophetess will take Liane.”

  “I can see how that plan would appeal to you,” said Mazael, “given how it would rid you of the Jutai.”

  Earnachar shrugged. “That would be a fine outcome. But I would prefer not to have a soliphage drink my life force once the Prophetess has no further need of me.”

  “Very well,” said Mazael. He would deal with Earnachar later, once the threat to Greatheart Keep had been defeated.

  Earnachar looked around once again.

  ###

  Adalar waited.

  Mazael and Earnachar continued their discussion, speaking in low voices. Even from this distance, Adalar could tell that Mazael was angry. Of course, Mazael was often angry, but the focus of his rage was on Earnachar. Adalar’s hand curled around the haft of his war hammer, the pre-battle tension drumming through him with every beat of his heart.

  Pre-battle? Mazael was a liege lord meeting with a vassal. Yet when that vassal was as ambitious and slippery as Earnachar, the gods only knew what was going to happen.

  Yet no one had drawn weapons yet, and no blood had been shed. Perhaps Earnachar would see reason and side with his lawful lord against the Skuldari.

  Romaria looked back and forth, the short horse bow resting across her saddle, her fingers drumming against it. She looked as tense as Mazael, her pale face pulled into a frown.

  “My lady?” said Adalar. “Is everything all right?”

  “No, it’s not,” said Romaria, her voice distant. “I’m missing something. All those ripples. What are they?” She shook her head. “I wish Riothamus were here.”

  “I think we all wish that, my lady,” said Adalar. He had seen the Guardian of the Tervingi wield mighty magic. Such power would have been welcome against the soliphage at Castyard.

  “Or Timothy,” said Romaria. “If there was magic he would be able to detect it, to dispel it.”

  “A spell?” said Adalar, alarmed. “You…think Earnachar has a spell on him?”

  “Not that I can see,” said Romaria. “Or any other others. Yet those ripples…” She made a frustrated sound and bounced her fist off the side of her leg.

  “The soliphages can cast spells,” said Adalar, thinking. “The Prophetess, too, if all the tales we’ve heard are true.”

  “Then you think Earnachar has set a trap for us?” said Wesson.

  “Or that he is hiding something?” said Adalar.

  “The man is an ambitious liar,” said Romaria. “Of course he is hiding something.” She fell silent, closing her eyes, and then they opened wide with alarm. “Hiding!”

  In one smooth motion she raised her bow, drew back the string, and released an arrow.

  Adalar let out a startled curse, wondering if she had decided to simply shoot Earnachar, or if she had loosed the arrow into the horsethains. Shooting either would start a battle, and he reached for his hammer. But the arrow had been aimed at neither Earnachar nor his men.

  The arrow came to a stop in midair, a few yards from where Mazael and Earnachar sat upon their horses. It quivered as if it had struck something.

  Something invisible.

  “Mazael!” shouted Romaria. “They’re everywhere. It’s a trap! It’s…”

  Earnachar grinned, the air around him blurring. A score of figures in ragged black robes appeared around him, and in their cowls Adalar caught a glimpse of armored red faces and glowing white eyes.

  Soliphages.

  ###

  “You treacherous rat!” roared Mazael, yanking Talon from its scabbard. Earnachar quailed back, his eyes wide as he fumbled for his sword. “I’ll…”

  “No,” said a woman’s voice. It was soft and quiet, yet it somehow cut through the chaos.

  A woman in a hooded black robe appeared from nothingness. She reached up to draw back her cowl, revealing a pale face with large green eyes and red hair that hung loose around her face and neck.

  “Who are you?” said Mazael, pointing Talon at her.

  “I am merely the messenger,” said the woman, her serenity unwavering. She looked at the revealed soliphages. “Kill them all.”

  The soliphages surged towards Mazael’s men, and he spurred his horse towards the red-haired woman, the woman he was sure was the Prophetess.

  She gestured, and hellish light exploded from the ground.

  A sigil of fiery light appeared on the earth, filling the space between the horsethains and the knights. It did not effect the soliphages, who charged over the sigil’s glowing lines without hesitation. Neither Earnachar nor the Prophetess seemed troubled.

  But pain exploded through Mazael, agonizing, crippling pain. Every muscle in his body went rigid at once, and his horse screamed and bolted forward. He fell backwards from the saddle, landing hard upon the ground, and everything went black.

  Chapter 12: Prophecy

  For a long time Mazael hovered at the edge of consciousness.

  He heard screams, shouting, the clash of steel upon steel, the cries of men and horses as they fought and died. The drumbeats of hooves fleeing in all directions, and Tervingi horsethains shouting in triumph. He struggled to stand, struggled to fight. His men needed him. Earnachar had betrayed him, and those sworn to Mazael needed his prot
ection.

  But he could not move through the burning light that filled his mind, and darkness swallowed him.

  Fragmented dreams flittered through his reeling thoughts. The Old Demon, laughing. Romaria falling before the altar in Castle Cravenlock’s chapel in a flash of blood-colored light. The Malrags sweeping across the Grim Marches in a tide of blood, and Lucan Mandragon standing in the glow of his terrible spells, the Glamdaigyr burning in his hands.

  Slowly his thoughts and dreams settled.

  Eventually his mind was clear enough that he could think again, and his eyes opened.

  He was in a large tent, a pavilion, the only light coming from a steel brazier in the corner. His armor and weapons were gone. He was sitting propped against something rough – a boulder, he thought – and heavy iron manacles bound his wrists and ankles.

  He did not feel at well. His limbs felt sluggish and heavy, and there was a burning pain in his heart and his stomach. It felt as if he had been poisoned.

  Perhaps one of the soliphages had bitten him.

  His eyes focused further, and he saw Rigoric standing near the entrance to the tent, staring down at him.

  The big man was motionless, his hands clasped behind his back. The mask of sword blades that covered his face had returned to its normal shape, the tendrils withdrawing from the skin of his neck and shoulders. He had put on additional armor, a cuirass and gauntlets, no doubt to cover the damage Talon had inflicted upon his hauberk.

  For a moment Mazael stared at the orcragar, who stared right back.

  “That mask,” said Mazael, his voice a heavy rasp, “looks like it hurts.”

  Rigoric did not answer.

  “It looks stupid,” said Mazael.

  The orcragar did not even blink.

  “Did it cut out your tongue when you put it on?” said Mazael.

  “He has no need to speak,” came a woman’s voice.

  Mazael managed to turn his head and saw the Prophetess.

  She sat upon a stool near the opposite wall of the pavilion, draped in her black robes, her eyes glinting in the light from the brazier.

  “You see,” she said. Her voice had a faint accent. Travian, he thought, from the northern lands of the realm. “He is the Champion of the goddess, her mailed fist to bring her wrath to those who defy her will. His task is not to share the words of the goddess with her foes, but to deliver her wrath.”

  “And your task is to share the words?” said Mazael.

  To his surprise, she smiled briefly. “An oversimplification, yes, but essentially true.” She rose from the stool, the black robes stirring. “I share the words of the goddess with the world. I share her truth, her wisdom. The world shall bow before her.” She shrugged. “And for those who refuse…well, the wrath of the Champion will suffice for them, will it not?”

  “Is that why I am here?” said Mazael. “So you can share the wrath of Marazadra with me?”

  The Prophetess hesitated. “You learned her name, then? It is sacred and you should not speak it lightly. I suppose you learned it form the valgasts. They are loyal servants of the goddess, true…but they are nonetheless filthy creatures. Still. All shall be gathered under the goddess’s shadow in time, even the valgasts.”

  “That’s why I am here, is it?” said Mazael. “So you can convert me?”

  “No,” said the Prophetess. “You are here because you are the last son of the Old Demon.”

  Mazael said nothing.

  “Do not bother to deny it,” said the Prophetess. She stooped over him, and Mazael strained against the chains, hoping to break free and kill her. Yet the manacles held him fast and his limbs felt terribly weak. The Prophetess raked her fingernails across his arm, drawing blood, and then stepped back.

  A few moments later the cuts vanished.

  “The last son of the Old Demon,” said the Prophetess, pacing away. “The Old Demon killed most of them, and Lucan Mandragon slew most of the rest. There are only a few of you left, and certainly none like you.”

  “If you wanted to talk to me,” said Mazael, “you could simply have come to Castle Cravenlock.”

  “You would not have listened,” said the Prophetess. “Surrounded by your stone walls and your knights and your wealth, you would not have been receptive to the truth of the goddess.” He jerked at the chains again, but still could not muster any strength. “No, do not bother. With your full power, you could have broken free and killed me already. But I wish you to remain there until we conclude our conversation.”

  “What did you do to me?” said Mazael.

  “A poison brewed by the apothecaries of the Justiciar Order in ancient days,” said the Prophetess. “Designed for hunting and overcoming Demonsouled. To those entirely human, it is harmless. It is…mostly harmless to a Demonsouled, but weakens you for a span of a few hours. It makes you easier to kill. Or to talk with, as it happens.”

  “The Justiciars?” said Mazael with a ragged laugh. “The Justiciars didn’t believe that the Demonsouled existed. Or the San-keth, or the Malrags. They were founded to protect the realm from dark powers, but they didn’t believe those dark powers existed. So where did you really get the poison?”

  “When you destroyed the Justiciar Order,” said the Prophetess, “they were at the height of their power and their wealth. Yet they had forgotten their purpose. They were devoted to the Amathavian gods, yet they had forgotten their faith. So Lucan Mandragon corrupted them, and you smashed the empty shell that they had become.” She crossed to the pavilion’s flap, lifted it, and gazed into the night for a moment. “An important lesson for us. A man needs faith, or else he is a rotten shell.”

  “Are you Demonsouled?” said Mazael. “Another child of the Old Demon?”

  “Certainly not,” said the Prophetess, turning back from the tent flap. “I am not Demonsouled. I am not a San-keth changeling, or a soliphage, or an undead revenant of Old Dracaryl. I am merely a human woman of flesh and blood…though I am rather good at magic.”

  “And you are the voice of Marazadra,” said Mazael.

  “I am,” said the Prophetess. “You should not use her name lightly.”

  “I’m not,” said Mazael. “You attacked my men in the name of the damned giant spider you worship.” Had Romaria gotten away? Had Adalar escaped? Or had those soliphages killed them all? If the Prophetess’s pet spiders had killed Romaria, Mazael was going to kill them all – the soliphages, the Skuldari, and the valgasts. Every last one of them.

  “Some of your men were killed, yes,” said the Prophetess. “Some of them escaped back to Greatheart Keep, where if they do not submit to the will of the goddess, we will kill them.”

  “You’re going to regret that,” said Mazael.

  “There’s the Demonsouled rage,” said the Prophetess. “Not that it will accomplish anything. You should not mourn their deaths overmuch. They would have died anyway, whether in one of the endless petty wars between petty lords or of disease and old age. This way, their deaths have meaning, preparing the way for the coming of the goddess.”

  “You want Liane,” said Mazael. “Why?”

  “She is special,” said the Prophetess. “She has a mighty destiny before her. You might have a great destiny before you, Mazael Cravenlock. If you are wise enough to heed my words.”

  “You’re going to make me an offer,” said Mazael.

  “Of course I am,” said the Prophetess. “For you put all this in motion.”

  “What do you mean?” said Mazael.

  “You killed your father,” said the Prophetess.

  “I did,” said Mazael. “Do you think to blame me for that? My only regret is that I did not figure out how to kill him years sooner.”

  “Not at all,” said the Prophetess. “Your father was a monster. He manipulated the nations for centuries, arranging them to his bidding. The world is well rid of him. He was a monster, yes…but he was a genius. He could not harm anyone unless they attacked him first, but that never hindered him. After the
destruction of the High Elderborn, competing powers littered this world – the San-keth, the Trichirabi, the princes of the deep places, so many others. The Old Demon bound them all, one by one, tricking and chaining them with his pacts. Not from benevolence, you understand, but so they would not hinder his plans, leaving him to do as he pleased.”

  “Your goddess,” said Mazael. “The Old Demon bound her.”

  “Yes,” said the Prophetess. “In a manner of speaking. You see, Mazael Cravenlock, you slew the Old Demon, and when you slew him, his pacts were broken. He had bound the valgasts to stay in the underworld and the Skuldari within their homeland, lest their raids disrupt his plans. He also banished the goddess from the world.”

  “And you’re the one to restore her,” said Mazael.

  “Yes,” said the Prophetess.

  “That’s not insane at all,” said Mazael.

  “Those with vision are always considered mad,” said the Prophetess, “until their vision comes to fruition.”

  “And what is your vision?” said Mazael. “Your goddess restored?”

  “Yes,” said the Prophetess.

  “Let me guess,” said Mazael. “Your goddess will devour the world, and she’ll make you immortal and invincible, and you’ll rule at her side forever.” He glanced at Rigoric. “With a retinue of steel-masked fools to wait upon your every whim, I suppose.”

  “No,” said the Prophetess. “The goddess’s advent will create a new world. An ordered and virtuous world.”

  “Virtuous?” said Mazael.

  “What makes men virtuous?” said the Prophetess.

  Mazael shrugged. “Laws. Customs. Their own consciences, I suppose.”

  “No,” said the Prophetess. “Fear.”

  “Fear makes men virtuous?” said Mazael.

  “Does it not?” said the Prophetess. “What keeps a thief from stealing? What keeps the merchant from cheating? What prevents a murderer from killing?”

  “Tell me. Your answer ought to be entertaining,” said Mazael.