Mask of Swords

by Jonathan Moeller

  “That strategy is sound,” said Sigaldra.

  “The soliphages could make themselves unseen,” said Adalar. “Or the Prophetess could, at any rate. Perhaps they are sneaking into the village even now.”

  “Wizard?” said Sigaldra.

  “I am pleased to report that I prepared for that contingency,” said Timothy, reaching into one of the pockets of his long black coat. He withdrew a lump of pale crystal wrapped in silver wire. “The soliphages can make themselves invisible, but such a spell requires a considerable expenditure of magical power, and that is much harder to conceal. If there are any active spells nearby, I will be able to sense them.”

  “Including the invisible soliphages?” said Sigaldra, and Timothy nodded. “You are a useful man to have around, wizard.”

  Timothy bowed. “I strive to be useful, my lady.”

  “There are a group of horsemen coming forward,” said Vorgaric as he returned to the rampart.

  A group of horsethains emerged from the mass of Skuldari warriors. A shiver of rage went through Sigaldra as she saw Earnachar riding at their head. The Tervingi headman looked smug as ever.

  “That is her,” whispered Liane. Sigaldra had almost forgotten that she was there. “The Prophetess.”

  A figure in a hooded black robe strode alongside the headman’s horse. It was the same slim, black-robed figure Sigaldra remembered from Earnachar’s last visit. The towering form of the orcragar Rigoric walked next to the black-robed woman. There was no sign of the other two sorceresses who had accompanied the Prophetess the last time. Though Sigaldra supposed that those robed women had not been sorceresses at all, but soliphages wrapped in black cloaks.

  “There are spells of considerable power around her,” said Timothy. “Defensive wards, I think, to turn aside blade and arrow and spell.”

  “No soliphages, though?” said Sigaldra.

  “None,” said Timothy. “At least none that are using magic.”

  “If Earnachar comes close enough,” said Sigaldra, “shoot him.” She lifted her own bow and strung it. “Simply shoot him.”

  “He may come to speak parley,” said Wesson.

  “Anything he tells us would be a lie,” said Sigaldra, “and he already betrayed and possibly murdered his lawful hrould.”

  Yet Earnachar, to her great disappointment, reined up just out of bowshot.

  “The Prophetess is casting a spell,” said Timothy. He squinted. “A…minor one, I believe, one to allow…”

  “Hear me!” roared Earnachar, his voice booming over the walls like a thunderclap.

  “To allow him to address us,” said Adalar, rubbing at one of his ears.

  “Dogs of the Jutai nation, hear me!” said Earnachar. “I am Earnachar son of Balnachar, a headman of the Tervingi nation, and your time as a free people has come to an end!”

  “Can you make it so he can hear me?” said Sigaldra.

  “I believe so,” said Timothy. He gestured, silver-white light flashing around his free hand, and whispered a phrase under his breath. Arnulf and Talchar tensed, but Timothy merely gestured once more. “It is done. Focus upon Earnachar, and your words shall be amplified.”

  Sigaldra nodded, took a deep breath, and concentrated upon Earnachar.

  “Earnachar son of Balnachar!” she said. The volume of her voice shocked her, her words rolling across the plain, but she kept talking. “What is the meaning of this craven challenge? Would you defy the peace of our hrould? Would you break his laws and commands?”

  “Mazael Cravenlock is dead!” said Earnachar, striking his chest with a fist, “slain by my hand. There is a new law in the Grim Marches, the will of the great goddess Marazadra! She rewards the strong and punishes the weak, and the Tervingi are strong and the Jutai are weak! I shall make the Tervingi stronger, and I will start by destroying the Jutai.”

  “If this is a negotiation,” said Sigaldra, “you have much to learn about bargaining.”

  “This is not a negotiation, slattern,” said Earnachar, and the Jutai thains bristled. “These are my demands. You will throw down your weapons and open your gates to me. You will surrender your homes, goods, chattels, beasts, and all other property to me. You, your families, and your children shall be the slaves of the Tervingi for all time.”

  “And if we refuse?” said Sigaldra.

  “Then you all shall die,” said Earnachar. “My men shall rip down your gates and storm your walls. We shall butcher your fighting men, and my thains shall ravish your women in front of their children, and then I shall feed the children to the soliphages. I shall kill every last living thing in Greatheart Keep, save for your sister.”

  “My sister?” said Sigaldra. “Why?”

  “She,” said Earnachar, “belongs to the messenger of the goddess.”

  “To the darkness,” whispered Liane. “She belongs to the darkness. She would feed us all to the darkness, if she could.”

  “This is what I have to say to your offer, Earnachar son of Balnachar,” said Sigaldra. “Throw your men and your monsters against our walls, and watch them die upon our blades and our arrows.” She lifted her bow and pointed it at him. “Come a little closer, and I will show you just what I think of your offer, you traitor and murderer of your hrould.”

  The Jutai cheered, and to Sigaldra’s surprise, so did Arnulf’s Tervingi and Adalar’s men. That heartened her more than she thought it would have.

  “There are Tervingi inside your walls,” said Earnachar. “They need not die with Jutai dogs. Come forth and join us! Join the new order of the goddess Marazadra, and you shall rise high.”

  “To hell with you, Earnachar,” said Arnulf. Timothy’s spell did not extend to him, but the headman shouted so loudly that he needed no magical enhancement. “To hell with your offer, and to hell with your dusty spider of a goddess!”

  “And what of you, Lord Adalar of Castle Dominus?” said Earnachar. “Will you die for these Jutai dogs? Will you spill your blood in defense of the Jutai vermin that have infested the ruins of your home?”

  “All men must die,” said Adalar. “Whether today or tomorrow. Better to die honorably rather than to cringe and scrape for a few extra days.” He looked at the Tervingi headman. “And I will not do anything to aid the man who murdered the Lord of the Grim Marches.”

  Sigaldra nodded with approval. That speech would have been worthy of a Jutai thain.

  “So be it!” Even across the distance she saw the sneer on Earnachar’s ruddy face. “Then die! All of you, die! Perhaps when you hear the screams of your children and the lamentations of your women, you shall…”

  “Wait.”

  The Prophetess’s voice was soft, but it cut through Earnachar’s ranting nonetheless.

  The black-robed shape stepped forward, and slender hands drew back the cowl, revealing the Prophetess’s pale face, red hair, and bright green eyes.

  “What do you want?” said Sigaldra.

  “Your sister,” said the Prophetess.

  “Do you think to corrupt me with your lies as you corrupted Earnachar?” said Sigaldra. “I am not so feeble-minded. I will not let you sacrifice a single drop of Jutai blood to your goddess.”

  “Sacrifice?” said the Prophetess. “You do not understand, Sigaldra of the Jutai. Your sister shall be honored above all others, and called blessed among women. She shall bring peace to the world and harmony to all men, and a thousand times a thousand generations shall revere her name.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Sigaldra.

  “Have you not suffered enough?” said the Prophetess. “Have you not seen your mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters perish? I have come to bring an end to wickedness and corruption, to found a new and better world. Join with me.” Earnachar sputtered, but Rigoric looked at him, and the headman fell silent. “Join with me. The goddess will gather all nations to her. Join with me, and the Jutai shall know peace and safety forevermore.”

  “She’s lying,” whispered Liane. “No…she ha
s been deceived. She has deceived herself, and now she repeats the lies she believes so fervently. Sister, do not heed her.”

  “You speak of peace and yet you bring war to my gates?” said Sigaldra. “You speak of order and you ride with that murderer Earnachar? You speak of harmony with the soliphages standing in your ranks? I say again, no. Be gone from Greatheart Keep, and if you try to enter, we will stop you.”

  It was a futile threat, she knew, but if the Jutai were to die here they would not go easily.

  “So be it,” said the Prophetess.

  She lifted her hands, crimson light flaring around her. A howling wind whipped over the plain, the grasses rippling and the horsemen swaying in their saddles. Sigaldra lifted her bow, wondering if she could put an arrow into the Prophetess. The sorceress was just out of range, and even if she had been closer, the damned wind would have played havoc with the accuracy of Sigaldra’s shot.

  “Oh,” said Liane, her eyes widening. “Oh, that isn’t good at all. She’s summoning the darkness. I think…”

  Timothy gestured, shouted a phrase, and clapped his hands. White light flared around him, and the bloody glow from the Prophetess faded. The black-robed woman lowered her hands, stared at the wall for a moment, and turned to Earnachar.

  “What did you do?” said Sigaldra.

  Timothy coughed and leaned on one of the battlements. “She is…ah, quite strong. Quite strong.”

  “But you are able to counter her,” said Sigaldra.

  “Not…not quite,” said Timothy, wiping sweat from his forehead. “She is much stronger than I am. But consider a strong man lifting an anvil over his head. While he strains to lift it, a weaker man can come along and poke him in the stomach, forcing him to drop the anvil.”

  Talchar snorted. “Charming image.”

  “But she is powerful,” said Timothy. “Had I not interrupted her, the spell would have ripped open the gates.”

  “Then you neutralize her,” said Adalar. “She cannot bring her powers to bear, lest you collapse her spell, but neither can you use your spells to aid the battle, lest she strike while you are engaged.”

  “That is the whole of it,” said Timothy. “My lords, I will do what I can, but I am only one man. If the soliphages aid the Prophetess, or if the vrokuls lend her their powers, I will be quickly overwhelmed.”

  “Vrokuls?” said Wesson.

  “Valgast wizards,” said Sigaldra. “They like to summon fire and supernatural beasts to slay their foes.”

  “That will be pleasant,” said Arnulf.

  “We shouldn’t have to worry about them until dark,” said Talchar. “Valgasts hate the sun, and will not venture forth during the day. Even on the days of midsummer and midwinter.”

  “They’re moving,” said Adalar.

  Sigaldra saw the Skuldari warriors stirring, carrying massive ladders to the front of their lines.

  Ladders tall enough to reach the ramparts of the village.

  Sigaldra took a deep breath.

  “Summon our spearthains and archers,” she said. “The battle begins.”

  Chapter 14: Heart’s Blood

  Mazael drifted in and out of consciousness, pain flaring through him every time his eyes opened.

  He was alone in the tent, the brazier flickering in the corner, the manacles clamped around his wrists and ankles. The Prophetess and her pet orcragar had left, and some time ago Mazael had heard the sounds of an army upon the march. Likely they were headed south to Greatheart Keep. That alarmed Mazael. Or, at least, it ought to have alarmed him. Every time he regained consciousness, the pain flooded through him, and he forgot everything else.

  The wound on his chest had healed, but he felt the spider moving beneath his skin, his heart shuddering every time the creature touched it. He felt its legs wrapping around his heart, its venom pumping into his blood. At least, he thought it was pumping venom into him. His mind reeled and lurched, his thoughts collapsing into disorder.

  “Get up,” whispered a woman’s voice, soft and melodious and disturbingly alien. “Get up and kill for me. It is your heart’s desire, to kill and to slay and to rule. In my name you can do all these things. Bring me food, Mazael Cravenlock, and you can do whatever you wish in my name.”

  “Who are you?” rasped Mazael. He didn’t see anyone. Perhaps he was imagining the voice.

  “If only your father were here to see this,” said the woman’s voice, growing more satisfied and still more alien. “I would laugh to see his expression once he realized his own progeny would undo his work.”

  “My father?” croaked Mazael. “My father is dead.” Dead at Mazael’s own hand. “How could…how could you…”

  The spider around his heart squeezed, and everything went black.

  ###

  Mazael awoke, and was not sure if he was dreaming.

  The pavilion blurred and wavered around him. He felt as if he had been drugged. No, he must be awake, because the spider was a dull coal of agony inside his chest, and he rarely had dreams with that much pain.

  Unless they had been dreams of the Old Demon.

  A woman stood over him, scowling.

  His mother was just as he remembered her. Arissa Cravenlock was a beautiful woman, but she looked like a flower that had just started to wilt. She had grown old before her time. No doubt worshipping the San-keth and taking the Old Demon as a lover had aged her.

  “You’re dead,” said Mazael.

  “I am,” said Arissa. Her eyes gleamed with blood-colored fire. “But I will live again, Mazael Cravenlock. With the catalyst of your blood I will live forevermore.”

  “You’re not my mother,” said Mazael. “She has been dead for years. So either you are a phantasm of my own mind, or you’re something using her guise and appearance.”

  “Does this guise displease you?” said Arissa. “Perhaps another will disturb you even more.”

  She blurred and became the tall, dark-armored form of Amalric Galbraith, Mazael’s half-brother. He had been the first Demonsouled that Mazael had killed, but not the last. Amalric went to one knee next to Mazael, his black armor creaking, the red-burning sword of the Destroyer aglow in his right hand.

  Yet his eyes shone with the same red glow as Arissa’s had.

  “Unceasingly you struggle,” said Amalric. “Perhaps it is time to relent. Perhaps it is time to succumb to your true nature.”

  Mazael snorted, blood on his lips. “That speech was more impressive when your sister delivered it, and I renounced that, too.”

  “Indeed,” said Amalric, and he changed form yet again.

  This time he became another black-armored warrior, a young man of about twenty, with the same gray eyes and brown hair as Mazael. He wore the elaborate black plate of Old Dracaryl, the Glamdaigyr burning with ghostly green fire in his armored fist.

  “Corvad,” said Mazael.

  “You failed me, Father,” said Corvad. His eyes, too, shone with the bloody fire.

  “I did,” said Mazael. “I deny it not.” The hellish pain pulsed in his chest. “But you are not him.”

  Corvad’s form stretched and swelled, becoming a middle-aged man with a gray beard and cold eyes the color of sword blades.

  “Or this form, perhaps?” rumbled Ragnachar, once a hrould of the Tervingi nation. “Yet another of your half-brothers dead upon your blade. You are a kinslayer, Mazael Cravenlock. You slew your brothers and your sisters and your son, and you have driven your footsteps through this world in paths of blood.”

  “I have,” said Mazael, “but you are not Ragnachar or Corvad or any of the others. Who are you?”

  “An enemy of your father’s,” said the black-armored form.

  Mazael coughed out a laugh. “You’ll have to be much more specific.”

  “Perhaps this form,” said Ragnachar, “will prove helpful.”

  The shape blurred and became the Prophetess, slim and lovely in her dark robes. Yet her eyes shone with the blood-colored fire, and previously her expression h
ad been calm and serene. Now there was a hard, alien edge to her face, making her red eyes all the more eerie. She looked…she looked…

  “Hungry,” said Mazael.

  “Hmm?” said the Prophetess.

  “You look hungry,” he said.

  She laughed, long and high. “You have no idea.”

  “You’re not the Prophetess, either,” said Mazael, every beat of his heart sending a wave of pain through him.

  “Go on,” said the Prophetess. “Perhaps I’m simply a reflection of your own mind.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “You’re garbed in my memories, but you’re not part of my mind.” He thought of the spiders, of the creature lurking in his chest. He thought of how fanatically devoted Agaric had been to his goddess, how strange it would be for a Tervingi swordthain to worship a foreign god. “No. You are…”

  “You’re almost there,” said the Prophetess with a smile.

  “Marazadra,” said Mazael. “The Prophetess’s precious goddess.”

  For a long moment the black-robed woman said nothing, and the spider writhed inside Mazael’s chest. He knew, with utter certainty, that he was right.

  “I see now,” whispered the creature wearing the Prophetess’s form, “why you slew your father. Why you, out of three thousand years of Demonsouled, were the one to at last slay the Old Demon.” She stepped closer. “My herald chose well.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” said Mazael.

  “Yes,” whispered Marazadra. She knelt next to him and poked a finger into his chest, sending a wave of pain through his torso. “I would have dominated any other mortal by now. The spiders are my voice, and once their venom flows through your blood, you shall hear my voice…and you will yearn to fulfill my commands. Yet you resist. Every fiber of your flesh and soul struggles against me. It is futile, though. You shall be mine.”

  “That’s very kind,” said Mazael, “but I’m married.”

  “She will be mine, too,” said Marazadra. “All the world shall be mine.”

  “No,” said Mazael. For a moment the rage against her threat to Romaria drowned out of the pain.