Mask of Swords

by Jonathan Moeller

  “It is your doing, you know,” said Marazadra, straightening up. “All of this.”

  “I think not,” said Mazael.

  “You slew the Old Demon,” said Marazadra.

  “Would you rather he have been triumphant?” said Mazael.

  “Of course not,” said Marazadra. “He was my mortal enemy long before you were ever born. I hated him before the Grim Marches even bore that name, when your ancestors were still skin-clad savages wandering the ruins of the middle lands. He ruined my plans and bound me, rendered my servants powerless and condemned them to skulk in the shadows.” She turned back to Mazael, her eyes burning hotter. “But now I am free.”

  “Because I killed him,” said Mazael.

  “Because you killed him,” said Marazadra. “You have no idea what you set into motion, do you? Your father had so many enemies, and he defeated them all, binding them and imprisoning them in other worlds. He could not kill, of course, not unless he was attacked first. But he could trick and deceive and cajole, and he was so very good at it. But now he is dead…and I am free.” She looked down at him. “You should join me, Mazael Cravenlock.”

  “The Old Demon made me the same offer,” said Mazael. “I refused him. Why should I not refuse you?”

  “Because I am not the Old Demon,” said Marazadra. “He wanted to destroy the world and torment the souls of its inhabitants, but I want to preserve it.”

  “To feed on it,” spat Mazael.

  “Yes,” said Marazadra. “Why does that trouble you? Do you not feed upon cattle? Do not wolves feed upon deer? My messenger was not entirely wrong when she spoke to you. Men are like deer…for deer, if left unchecked, will spread and destroy their homes. Predators are required to keep the herd in check lest it destroy itself. My children, the ones you name the soliphages, are to mortal men as wolves are to deer.”

  “That is not a compelling argument,” said Mazael.

  “You are more wolf than deer,” said Marazadra’s spirit, prowling closer. “Are you not weary of the constant treachery? Lord schemes against lord, and the Tervingi plot behind your back to wipe out the Jutai. They fear you enough to keep the peace, yes, but not enough to stop them from hatching their petty little schemes. Fear could bring them to heel, Mazael. Fear of a new goddess and her children.”

  “No,” said Mazael.

  “I thought not,” said Marazadra. “But it matters not. Even your Demonsouled blood will not resist my venom forever. Either your will and mind shall succumb to me, or you will die.” She smiled. “Consider this. You may think me a monster…but I am not the only dark power of the ancient world bound through the Old Demon’s schemes. There are others, far worse than I am. I would care for mortal men as the peasant cares lovingly for the pigs he slaughters for his dinner. The others have no such scruples, and the Old Demon is not there to stop them any longer.”

  “No,” said Mazael.

  Marazadra shrugged. “Then die.”

  The spider’s talons seemed to tighten around his heart, and Mazael bit back a scream. Pain flooded through him, sweat drenching his blood-stiff clothing. Every muscle in his body went rigid, the chains creaking. His heartbeats sent knives of pain into his temples.

  Marazadra, it seemed, had decided to simply kill him.

  “No,” said a man’s voice, a low, sardonic drawl.

  Mazael blinked and turned his head, and a bolt of terror went down his spine.

  The Old Demon stood near the tent wall, clad in his black robe. He looked just as he had on the day Mazael had killed him, with the same close-cropped beard, the same graying brown hair, the same hawk-like nose and wolfish smile, and the same gray eyes that seemed glazed with red fire.

  “No,” said Mazael. “You’re dead. I killed you.”

  “Oh, you did, you did,” said the Old Demon. “But I’m not really here.”

  “What?” said Marazadra. “Who are you talking to?” The Prophetess’s face twisted in confusion. “Who is there?”

  “You see,” said the Old Demon, grinning down at the Mazael, “I am part of you. I have always been a part of you. From the moment you were born you had my blood and my power.”

  “Then you are part of me,” said Mazael, “not the Old Demon himself.”

  A flicker of alarm went over Marazadra’s face.

  “You understand,” said the Old Demon. “I am you. You are me. Why should your Demonsouled blood not appear to you in the form of your father? You hate and fear it just as you hated and feared the Old Demon. But the time has come to use your power. She cannot dominate you and she cannot convince you, so that tattered old ghost will kill you instead.” The Old Demon bared his teeth in a snarl. “She thinks to feed upon the Grim Marches, that which is ours! She would kill the people under our protection! Will you allow that?”

  A shudder of rage went through Mazael, fighting against the agony filling his chest.

  The chain creaked, and Mazael realized that he felt stronger, much stronger, than he had before. For a moment he feared that his Demonsouled fury was blazing out of control, but then he realized the truth. He had been delirious for hours, and the drug the Prophetess had given him had worn off.

  He strained, and his arms and legs burst free from the iron shackles with a shriek of tearing metal. The effort left his wrists and ankles shredded and bloody, but his Demonsouled blood started to heal the wounds at once. Mazael ripped open the front of his shirt and gripped a jagged shackle in his right hand.

  “What madness is this?” said Marazadra. “Mortal fool, do you think to slay yourself to escape your agony? I…”

  He ignored her and drove the iron shard into his chest, just below his ribs.

  That hurt quite a lot.

  “What are you doing?” said Marazadra.

  Mazael dragged the shard back and forth, making the wound bigger.

  That hurt much more.

  Marazadra was saying something, but Mazael had stopped paying attention. He thrust his fingers into the wound in his chest and entered a whole new universe of pain. Every last one of his nerves screamed with it, and the tent spun drunkenly around him. Blood gushed across his fingers, and he felt his own beating heart brush against his hand.

  An odd feeling, that.

  He also felt the hard, jagged legs of the spider, fresh agony blossoming through him as it tried to scurry deeper into his flesh. Mazael let out a hoarse bellow, grabbed two of the spider’s legs, and pulled.

  It ripped free from his chest in a spray of blood, its legs thrashing, its mandibles digging into his hand. Mazael heard a wheezing groan, and realized that it was his own voice attempting to scream.

  He made a fist and crushed the spider, yellow slime spurting between his fingers, and the image of Marazadra vanished without a trace.

  Then he pitched backwards, his head bouncing off the ground, and knew no more.

  ###

  A long time later, perhaps an eternity later, Mazael’s thoughts started to lurch back into focus.

  He felt terrible.

  Which was good, because it was still an improvement. Every inch of his body ached, and he was ravenous, his throat dry as dust, but the pain in his chest was gone. After a moment he made his eyes open, and saw daylight leaking through the flap of the tent. He started to sit up, slowly, his back aching, and felt something sticky between the fingers of his right hand.

  The crushed spider was stuck to his palm, the yellow slime crusted and dry. Mazael grimaced and wiped off the vile thing upon the ground. He pushed aside the ragged remnant of his shirt and saw that the wound in his chest had healed. It must have taken a long time. He was reasonably sure it had been only a little past midnight when he had carved the spider out of his chest, and to judge from the position of the sunlight it was almost noon.

  He had been incapacitated for nearly two days. Where had the Prophetess gone? No doubt she and Earnachar had launched their attack on Greatheart Keep by now. What had happened to Adalar and the others? Had Earnachar and the solip
hages killed them all? For that matter, where was Romaria? A flicker of sick dread went through him. Had the Prophetess killed Romaria? Or was Romaria prisoner somewhere?

  Mazael looked again at the dead spider. His memories of last night were hazy. He vaguely remembered cutting the spider out of his chest and crushing it, remembered speaking with shadows from his past. Perhaps he had hallucinated the entire thing.

  He could contemplate it later. Right now he had to act, though he was not sure what to do. The first thing was to get away from here, wherever here was. He started to stand, and then froze when he heard the voices. Two men were arguing outside of the tent. Mazael looked around for a weapon and saw nothing. The broken chain, however, would make a useful garrote, so he wrapped it around his right fist. Then he crept towards the tent’s flap as quietly as he could, which was easy, since they had taken his boots.

  “We shouldn’t wait any longer,” said a man’s voice, Tervingi from his accent.

  “Why? You heard the Prophetess’s command,” said a second man. “We are to wait another day. Either he’ll be dead, or he’ll come out of the tent and belong to the goddess.”

  Mazael smiled. Evidently their plans had not included the possibly of a man carving a hole in his own chest and surviving the process. Not that he wanted to do it ever again.

  “He was screaming and ranting all last night,” said the first Tervingi. “Then nothing. He must be dead by now.” He lowered his voice. “And if he isn’t, I say we stick a spear in him and move on.”

  “Aye, and how shall we hide that from Earnachar and the Prophetess?” said the second man. “A spear wound is a bit obvious!”

  “Then we’ll stick a wet blanket over his face and wait until he chokes,” said the first Tervingi. “They’ll think the spider killed him when he refused the wisdom of the goddess.”

  “We should obey the Prophetess,” said the second man. “She speaks with the voice of the goddess.”

  “She’s not here, is she?” said the first.

  “No,” said a third, deeper voice. “She and the Champion have gone to Greatheart Keep to claim the girl.”

  Liane, Mazael remembered. The Prophetess wanted Liane. Why? Liane had the Sight, and perhaps the Prophetess needed her to find something.

  “The girl is more important,” said the first man. “The Prophetess went to claim her. I don’t think the Prophetess would mind having the hrould on her side…but she wouldn’t object if he happened to die.”

  “What are you so afraid of?” said the third man, scorn in his voice, and the second chorused his agreement.

  “Are you blind?” said the first. “Ruaric and his lads went hunting yesterday. They should have been back by now.”

  “Maybe they got lost chasing deer,” said the second man.

  “Or maybe someone got them,” said the first. “Some of the knights got away from the ambush.” Mazael’s fist tightened against the chain. “They’ll be a lot harder to fight without the soliphages to help.”

  “We are Tervingi,” said the third man with contempt, “and now we have the power of the goddess behind us. Your cowardice does you no credit.”

  “We are Tervingi,” said the first man, his voice growing hot, “and Ragnachar trusted in the Urdmoloch, and look where that got him.”

  “You deny the goddess’s power?” said the second Tervingi.

  “I deny nothing!” said the first. “But I do not deny what is before my eyes. We…”

  All three men started arguing.

  Mazael figured it was the best chance he would get, so he took a deep breath, wrapped the chain around his fists, and burst from the tent.

  The noon sun shone overhead, the grasses of the Grim Marches swaying in the breeze. Mazael found himself in the center of a circle of a half-dozen tents facing a smoldering firepit. Three Tervingi spearthains stood nearby, arguing and pointing at each other.

  They did not see Mazael until he was upon them.

  He looped the chain around the neck of the nearest spearthain and yanked with all his strength. There was a hideous sound of cracking bone and tearing flesh, and the spearthain went down in a heap. Mazael caught the man’s spear as he fell and stabbed, catching another spearthain in the gut. The Tervingi warrior howled, and Mazael ripped the spearhead free and spun to face the third man. The Tervingi charged, and Mazael jumped back, beating aside a thrust of the spear with a sweep of his own weapon. More spearthains erupted from the nearby tents, and Mazael realized that he was in trouble. He was outnumbered, exhausted, and had no armor. Demonsouled rage and strength could only take him so far.

  At least he would take as many of the traitors with him as he could.

  Mazael killed one, and then another, and five Tervingi spearthains moved into a half-circle around him, stabbing and thrusting. He took wounds on his hip and ribs, fresh blood spilling across his stained clothes. His mind raced as he look for some way to turn to the situation to his advantage, some tactic he could use…

  An arrow hissed past him and slammed into one of the spearthains.

  That would work.

  The spearthain fell back, screaming and grabbing at the arrow in his chest, and Mazael took the opportunity to strike, gutting another Tervingi warrior with a sweep of his spear. The remaining three men fell back, and another arrow plunged into the man on the left. The final two spearthains had seen enough, and they turned to run.

  They barely made it past the ring of tents before the unseen archer shot them both dead in the space of three heartbeats. Mazael turned, spear ready, but saw no other foes.

  Silence fell over the ragged little camp, and Romaria appeared around one of the tents, her Elderborn bow in hand, her face grim. Her eyes widened when she saw Mazael, and she sprinted to him.

  “You’re alive,” she said, touching his face as if she could not believe he was real. “I heard…I heard you screaming.” A tremor went through her face. “What did they do to you?”

  Mazael grinned. “The Prophetess fed me a spider, but I spat it out.”

  She blinked. “Truly?”

  “Actually, I had to cut it out of my chest,” said Mazael.

  “Oh.” She blinked again and took a deep breath. “Oh, Mazael. That…must have hurt.”

  “Just a bit,” said Mazael. He gripped the hand touching his face. “But…I am glad you are safe. Gladder that I can put into words. What happened?”

  “It was a near thing,” said Romaria. “The Prophetess had some sort of cloaking spell that hid the soliphages and the heart spiders from Sight, along with the entrapping sigil she used on you. The soliphages went after the horsemen. Adalar and the others put up a good fight, but they couldn’t hold against that many soliphages, and they retreated. Some of the soliphages went after me, but I went wolf and lost them. Then I came back to get you. Earnachar left twenty spearthains to guard you.”

  “Where did they go?” said Mazael. One of the men he had killed had mention something about a hunting party.

  “I killed most of them,” said Romaria, her voice soft. That surprised him. She was often less willing to kill than he was. “I waited until they wandered off to relieve themselves or to patrol, and I shot in the back or took the form of the wolf to tear out their throats. Some of them went hunting, and I picked them off one by one.” She shivered. “They were hurting you. I could hear you screaming. I would have killed them all if I had enough time.” She blinked several times and looked away. “I…am just glad you are alive. I saw you die once before, after Cythraul Urdvul. Again…no, I have no wish to see it a second time.”

  “I saw you die once, too,” said Mazael. “Never again.”

  She blinked again, wiped at her eyes, and laughed a little. “Do you think other husbands and wives have talks like this?”

  “Probably not,” said Mazael. “Thank you.”

  She shrugged. “You got yourself loose.”

  “And they would have killed me if you hadn’t shot most of them,” said Mazael.

  �
�They shouldn’t have hurt you,” she whispered, and in that moment she looked more dangerous than any of the Demonsouled he had fought and faced. “So. What do we do now?”

  “We go to Greatheart Keep, stop the Prophetess, and kill Earnachar,” said Mazael.

  “He has a spider in him, by the way,” said Romaria. “The Prophetess’s cloaking spell also hid the spiders. Earnachar and all of his men had heart spiders.”

  “I should have known,” said Mazael. “Earnachar was too stubborn to cooperate with me half of the time. Why would he cooperate for the Prophetess and Marazadra?”

  “Why attack Greatheart Keep?” said Romaria. “I see why Earnachar wants it, but what interest does the Prophetess and her goddess have in the place? If she is merely looking for sacrificial victims for her goddess, surely she can obtain them with less work.”

  “Liane,” said Mazael.

  “The girl with the Sight, Sigaldra’s sister,” said Romaria, some of her tension draining away as she considered the puzzle. “What does the Prophetess want with her?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mazael, rubbing a heel of a hand against his forehead. “I think…while I was fighting off the spider, I think I spoke with the spirit of Marazadra herself.”

  “Truly?” said Romaria. “It wasn’t simply a hallucination?”

  “I don’t believe so,” said Mazael. “I don’t remember all of it. Something about a bloody dagger, and spiders preying upon men...bah.” He grimaced. “I was a little distracted. But I think the Old Demon bound Marazadra somehow, and now that he is dead the binding has been destroyed. She is free to act, and apparently she wants Liane for something.”

  “For what, though?” said Romaria.

  “A good question,” said Mazael. “Perhaps I will beat the answers out of Earnachar.”

  “He will be at Greatheart Keep by now,” said Romaria. “He has over a thousand Skuldari warriors with him, along with his horsethains and the soliphages. I don’t know how long Sigaldra can hold out.”

  “Especially if the Prophetess throws her magic into the fray,” said Mazael. “Or the soliphages. Or if the valgasts dig under the walls.”