“Who?” said Riothamus.
“The man in golden armor with the sword of fire,” said Aegidia. “I have sought him for many years. The destiny of the Tervingi nation lies in his hands. And, I think, the final discharge of the Guardian’s responsibility.”
“What responsibility is that?” said Riothamus. “You’ve never spoken of it before.”
“You will learn, when your time comes,” said Aegidia. She closed her eyes. “I have failed badly, in a fashion worse than you can know. But you will understand when my years are done and the time comes for you to take up the Guardian's staff.”
“Not for many long years, I hope,” said Riothamus.
Her smile was eerie. “We shall see.”
###
The Tervingi broke camp and marched west the next day.
Ragnachar strode at their head, surrounded by a guard of his orcragars and swordthains. Riothamus kept a wary eye on the hrould. Ragnachar’s reputation for brutality was well-deserved. When a rival hold had attacked his thains, Ragnachar had defeated them and killed every last man, woman, and child, mounting their heads on wooden stakes as a warning to others. When other nations attacked the Tervingi, Ragnachar struck back with deadly force, killing every man and keeping the women and children as slaves.
Yet Riothamus could not help but have a grudging admiration for Ragnachar’s skill as a leader. He kept the Tervingi march ordered and disciplined, with Ragnachar’s men herding the great throng along. Ragnachar himself had inexhaustible energy, giving orders as he strode up and down the column, his icy calm never wavering.
And when thieves were found, when a man was caught stealing oxen, or a woman taking her neighbor's bread, Ragnachar had them executed on the spot.
He was the sort of leader men feared, but would follow into battle.
###
The Malrags attacked from the mountains the next day.
Three massive warbands, each a thousand strong, accompanied by shamans and led by balekhans. They crashed into the column, howling their war cries, tearing into the terrified bondsmen and farmers. Whatever dark force controlled the Malrags of the mountains wanted to test the strength of the Tervingi, to see if they would make easy prey or not.
Ragnachar and his orcragars met the charge. The orcragars bellowed with glee of their own, cutting into the Malrags. Ragnachar himself led the defense, a pillar of black steel among the black-armored Malrags, his sword a blur of steel and dark blood.
Athanaric and his thains hastened to Ragnachar’s relief, accompanied by Aegidia and Riothamus. The thains joined Ragnachar’s men, driving the Malrags back step by step. Aegidia and Riothamus struggled against the shamans, green lightning and bolts of jagged ice dueling in the sky overhead. The shamans were no match for the raw power of the Guardian, and Riothamus defended Aegidia as she brought her wrath down upon them.
In the end, the Malrags were repulsed, the few survivors fleeing back to the mountains. Six hundred Tervingi, both warriors and bondsmen caught in the attack, lay dead upon the field.
But the Malrags did not attack from the mountains again.
###
A month later they entered the territory of another nation, the Jutai.
Like the Tervingi, the Jutai had suffered from Malrag attacks. Unlike the Tervingi, the Jutai had refused to run, and so had been driven to the edge of annihilation. Now only a few hundred warriors remained, holed up in several hilltop fortresses.
“We should take those fortresses and drive out the Jutai,” said Ragnachar. The two hroulds, the chief headmen, and the Guardian met every morning, to discuss the business of the march and plan for the route ahead.
“Why?” said Athanaric. “These Jutai have done us no harm. I say we leave them in peace.”
“From the ruined villages and farms we have passed,” said Ragnachar, “it seems the Jutai were once prosperous. When the survivors withdrew into their fortress, they took their supplies with them. Our own supplies are running thin. We should take the fortresses, put the Jutai to the sword, and claim their supplies for our own.”
“That is rank murder and dishonorable theft!” said Athanaric, scowling.
Ragnachar shrugged. No matter how angry Athanaric grew, he always remained icy calm. “It is necessary for survival. And are we not planning to do the same thing when we claim the land of the knights?”
“We are claiming the land of the knights to ensure the survival of our people!” said Athanaric, his voice a snarl. “We do not need to destroy the remnants of the Jutai to do so!”
“I think we do,” said Ragnachar.
“Gods and devils, man,” said Athanaric. “Does your lust for war know no bounds?”
“I will do what I think best,” said Ragnachar. “If need be, I will seize the Jutai stronghold myself, with my own men. Every one of my orcragars is worth three of your thains. And then I will keep the supplies for myself and my men. Perhaps you will remember this day in a few months time when your bondsmen are starving to death.”
“So you will let your fellow Tervingi starve?” said Athanaric, his hand twitching toward his sword hilt.
Ragnachar drew himself up, grim and fierce in his elaborate black plate.
Riothamus looked at Aegidia, wondering why she didn’t intervene. Yet she stared at Ragnachar, her hands trembling against her staff. For a moment she reminded Riothamus of a mouse caught by the gaze of a hawk.
What was wrong with her? He had seen her call down the storm, had seen the earth rise up at her command to rip apart Malrags. Why did she fear Ragnachar so much?
“Perhaps there’s a third way,” said Riothamus, thinking fast.
Athanaric, Ragnachar, and Aegidia all looked at him.
“Well?” said Athanaric.
“Parley with the Jutai,” said Riothamus.
“For what?” said Ragnachar. “Permission? They are not strong enough to stop us.”
Riothamus took a deep breath. “No, they’re not. The Malrags broke them, just as they did us. They’re hiding behind their walls and waiting to die. But if we can give them hope…”
“You want them to join us,” said Aegidia.
“Aye,” said Riothamus. “Invite the Jutai to come with us, to claim a new homeland with us. They’ll jump at the chance, I think.”
“And if they refuse?” said Ragnachar.
Riothamus sighed. “Then you fight.”
“So be it,” said Ragnachar. “And since you thought up this plan, witcher, you can serve as our herald to the Jutai.”
###
It went better than Riothamus expected.
Two of the three Jutai strongholds agreed to his offer, and opened their gates. Their men marched out, ragged and exhausted, their women and children carrying their supplies. The men of one stronghold swore as thains to Ragnachar, the second to Athanaric.
The men of the final stronghold shot arrows from their walls, and Riothamus only just managed to block them with a spell.
Ragnachar attacked before the arrows finished falling.
His orcragars stormed the walls, carrying ladders, while the rest of his thains wielded a battering ram. The gates gave way, and Ragnachar stormed into the stronghold, his sword running red with blood.
The Jutai inside were slaughtered to a man, and their supplies seized.
The Tervingi resumed their march soon after.
###
Months wore on, and the long march continued.
The Tervingi passed through a vast swamp, the fens stinking with foul gases. The pale ruins of the Dark Elderborn jutted from the water like ancient bones. Moving corpses lurked in the swamp, and attacked those who wandered too far from the column.
After that they traveled through a forest of thin, ragged pine trees. Massive spiderwebs hung between the trees, and crimson spider-devils lurked in the shadows. They were not as large as the spider-devils of the Endless Forest, but just as aggressive and cruel.
The images of trapped Tervingi children hanging from the
webs, all the blood drained from their flesh, haunted Riothamus’s dreams.
More and more of the Jutai marched with Ragnachar’s thains. Many of them went to Ragnachar’s secret gatherings at night, where they sacrificed animals to the glory of the Urdmoloch.
And a few of the Jutai had the bloody eye of the orcragars carved into their forehead.
That made Riothamus uneasy.
But the new Jutai orcragars fought well against the spider-devils and the occasional Malrag warband.
###
A month after leaving the forest of spiders, Riothamus glimpsed the massive dark wall of the Great Mountains.
He had never seen anything so huge. The mountains rose like the pillars of heaven. According to the songs of the loresingers, the dread necromancers of Old Dracaryl had once ruled from their black castles atop those snow-capped peaks, conquering vast lands on either side of the Great Mountains.
Then the rulers of Old Dracaryl had been consumed by their own dark magic.
“We have to go through that?” said Riothamus, walking beside Aegidia.
“Yes,” said Aegidia. “And the destiny of the Tervingi awaits on the other side.”
The skythains found a pass leading into the mountains, and the Tervingi made for the foothills.
###
The brutal march through the pass took nearly seven weeks.
The Tervingi and their animals struggled through the narrow path. Sometimes they made no more than three or four miles in a day. An icy wind howled down from the peaks, tugging at their cloaks.
One of the mammoths lost its footing and slipped from a cliff, trumpeting in fear as it plummeted a thousand feet to its death.
From time to time Malrag warbands emerged from caves in the mountains, launching raids upon the Tervingi column. Again and again the thains fought them off, Ragnachar and his orcragars in the front.
And still the Tervingi climbed higher.
###
Then the path sloped downward, and Riothamus saw the lands beyond the Great Mountains.
A vast green forest, stretching to the west and to the south as far as his eye could see. To the north of the forest he saw plains, wide grasslands, rolling away to the horizon.
“What is this place?” said Riothamus.
He heard a creak of armor, and Ragnachar stepped beside Aegidia.
“Those who dwell here call it the Great Southern Forest,” said Ragnachar, voice quiet. “And to the north is our new homeland, the plain called the Grim Marches.”
Chapter 10 – Tournament
Six months after the strange earthquake, Mazael walked the ramparts of Castle Cravenlock.
It was a fine spring day, and the banners of his guests billowed from the poles atop the keep. The dragon of Lord Richard. The dragon-headed man of Lord Jonaril Mandrake. The black crow on green of Sir Tanam Crowley. The castle-and-mountain sigil of Lord Robert Highgate, and a dozen others. Guests filled Castle Cravenlock to overflowing, with the lesser knights and armsmen bedding down on cots in the great hall. Outside the walls stood the camps of his guests, their banners flying. Tempers had flared in such close quarters, and Mazael’s men had locked up a dozen visiting armsmen to sleep off an excess of beer and wine.
Yet Mazael found himself in a fine mood.
It was, after all, the day after his wedding.
A man stood on the ramparts, gazing at the camps. He was in his early sixties, still strong and vigorous, with white-streaked red hair and beard. It made it look as if raging flames wreathed his head. He wore armor fashioned from crimson chain mail and the scales of a red dragon, and his eyes were black and hard.
Rather like Lucan’s, in fact.
“Lord Mazael,” said Richard Mandragon, Lord of Swordgrim and liege lord of the Grim Marches.
“Lord Richard,” said Mazael.
“An auspicious day, the first of your marriage,” said Richard. “Traditionally a day when great good or great evil begins.”
“I was hoping for great good,” said Mazael.
Richard looked over the plains. “Great evil is more likely.”
Mazael shifted his weight. Lion hung in its scabbard at his belt, and he felt his hand twitch toward it. For an instant he saw himself drawing the sword and taking off Richard’s head, then hunting down Toraine…
No.
He made himself rest his hands on the battlement.
“Great evil, my lord?” said Mazael. “I hope that is not a criticism of the wedding feast. My cooks shall be crushed.”
Richard ignored the joke. “The civil war that tears the Grim Marches apart might begin today.”
“If it does,” said Mazael, “I will not be the one who begins it.”
“Nor will I,” said Richard. “But we are mortal. Our desire for peace is for naught if those who follow us desire war.”
“There is no need for our successors to desire war,” said Mazael. “You fear that Lord Malden or Lord Tobias will try to claim Castle Cravenlock on behalf of my sister’s son. But they cannot if Molly inherits Castle Cravenlock after my death.”
“Your daughter is a bastard,” said Richard, “and Aldane Roland the legitimate son of your sister. Lord Malden hates me, and will use any excuse he can to launch a war against me.”
“Lord Malden is old and sick,” said Mazael. “From what Rachel and Gerald have said in their letters, he might not live out the year.”
“Lord Tobias, then,” said Richard, “when Lord Malden dies. Tobias is young and eager for war.”
“He also must hold his new lands in Mastaria,” said Mazael. “Knightcastle claimed the lion’s share after the Dominiar Order collapsed, and Tobias will have his hands full holding Mastaria. I doubt he’ll try to attack Castle Cravenlock in his nephew’s name.”
“Once Toraine is liege lord,” said Richard, “he may try to kill your daughter and claim Castle Cravenlock. Or he may try to simply kill you. You will likely outlive me, my lord Mazael, unless some mischance strikes. When Toraine is liege lord, he might try to kill both you and your daughter.”
Mazael laughed. “Let him try. I’ve faced Malrags, San-keth, and Demonsouled, my lord Richard. I’ve faced a dragon.” He gestured at the golden scales glimmering over his chain mail. “Your son the Black Dragon does not scare me at all.”
Richard was silent for a long moment.
“Why her?” he said at last.
“Molly?” said Mazael. “She is the only child I am likely to have. And…”
Richard frowned. “Not her. Lady Romaria. Why wed her?”
Mazael blinked, surprised.
“Her brother is lord of Deepforest Keep,” said Richard, “yet she brings you no lands, no advantages. She has no powerful allies, and Deepforest Keep is too far to intervene on your behalf in any war. Why then wed her?”
“Because I love her,” said Mazael.
Richard scoffed. “Love? Love is a word, Lord Mazael. Love does not put food in a man’s stomach. Neither does it keep the peace or bring victory in war.”
It was not hard to see why Toraine and Lucan had become the sort of men that they were.
“Perhaps,” said Mazael. “But she has saved my life more times than I can remember, has stood by me in some very dark times.” And she knew the truth about his demon-tainted soul, had kept it from corrupting him at a terrible cost to herself.
And still she had not fled from him.
“So be it,” said Richard.
“Besides,” said Mazael, voice quiet. “Nothing we can do will guarantee peace. War is in the very nature of man.” And Demonsouled, too. “And even if the lords of the Grim Marches lived in perfect amity…a threat would come, one that no one foresaw. Like the Malrags. Or the San-keth. Or some other invader.”
“Nevertheless,” said Richard, “until my strength fails, I will fight to maintain the peace and security of my lands.”
“As will I,” said Mazael.
“Then we are in accord,” said Richard. “Enough of this talk. You mean
to ride in the tournament?”
“I do,” said Mazael.
Richard lifted an eyebrow. “A tournament in your own honor, and you ride in it?”
“It would be churlish not to,” said Mazael. “And Romaria will shoot for the archery prize.”
Richard shook his head. “I doubt not her valor, having seen it in the fight against Ultorin’s Malrags, but your wife is a peculiar woman, my lord Mazael.”
Mazael grinned. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
###
The tournament grounds sprawled outside Cravenlock Town’s walls.
Neville, the town’s mayor, had been busy for weeks, flattening the ground for the jousting lists, erecting wooden stands to hold spectators, and fencing off areas for visiting nobles and merchants. The tournament had turned into something of a merchant fair, and peddlers and hawkers from across the realm had gathered outside the lists, selling a vast array of goods. Crowds milled through the tents – it seemed that every village for a week’s journey in all directions had come to watch the tournament.
Mazael rode through the press atop his horse, an ill-tempered destrier named Hauberk. Rufus and several pages followed on their horses, bearing his arms and armor. A raised box had been built for the chief nobles and their wives, and Mazael rode for it.
He dropped out of the saddle. “Take Hauberk to the end of the lists,” said Mazael. “I’ll join you before the heralds call my name.”
“Aye, my lord,” said Rufus. He led Hauberk and the pages toward the lists.
Romaria waited for Mazael in the box, clad in leather and wool, a quiver of arrows on her hip and her composite bow slung over her back. She grinned when she saw him, and he walked over and kissed her.
“Lord husband,” she said.
Mazael smiled. “Lady wife.”
He took her arm in his and went to greet the chief nobles of the Grim Marches.
“Congratulations, my lord and lady,” said Sir Tanam Crowley, a middle-aged knight with a hatchet-shaped face and a shock of black hair. Men nicknamed him the Old Crow, and he had served as Lord Richard’s chief scout for years. There was no finer commander of horsemen in the Grim Marches. “I never expected you to wed.”
Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) Page 11
