Lord Mitor’s rebellion had come to a sudden and ignominious end.
2
The Lord of Castle Cravenlock
“My lord?”
Mazael turned, saw Adalar standing in the door. “Yes?
“Lord Richard has ridden up from the camp. He would like to speak with you on the ramparts,” said Adalar.
“Very well,” said Mazael. “Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”
He snatched up his cloak and tossed it around his shoulders. The weather had turned unseasonably cold in the last week. It was a blessing. The colder air had kept the bodies from rotting until they had all been burned. Plague would have been the last thing the ravaged lands of Castle Cravenlock needed.
Mazael swept down the spiraling stairs of the King’s Tower, passing the spot where he had walked into Romaria. He had ordered her body interred in the castle’s crypt and sent a message through Sil Tarithyn to Lord Athaelin in Deepforest Keep. He doubted he would receive a response.
It had made him feel better, if only for a moment.
In the courtyard, Sir Nathan and Sir Gerald drilled the surviving Cravenlock armsmen. Nathan had sorted through them, keeping those he had deemed trustworthy, and sending away the rest. All told, Castle Cravenlock had lost half of its armsmen.
Master Cramton stood on the steps to the keep and bellowed orders. Mazael had made him the castle’s seneschal, and the former innkeeper had risen to the task, mobilizing the castle’s host of demoralized and frightened servants. Battle damage was repaired, corpses removed, and food provided for the many guests and soldiers. Bethy was now mistress of the kitchens. Mazael had not eaten so well since he had left Knightcastle.
He spotted Lord Richard on the northern wall, his crimson armor gleaming in the morning sunlight. His son Toraine stood at his side, a dark reflection in black armor, while Lucan remained apart, wrapped in his dark cloak. The rumors said Toraine had acquitted himself well in the battle, but they also said Lucan had called up hellfire and lightning, and used them to slaughter San-keth worshippers by the dozen.
Mazael climbed the stairs up to the rampart.
“Ah,” said Lord Richard. “Lord Mazael. Please, join us.”
“I believe I already have,” said Mazael.
“Indeed,” said Lord Richard. “Toraine, Lucan, leave. Lord Mazael and I have matters to discuss.”
Toraine grumbled and walked away. Lucan left without a word.
“My sons vex me, at times,” Lord Richard said. “Sometimes I fear to leave Swordgrim and the Grim Marches in Toraine’s hands when I die.” He looked out over the plains and the wreckage of battle.
“They don’t seem very fond of each other,” said Mazael.
Lord Richard almost smiled. “I have done much in my life, but perhaps my sons are my greatest failure. I should not have left them entirely to their mother’s care. She was a fool.”
Mazael thought of Lady Arissa and nodded.
“But the past is gone. To dwell upon it is folly,” said Lord Richard. “It is the future that must concern us now.” He paused. “I understand you have made Sir Gerald Roland your armsmaster.”
“That’s right,” said Mazael.
“Explain,” said Lord Richard.
Mazael shrugged. “Sir Nathan wouldn’t take the job. Claims he’s too old. I shouted at him until I turned hoarse, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Sir Nathan is a capable man, but he is old,” said Lord Richard. “He is right to insist that a younger man take up his duties. And your young Sir Gerald seems most skillful, from what I have observed. Yet there are certainly many qualified knights for the duty. Why have you picked a Roland?”
Mazael laughed. “Are you afraid that I’m going to ally with Lord Malden against you?”
“It is a possibility,” said Lord Richard.
“No,” said Mazael, “it is not. I am tired of war. I’ve chosen Sir Gerald for three reasons. First, as I have said, I will not continue my idiot brother’s war against you. Second, because of this, Lord Malden will not take up arms against you either. For all his flaws, Lord Malden loves his sons. So long as Gerald is my armsmaster, and I am not at war with you, he will not rise. Third, I plan to give my sister in marriage to Gerald.”
Lord Richard raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”
“Gerald always took pity on Rachel, even when I favored executing her,” said Mazael. “And he is more compassionate than I. They will go well together, I believe.”
“Perhaps,” said Lord Richard. He looked out over the Marches. “I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Take Lucan as my court wizard?” said Mazael.
Lord Richard did not look surprised. “My sons despise one another. For their sake, and for the sake of the land, they must be kept apart. Now, I know you planned to take Timothy deBlanc, as your court wizard...”
“I can have two,” said Mazael. “They seem to work together well enough. And Timothy has his hands full examining and destroying the items found in the San-keth temple. Lucan’s aid would be welcome.”
“I am most pleased with your progress in this,” said Lord Richard. “Twice now I have faced an uprising of a San-keth cult in Castle Cravenlock. I have no desire to do so a third time. Had I known there was such an extensive temple complex hidden here, I would have razed the castle and killed all the Cravenlocks.”
“I’m rather glad you didn’t,” said Mazael.
“My others vassals grow restless,” said Lord Richard. “I shall depart for Swordgrim by noon. I am certain your hands are capable of attending to matters here. Do not fail me in this.”
“I shall not,” said Mazael. Lord Richard nodded and left.
Mazael watched him go. He felt tired and sad, but not angry. The maddening rage had not surfaced since Mitor’s death and the Old Demon's defeat. The healing was still there, as were the speed and strength, but Mazael suspected that they had become part of him forever. He remembered what Silar had told him of Demonsouled who had conquered their darker half. Perhaps he had done so, but at cost of Romaria’s life. Were it not for her, he would have become as monstrous as Mattias.
“Thank you, Romaria,” whispered Mazael. His fingers brushed the holy symbol dangling from his belt. “And thank you.”
Grief hung on him for a moment as he thought of Othar and Romaria. He even felt sadness for his brother and his poor, cuckolded father. He sighed and clenched his fist. As Lord Richard had said, the past was gone.
He had work to do.
Mazael left the ramparts and walked back into his castle.
THE END
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Lord Mazael Cravenlock left the camp and watched the sun rise over the Grim Marches, as he did every morning. The dawn seemed to paint the winter-brown plains the color of blood.
Mazael scowled, his bearded jaw clenching.
The blood might prove real, soon enough.
“My lord?”
A stern-faced boy of about fifteen years stepped to Mazael’s side, carrying a pile of armor.
Mazael nodded. “Adalar. I am ready.”
Adalar Greatheart grunted. “Hold out your arms, my lord.”
Mazael complied. The dawn’s bloody rays slanted into the camp, throwing long black shadows. Squires hastened back and forth, bearing arms and armor, polishing shields and sharpening swords. Bacon sizzled over the campfires, and horses neighed and grunted.
Despite his rise to the lordship of Castle Cravenlock, Mazael still wore the battered armor from his days as a wandering, landless knight; a mail shirt, scarred steel cuirass, leather gauntlets, and a helmet. A black surcoat with the House of Craven
lock’s three crossed swords was his sole mark of rank.
Around his waist went a worn leather belt with a battered scabbard. In the scabbard rested a magnificent longsword with a golden pommel shaped like a lion’s head.
“Send Sir Gerald to me,” said Mazael, “and get yourself something to eat before we set out.”
“My lord,” said Adalar.
“And I mean it,” said Mazael, pointing. “Eat something. The other squires can manage themselves long enough for you to eat.”
Adalar flashed a rare grin. The boy was sterner than his father, sometimes. “My lord.”
Mazael shook his head, crossed his arms, and watched the camp. He had forty knights and their attendant squires with him. More than enough for what he had in mind.
Or so he hoped.
Armor clanked, and Mazael looked over his shoulder. A young, gold-haired man in polished plate and a fine blue surcoat emblazoned with a stylized greathelm walked towards Mazael, followed by a dour, pimpled squire of about thirteen.
“Gerald,” said Mazael to his armsmaster. “Are we ready?”
“Soon enough,” said Gerald. He scratched a mustache trimmed with razor precision. “We’ll be ready to ride soon. Mayhap these ruffians will see reason.”
Mazael snorted. “And maybe we’ll all sit down for a feast afterwards.”
Gerald shrugged. “It does seem unlikely. Wesson! Fetch some breakfast, please.”
The pimpled squire grunted and hastened to the cook fires.
“No, it’ll come down to steel,” said Mazael. “We’ve dealt with these bands before. Lord Richard killed most of Mitor’s damned mercenaries, but the survivors have failed to appreciate the lesson.”
“Slow fellows,” said Gerald. “A pity your brother didn’t think to hire smarter mercenaries.”
“Mitor never thought of anything,” said Mazael, scowling at the mention of his dead brother, the previous Lord of Castle Cravenlock. “And if he had hired smarter mercenaries, he might still be alive.”
“No loss, that,” said Gerald. Wesson returned, bearing some bread and bacon. “Perhaps we can talk some sense into this band.”
“Not likely.”
Gerald shook his head. “You always take such a bleak view,” he said, around a mouthful of bacon.
“And I’m usually right,” said Mazael. He raised his voice. “Break camp and mount up! Move! I want to be at White Rock before midday!”
The squires began rolling up tents and rounding up the horses. Mazael took a piece of Gerald’s bacon and watched the camp vanish. Soon the toiling squires loaded the pack animals, the knights mounted their horses, and they were ready.
A thin knight with a pinched face and a scraggly mustache rode towards Mazael. In his left hand he carried a tall lance crowned with the black-and-silver Cravenlock banner.
“Sir Aulus?” said Mazael.
“My lord,” said Sir Aulus Hirdan, his deep voice incongruous against his wasted appearance. “We are ready.”
“Good,” said Mazael. Adalar returned, leading a large, ill-tempered destrier. The horse looked like it wanted to bite someone. Mazael stepped to the beast’s side, running his hand along its neck. The big horse stamped and snorted, throwing its mane.
“Well, Chariot,” said Mazael to his war horse. “Once again. You’ll kill someone before the day’s done.”
Chariot almost looked pleased.
Mazael sprang up into the saddle. The squires mounted their palfreys, leading the pack horses, and rode to the side of their knights.
“We ought to say a prayer before we ride out,” said Gerald.
“Steel will settle this, not the gods,” said Mazael.
“The gods watch over all mortal affairs,” said Gerald
“Aye,” said Mazael, closing his eyes. He knew that very well, knew it far better than Gerald. “Ride out!”
They rode away to the south.
###
A few hours later they came to the village of White Rock, near the silent, looming trees of the Great Southern Forest. The village itself huddled within a stout palisade of sharpened logs. White Rock had survived Lord Richard Mandragon’s conquest of the Grim Marches, Lord Mitor’s failed rebellion, and a small army of corpses animated by necromantic arts.
Compared to that, a band of sixty ragged mercenaries seemed a small threat. And Mazael was determined that no harm would befall White Rock. The village had sworn him loyalty, and Mazael had promised protection.
He drew his knights in a line facing both White Rock and the mercenary camp. White Rock had proven inhospitable to the mercenaries, to judge from the arrow-ridden corpses near the palisade’s gate.
“Rabble,” said Mazael. He rarely became angry, not since Romaria’s death, but faint flicker of anger burned in his chest. These scum dared to prey upon his lands, his people?
“Perhaps they’ll be wise enough to stand down,” said Gerald, reining in at Mazael’s side.
Mazael snorted. “Perhaps. Aulus!”
Sir Aulus spurred his horse forward, the Cravenlock banner flapping, his right hand raised in parley. The ragged mercenaries turned and faced him, muttering with interest.
“Hear ye all!” Aulus called, his stentorian voice booming over the plains. “Mazael, Lord of Castle Cravenlock, commands you to lay down your arms and depart peacefully from his lands at once. Amnesty shall be offered to those who surrender!”
A chorus of jeers and ragged laughs went up. The largest of the mercenaries, a hulking brute in rusty mail, whirled and dropped his trousers.
“Disgraceful,” said Gerald. Aulus turned and galloped back to Mazael’s line.
“I told you,” said Mazael. He reached down and drew his longsword. Lion’s blade gleamed like blue ice in the dull winter sunlight.
“They’ve no respect for you,” said Gerald, shaking his head.
“Of course not,” said Mazael. “I’m Mitor’s younger brother. Mitor was fat and weak and stupid. Why should I be any different?”
Of course, Mazael was only Mitor’s half-brother. But Gerald didn’t know that, and neither did the mercenaries.
If they had known Mazael’s true father, they might have regarded him differently.
With outright terror, most likely.
Gerald grinned, drawing his own blade. “Shall we teach them otherwise?”
“I suppose so,” said Mazael.
In his younger days, he had felt a raging joy at the prospect of battle, a ferocious and delighted bloodlust. Since Romaria had died, he had felt nothing of the sort. Now he felt only disgust and a vague weariness. This was necessary, and nothing more.
But if he had to fight, he would fight well.
He adjusted his helm, pointed Lion at the mercenaries, and kicked Chariot to a gallop. The big horse snorted and rumbled forward. A half-second later Mazael’s knights surged after him, swords and lances gleaming.
The mercenaries gaped at them for a moment, then lunged for their weapons in a scrambled panic. They managed to form into a ragged line, but too late to stop the knights. Mazael beat aside a spear, reversed Lion, and took off a mercenary’s head in a sweeping backhand. Chariot ran down another, pummeling the man to bloody pulp.
The knights tore through the line of mercenaries. Nearly half had been cut down, without loss to Mazael’s men, while the rest fled in all directions.
“Reform!” yelled Mazael, wheeling Chariot around. “Another charge!”
“Stand, lads!” roared the big mercenary in the rusty mail shirt, brandishing a ridged mace. “Stand and fight, if you don’t want to die!”
Some of the mercenaries kept running. Others turned, gripped their weapons, and set themselves. Mazael guided Chariot towards the mercenary leader, raising Lion for an overhand slash.
The mercenary snarled and flung his mace at the last minute, jumping out of Chariot’s path. The mace’s head crashed into Mazael’s breastplate with a shriek of tortured metal. Mazael hissed in pain, heard something crack within his chest.
He reeled in the saddle, Lion dangling from his grasp. The mercenary yanked a dagger free and sprang, howling, and Mazael thrust out. The mercenary impaled himself and died twitching.
Mazael kicked the dying man free and found that the battle had ended. Most of the mercenaries lay dead and dying, the brown grasses stained with red blood. The few survivors stood in a ring of scowling knights. Mazael grunted in pain and trotted Chariot towards the ring. He knew the pain well; he had broken ribs more than once.
The pain lessened as he rode, an odd tingling spreading through his chest.
“Mazael!” Gerald rode towards him, blood dripping from the length of his longsword. “Are you well? I saw that mace hit you…”
“I’ll be fine,” said Mazael.
“Perhaps you should…”
“I said I’ll be fine,” said Mazael, trying not to growl. “Any losses?”
“None,” said Gerald. Wesson rode up and set to work cleaning Gerald’s sword. “I think you were the only one wounded.”
“Embarrassing,” said Mazael. He jerked his head at the captured mercenaries. “How many prisoners?”
“Seven,” said Gerald. Adalar joined them, cast a concerned look at Mazael.
“Seven,” repeated Mazael. “Good enough. Question them.”
“Why?” said Gerald.
“We’ve taken a half-dozen of these mercenary bands in the last three months,” said Mazael. “Mercenaries love easy plunder, not armed opposition. They should have fled long ago.” He took a long, painful breath. “I think someone’s hiring them.”
Gerald looked stunned. “Who would do such a thing?”
“I don’t know,” said Mazael. “Not all my vassals were pleased to see me replace Mitor.” He shrugged. “Lord Richard, maybe. Or Toraine Mandragon. Or perhaps even your father.”
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