"My lord?" said Tanam.
Mazael blinked, shook his mind free from its dark speculations. "Then that is good news, Sir Tanam. To defeat the Malrags, we need only find this Demonsouled and kill him." Or her, thought Mazael, remembering Morebeth. "Once we do, the Malrags will turn upon each other, and we can destroy their warbands one by one."
Tanam grinned and clapped Mazael on the shoulder. "I look forward to it."
"As do I," said Mazael.
But he spoke with a confidence he did not feel. Three times now, he had faced another Demonsouled. The Old Demon had almost corrupted and killed him. Amalric had come within a hair's breadth of killing him, and Morebeth had almost seduced him. Only chance, or fate, or the intervention of the gods, had saved Mazael.
He had no wish to face another Demonsouled.
But he would not abandon his people to the Malrags' cruelty and butchery. If he had to fight another Demonsouled, he would. Whatever the cost to himself.
Tanam looked across the hall. "My lord Richard would speak with you, I think."
Mazael nodded and crossed his great hall, exchanging words with the lords and knights he as passed. Lucan Mandragon stood at the foot of the dais, draped in his black cloak, face shadowed beneath his hood. The black metal staff rested in his right hand. Mazael rarely saw Lucan without that staff, now.
Lord Richard Mandragon waited besides his younger son.
He was a vigorous man in his late forties, and the streaks of white threading the Dragonslayer's red hair and beard made it took as if a mane of fire wreathed his lean face. He wore gleaming red armor, its overlapping scales taken from the great red dragon he had slain in his youth. His black eyes were like discs of coal , and they displayed neither anger nor fear. Mazael could not recall ever hearing Lord Richard raise his voice in anger, not once.
Yet no one in Castle Cravenlock's great hall would dare to betray him. Not even Toraine and Lucan.
"Lord Mazael," said Lord Richard, his voice deep and resonant. "Thank you for hosting this gathering."
Mazael bowed with more respect than he had shown Toraine. "It must be done, my lord. The Malrags threaten us all."
"Indeed," said Lord Richard. "This is the gravest threat the Grim Marches have faced since the San-keth took control of Lord Adalon and Lord Mitor. But we destroyed that threat, and we shall destroy the Malrags. Utterly."
Beneath his hood, Lucan's lip curled in contempt, but he said nothing.
"Might I ask how?" said Mazael. "I assume you have a plan?"
"I do," said Lord Richard. "Too long we have been on the defensive against the Malrags. It is time to bring the fight to them. My knights and vassals have gathered their men. Tomorrow we shall ride out and show the Malrags what it means to wage war in the Grim Marches."
Lord Richard stepped atop the dais and lifted his hand, and silence fell over the great hall.
"My lords of the Grim Marches," said Lord Richard, his voice falling over the crowd. "You have come at my call, bound by your oaths, but many of you have already faced the Malrags in battle. And for those of you who remain untouched by war, it is only a matter of time. The Malrags threaten us all, and we must combine our strength to overcome the Malrags and wipe them from the face of the earth." He beckoned. “Sir Tanam?”
Tanam Crowley cleared his throat and crossed to the dais. “My men have been scouting the Malrags. Warbands range back and forth across the eastern Grim Marches, but the bulk of the Malrags are gathered in the foothills of the Great Mountains. There are at least fifty thousand of them. Maybe even as many as sixty thousand.”
Silence answered his pronouncement. If every lord and every knight called every man able to bear arms, the Grim Marches could muster twenty-five thousand fighting men, maybe thirty thousand.
“Then our path is clear,” said Lord Jonaril Mandrake, a stout man with arms like oak trees. “We must withdraw behind our castle walls and prepare for a siege, and wait for aid from the king and the other lords.”
“Wars are not won by hiding behind stone walls,” said Lord Richard, “and the king cares nothing for us, and the other lords of the realm would be more than glad to take our lands after the Malrags have slain us. No, if we are to save ourselves, we must do so with our own hands.”
“How, then?” said Lord Astor Hawking, a thin man with an ascetic face.
Lord Richard gestured to the side. Each of the lords had brought their court wizards, and they stood in silence a corner of the hall, clad in their long black coats and cloaks. Timothy stood with them, looking solemn.
“The wizards,” said Lord Richard, “have told me of the nature of the Malrags, how they are soulless things, animated by evil spirits, controlled by cruelty and base impulse. Without a powerful leader to hold them together, they will turn upon each other, even in the face of their enemies. And almost certainly this leader is a powerful Demonsouled. Sir Tanam’s men have seen a horseman in black armor leading the Malrags – and we all know that the Malrags do not ride horses. Our task, then, is a simple one. We shall find this Demonsouled and kill him. Once the Malrag warbands turn upon each other, we will destroy them one by one.”
“And how shall we do that?” said Lord Jonaril. “Surely this Demonsouled creature is no fool.”
“Neither are we,” said Lord Richard. “Our great advantage is cavalry. The Malrags do not use beasts in warfare, it seems, and the plains of the Grim Marches favor horsemen. We shall use this to our advantage. The greater part of the footmen shall remain in the towns and castles, garrisoning them from Malrag attack. Our horsemen will gather in force, and attack Malrag warbands one by one, overwhelming them. Sooner or later the Demonsouled leader will throw the bulk of his forces at us, or come in person to deal with our threat.” Lord Richard closed his fist. “And then we shall have him. If he has arcane abilities, our wizards will overwhelm him. Once he is slain, the Malrags will turn on each other, and we can destroy the warbands at our leisure.”
It was a good plan.
But Mazael doubted that it would be so simple.
Chapter 8 - The Grand Master
Word came from Mazael’s scouts the morning after the feast. Eight hundred Malrags had been spotted a few hours east of Castle Cravenlock, moving to the southeast, away from both the town and the castle. Yet a half-dozen small villages lay in their path.
If the Malrags wanted to cross Mazael’s lands, they would pay a toll in blood.
He paused only long enough to send a message to Sir Tanam Crowley.
Mazael rode out at the head of three hundred horsemen, knights, armsmen, and archers, with Sir Hagen, Sir Aulus, Timothy, and Lucan at his side. Lion rested against Mazael’s hip, a heavy lance ready in his right hand. The knights and the mounted armsmen followed him in a column, the horse archers covering the flanks.
It did not take long to find the Malrag warband. Mazael saw the column of dust first, the Malrags’ armored boots churning at the dry earth. Then he saw the Malrags themselves, the warband hastening across the plains like some great black predator.
A predator that turned to face Mazael’s men.
“They’ve seen us,” said Hagen. He rubbed his close-cropped black beard and pulled on his helm.
“Good,” said Mazael. “If they wish to visit my lands, it’s only proper that we should greet them. Sir Aulus! Sound the halt, and release the archers!”
Sir Aulus lifted his horn to his lips. The thin knight blew a long blast on the horn, and Mazael’s horsemen came to a halt. Another three short blasts in quick succession, and the mounted archers galloped forward. They rode small, quick horses, and bore light leather armor, a powerful short bow, and three quivers of arrows. The archers were neither knights nor armsmen, but militiamen, common peasants pressed into service against the Malrags. Most of the Grim Marches’ commoners labored as farmers, but quite a few tended flocks of sheep and cattle.
Which meant that many of them had been born in the saddle, and learned how to shoot from horseback at an early age.
The archers galloped back and forth before the Malrag line, loosing arrow after arrow. The arrows plunged into black armor, and Mazael heard roars and bellows of pain, a few of the Malrags even toppling to the earth.
The warband wheeled, chasing after their tormentors. But the archers raced away, twisting in the saddle to release another barrage of arrows. More Malrags fell, trampled beneath their enraged comrades.
“Aulus,” said Mazael. “Have them break!”
Aulus blew another series of blasts. The horse archers broke into three groups and fled in different directions. The maneuver went off smoothly; Sir Hagen’s endless drilling of the militia had paid off. The Malrags scattered, attempting to chase down the archers.
“Aulus!” said Mazael, raising his lance and slinging his shield over his left arm. “The charge! Now!”
Aulus sounded a long blast, and Mazael kicked Challenger to a gallop, the big destrier surging forward with a snort of excitement. Behind him the knights and armsmen gave a shout and galloped after Mazael. Lucan and Timothy remained behind, ready to deal with any Malrag shamans.
The Malrags could not miss the thunderous charge of two hundred heavy horse, and tried to scramble into a spear wall. But they had scattered too far in pursuit, and the knights charged too fast. Mazael braced himself, his armored boots digging into his stirrups, and aimed his lance. A heartbeat latter Challenger crashed into the Malrag line, the lance plunging through a Malrag’s chest, another dying beneath Challenger’s steel-shod hooves. Some of his knights were thrown to the ground, cut down by Malrag axes, and others fell, their horses slain, but a score of Malrags perished for every one one of Mazael’s men. Mazael caught a glimpse of the balekhan in its black plate armor, but a moment later the balekhan disappeared in a storm of flashing hooves.
The Malrags broke and ran.
Mazael reined up, his lance's head dark with Malrag blood. "Sir Aulus!" He looked around for his herald. "Sir Aulus!" Aulus trotted his horse over, one hand gripping the lance with the black Cravenlock standard, the other holding a bloody sword. "Sound the recall! We'll ride the rest of them down, kill them one by..."
"Lord Mazael!" Sir Hagen galloped to Mazael's side, pointing with his war axe. "Lord Mazael, look!"
Mazael turned, frowning.
He saw dark shapes perhaps two miles to the north, marching in precise order, black spears and axes glinting in the morning sunlight. Malrags. Another warband, at least five or six hundred strong. A warband with its own balekhan, and perhaps a shaman or two. Once the fleeing Malrags reached the balekhan, it would take command, and Mazael would face nearly a thousand Malrags with only three hundred horsemen.
He did not like those odds.
"Sir Aulus!" he bellowed. "Sound the recall. The men are to reform. We'll take action once we see what that second warband does." In war, it was better to force an enemy to respond, rather than to respond to the foe’s actions. But until Mazael saw what the second warband intended, he dared not risk his men's lives in a futile charge.
Aulus stood up in his saddle, sounding the recall. One by one, Mazael's men broke off their pursuit and galloped back to Aulus's standard, moving into their place in the formation. Mazael's hand tightened around his lance, his gauntlet creaking, and he watched the fleeing Malrags join the new warband. He expected them to charge, to march forward, even to howl their bloodcurdling war cries.
But instead the Malrags stood motionless and silent. Waiting. But for what?
He looked around, saw Timothy and Lucan nearby.
"Timothy," said Mazael. "Those Malrags. Any shamans among them?"
Timothy's eyelids fluttered, his bearded lips moving, his right hand clenched tight about his wire-wrapped quartz crystal. "I don't think...wait. There's one. Just one. But, gods...strong." His eyes snapped open. "My lord, there's a human wizard among them, a powerful one."
"A human wizard?" said Mazael. Was the wizard the Demonsouled in command of the Malrags? Mazael possessed no magical ability, and neither had Amalric or Morebeth. But the Old Demon was a wizard of crushing power. "Demonsouled?"
"Perhaps. I...can't tell."
"There's another source of power among them," murmured Lucan, pointing with his staff. "Not a wizard, I think. Not even human. But strong nonetheless."
"Demonsouled?" said Mazael. Timothy, he knew, could not sense the presence of a Demonsouled. Otherwise he would have realized Mazael's secret long ago. But Lucan had some means of doing so.
"Perhaps," muttered Lucan. "I can't tell. It seems like...Demonsouled power, yes. But as if it's contained, somehow...like in an object."
He frowned, and glanced at his metal staff, for some reason.
Hagen cursed and pointed with his axe again. "Horsemen. Flying the Dominiar banner."
A group of Malrags emerged from the warband, one of them carrying a black banner with the silver Dominiar star. In their midst rode two horsemen. One wore a heavy black cloak, not very different from Lucan's. The other rider was much larger, and wore ornate black plate armor, the same sort of armor once worn by Dominiar commanders.
A Demonsouled Dominiar knight? Mazael remembered Amalric Galbraith, the sword of the Destroyer a crimson inferno in his fist.
The rider in the black cloak stood up the stirrups, hand gesturing in a spell.
"Parley!" His voice boomed over the distance separating Mazael's men and the Malrags. "Parley! The Grand Master wishes to speak with Lord Mazael! Come with one companion, and the Grand Master will parley with Lord Mazael!"
"My lord, do not," said Hagen. "It is a trap, plainly."
"Plainly," said Mazael.
"Undoubtedly they will kill you if you walk into their hands," said Timothy.
"They can try," said Mazael. "But if that big fellow on the horse is the Demonsouled in command of the Malrags, and I can get him within reach of Lion...that would be well worth the risk. And if he is indeed the Demonsouled and we can kill him, our lives will be well spent. Lucan! Come with me. Hagen! You have command until I return." He handed over his lance to Hagen. "If the Malrags show any sign of treachery, attack."
"But..." said Timothy, Aulus, and Hagen in unison.
"Do as I say," said Mazael. He turned Challenger around, and rode from his men, Lucan riding alongside him. After a moment the black-armored man and the rider in the black cloak rode out from the Malrags.
They met in the middle, halfway between the Malrag warband and Mazael's horsemen, and stared at each other in silence. The black-armored rider had the hilt of a two-handed greatsword rising over his shoulder. Besides him the second horseman sat in his saddle, wrapped in his black cloak. The wind tugged at the cloak, and Mazael saw a long black coat beneath the cloak.
A black wizard’s coat.
The cloaked man drew back his hood. He was in his late fifties or early sixties, with a lean, lined face, pale blue eyes, and a wild shock of white hair. A small smile danced over his thin lips, as if secret jest amused him. He looked at Mazael, at Lucan, and then back at Mazael.
“You realize,” he said, his voice sonorous, “that if we sit here in silence, this meeting is going to be dreadfully tedious.”
“Then perhaps you ought to say something worth listening to,” said Mazael. “Such as why you are riding with the Malrags. Or why one of you, or perhaps both of you, are commanding the Malrags. Or why the Malrags have attacked my lands and killed my people without justification. Or why I simply shouldn’t kill the both of you.”
The armored man shifted, and the cloaked man chuckled. “Really, my lord Mazael. Such bluster. We shall never accomplish anything, if you are so quick to violence.”
“You have me at a disadvantage,” said Mazael. “You know my name and title, but I do not know yours.”
The cloaked man’s smile widened. “Fair enough. I am called Malavost, once of Alborg, and I have no title.” Lucan stirred. “Ah. The Dragon’s Shadow recognizes the name, I see. Very good. That will save much tedious explanation.”
The
armored man pulled off his black helm. Beneath it he had a broad face, with iron-colored hair, a close-cropped iron-colored beard, and iron-colored eyes. Unlike Malavost, he did not smile. In fact, his gray eyes blazed with hate as they stared at Mazael.
“And I,” said the Dominiar knight, “am Ultorin, Grand Master of the Dominiar Order.”
“Grand Master? Of what? There is no more Dominiar Order,” said Mazael.
Ultorin bared his teeth in a snarl. “Because you murdered the last Grand Master, Amalric Galbraith, and you butchered our brother knights below the walls of Tumblestone.”
“Amalric was Demonsouled,” said Mazael, “and he led your brother knights on a trail of rape and butchery through the Old Kingdoms and Knightrealm. He deserved his fate, and you were a fool to follow him.”
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