Mask of Swords

by Jonathan Moeller

  A glowing shape darted through the melee, a creature that looked like a wolf with a mane of razor-edged tentacles. Shimmering mist wreathed its form, and the creature looked vaguely translucent, almost ghostly. Yet the blows it dealt were real enough, and even as Mazael looked the wolf attacked a Tervingi spearthain, the warrior ducking behind his shield as he stumbled backwards.

  Mazael had seen such creatures before. It was beast of the spirit world, summoned by a wizard to attack his foes.

  “Sir Hagen!” said Mazael. “Aid Toric. Find the wizard if you can. I will deal with his creatures.”

  “Take them!” shouted Hagen, raising his hammer, and the armsmen charged into the fray. The Tervingi fought with renewed vigor at the sight of allies. Mazael cut down a surprised valgast and sprang at the wolf. The creature turned away from the wounded spearthain and snapped at Mazael, its tentacles lashing like whips. Mazael slashed with Talon, severing the tentacles, and the spirit creature reared back in pain. He drove his curved blade down, slicing through the wolf’s body, and it dissolved into gray mist, disappearing back into the spirit world.

  The wounded spearthain staggered to his feet, and Mazael waded into the battle. A blow from his shield snapped back a valgast’s head, and two spears pierced the creature’s chest. Talon ripped across a valgast’s throat, greenish-black slime spattering across the blade, and the creature joined the others upon the ground. A second spirit beast bounded through the fight, and Mazael took its head off with a powerful blow, both head and body dissolving into mist. The valgasts were quick and deadly, but Mazael’s armsmen and the Tervingi thains were better armored. The fight was turning their way, unless the valgasts’ wizard did something…

  A bolt of flame erupted from the darkness of the ruined church and struck the ground with a roar. The blast killed one Tervingi spearthain, the man’s charred husk tumbling to the ground, and threw a half-dozen more men from their feet. The valgasts closed around them for the kill, and Mazael hewed his way through the creatures. A bone dagger shattered against his armor, and Mazael killed the valgast that had struck him.

  He cut down one more creature, and then he was through, running for the yawning, empty door to the ruined church. Half of the dome had fallen in, filling the empty space with rubble. Mazael’s eyes scanned the darkness, seeking for a wizard.

  Firelight flared in the gloom.

  A valgast stood atop the rubble in the center of the church, fire playing about its clawed hands. Compared to the others, this valgast was enormous, standing nearly five and a half feet tall. The others were various shades of venomous yellow or sickly green, but this valgast was bone white, its huge black eyes like bottomless pits. Elaborate scars had been cut into its pale hide, various magical sigils shimmering and glowing with sullen flame.

  “Ah, I see,” said the valgast wizard in the Dark Elderborn language, “the tainted one. One of the last tainted ones, it seems.”

  “Who are you and what do you want?” said Mazael.

  “I am merely a priest and a servant,” said the wizard. “I wish to harvest your people for my cattle. Great days are upon us. The ancient bonds have been dissolved, and the valgasts require strength for the conquests to come.” He pointed, the flames around his right hand brightening. “You, however, shall not be here to see it.”

  Mazael cast aside his shield and ran at the wizard. The creature let out a sneering, rasping laugh and gestured, a bolt of flames bursting from its claws. Mazael twisted at the last moment, and the blast slammed into his chest with terrific force, the flames washing over him. He bellowed in pain and fury, but his armor absorbed the worst of it.

  The scales of the great dragon he had slain at Arylkrad had endured far stronger fires.

  The wizard just had time to flinch in surprise, and then Talon plunged into his chest. Mazael ripped the blade free, and the wizard tumbled down the pile of rubble, greenish-black slime leaking from the wound in his chest.

  Mazael turned and ran back into the fray.

  ###

  A few hours later, the last of the valgasts had been slain or driven off, and Mazael stood with Toric and Sir Hagen before the ruined church.

  The loss of the wizard had demoralized the valgasts, and the creatures had fled into the darkness to the east. Mazael had commanded Toric and Hagen not to pursue, and neither the headman nor the knight argued. Many of their men had taken wounds, and all were exhausted from the fighting. Men moved from house to house, checking for the wounded and for any valgasts that might have lingered to cause mayhem later.

  “You’ve encountered these creatures before?” said Mazael.

  “Aye, hrould,” said Toric. “A long time ago. A lifetime ago, in truth.”

  “Tell me what you know about them,” said Mazael.

  “We called them the valgasts,” said Toric, rubbing his face. “I don’t know what they call themselves. They lived in the caverns of the underworld, and rarely came to the surface. When the Tervingi nation still dwelled upon the banks of the Iron River in the middle lands, some of the holds near the Endless Forest sometimes had trouble with valgast raids. They came in the dark of the night and to steal women and children and cattle and vanish with them into their caverns.”

  “The Endless Forest of the east?” said Mazael. “The Tervingi nation almost migrated that way, did it not? During the great moot?”

  “Aye,” said Toric. He shrugged. “I suggested it, for there were many Malrags to the south, and the journey to the west seemed too perilous. The moot did not approve of the idea, for the Endless Forest is infested with the soliphages, spider-devils, and we would lose many men pushing through their webs. Then Ragnachar spoke before the moot, persuaded us to come here…and you know the rest, hrould.”

  “Indeed,” said Mazael. “But we wander afield from the matter at hand. What else can you tell me about these valgasts?”

  “Little enough, I fear,” said Toric. “So bold a raid as this is unusual. They are cowardly creatures, and prefer to attack from the darkness and the shadows. The time is wrong, too.”

  “The time?” said Mazael. “Do they not prefer to attack at night?”

  “The time of the year,” said Toric. “In the middle lands, the valgasts only launched raids upon the days of midsummer and midwinter. Only those days, and no others.”

  “It’s barely spring,” said Mazael.

  Toric shrugged. “I can offer no explanation. Perhaps these valgasts are of a different nation than the ones living in the underworld below the middle lands, and therefore follow different customs, just as we Tervingi follow different customs from the folk of the Grim Marches or the Jutai.”

  “Logical enough,” said Mazael, though the answer did not satisfy him. The valgast he had killed in the hall had spoken of his father, which meant that the valgast had known he was Demonsouled. The wizard in the ruined church had said the old world was dead, that new conquests were coming. Did that mean an army of valgasts was about to descend upon the Grim Marches, just as Ultorin had led a horde of Malrags from the Great Mountains?

  The valgasts had known that he was Demonsouled, but they had been surprised to see him. Why?

  Boots slapped against the ground, and Mazael saw Rudolph Larsar hurrying towards him. The boy was a bit pale, but otherwise none the worse for wear. Most of those struck by the darts had recovered, with the younger men and women awakening sooner than the older. A few of the older men and women had not awakened at all, their hearts stopped by the drug.

  “The bondsmen have finished counting, my lord,” said Rudolph. “Five men and three women dead. They never woke up from the drugged darts.”

  “Seventeen dead in the fighting,” said Toric. “It could have been worse.”

  “Aye,” said Mazael with a scowl. It could have been worse, true, but it should have been better.

  “I don’t think the valgasts expected to find us here,” said Sir Hagen. “They weren’t prepared for us to put up a fight.”

  “We shall be more v
igilant in the future,” said Toric. “The valgasts do not seem to like bright light, so I fear we shall need to keep bonfires going at night. I suspect…”

  A rasp of stone against stone within the ruined church caught Mazael’s attention.

  He turned just as the valgast wizard staggered out of the church, fire crackling around its claws. Mazael snarled and yanked Talon from its scabbard, the symbols upon the curved blade pulsing with golden light, but the wizard let out a watery groan. The wound Mazael had carved into its chest still pulsed with black slime, and the wizard fell to its knees.

  Mazael, Toric, Hagen, and Rudolph all stared at the wizard, their weapons in hand.

  “I thought,” said Mazael at last, “that I had already killed you.”

  “You have, tainted one,” snarled the wizard. “My magic was…not enough to heal me. Soon I shall perish.” The valgast glared at him with unblinking black eyes. “But it matters not. My death will not save you from what is to come.”

  “And what is to come, hmm?” said Mazael. “A tide of valgasts sweeping across the land like a storm?”

  The wizard croaked a ghastly laugh. “Hardly. We are the masters of the deep places. What would we want with the surface? Gah! The sun is too bright and the air too cold. No, we shall merely come when we wish to harvest you as cattle. For that is all you are. Cattle, even if you knew it not.” The wizard snarled, baring its fangs. “Even the tainted ones. The Old Demon harvested for centuries, and the fools never knew it.”

  “It is neither midsummer nor midwinter,” said Mazael, wondering if he could coax the dying wizard into revealing more information, “and yet here you are.”

  “Do you not understand, fool?” said the wizard. “The pact was broken. Long ago the Old Demon imprisoned our goddess and bound us beneath the earth, permitting us to come forth only two days a year. But now the Old Demon is dead, and there is no one strong enough to stop us. Our goddess shall rule over mortals as a wolf rules over sheep. Marazadra shall rise again! And I may not live to see it…but you shall, tainted one, and you shall curse the day you were born.”

  The wizard shuddered once and went limp, bubbling black slime dripping from its fangs and onto its white hide. Mazael jabbed the creature with Talon, but the wizard showed no response. Just to be sure, he took off the wizard’s head. Had the wizard been a little stronger, it could have killed them all with a blast of flame before they even noticed.

  “What does that mean?” said Toric.

  “I don’t know, not yet,” said Mazael, though he suspected more. He would not share those thoughts with anyone but his wife, his daughter, and her husband. “But I am certain it means there is more fighting ahead of us.”

  “What shall we do now?” said Hagen.

  “It is simple,” said Mazael. “If more valgasts or their precious goddess attack us, we make them regret ever setting foot in the Grim Marches.”

  Chapter 2: The Lord of the Grim Marches

  Mazael waited another day before leaving Gray Pillar.

  He oversaw the work of treating the wounded and burying the dead. In truth, he did very little real work. He circulated among the men, praising their valor and promising vigilance against the valgasts. Men needed to know that their lord would look after them, that he would fall with terrible wrath upon any who dared threaten them.

  That was a promise Mazael fully intended to keep.

  Toric augmented the fortifications around Gray Pillar, ordering a ditch dug and spikes driven into the wall to keep the valgasts from climbing it. The work would take time, and until then Toric ordered his spearthains and swordthains to light fires and watch at night. Additionally, the scent of the valgasts had driven the griffins mad with rage, and so two skythains would patrol over the village at night. The skythains hated flying in the dark, but the griffins’ keen noses would warn them if any valgasts approached.

  Mazael led a troop of armsmen and spearthains from the village, following the trail of the retreating valgasts. It led to a cave in the foothills five miles from Gray Pillar. Mazael commanded Toric to seal it up, and the headman heartily agreed, but they both knew it would do little good. Caves riddled the Great Mountains, and many of them led to the underworld’s vast maze. For that matter, most of Gray Pillar’s wealth came from the gold mines in the hills, and Toric had just reopened some of the mines. The valgasts could use those tunnels easily enough.

  The folk of Gray Pillar would have to be vigilant, but the people of the Grim Marches were used to vigilance. They had survived the Malrag War, the Tervingi invasion, the Great Rising of the runedead, and the attack of the corrupted Justiciar Order. Mazael hoped they could survive this as well.

  He left Gray Pillar with his men the next day, riding west.

  Stakes now rose over Gray Pillar’s gate, topped with the heads of valgasts, their enormous black eyes staring into nothing.

  Perhaps that would discourage the valgasts from returning.

  ###

  Mazael expected reports of alarm and fear as he rode west, but the countryside seemed calm.

  They passed through villages of Tervingi and Marcher folk both, and nothing seemed amiss. When the Tervingi had first come to the Grim Marches, Lord Richard Mandragon had settled them on lands depopulated by Ultorin’s Malrags. He had also made sure to scatter the Tervingi across the eastern Grim Marches, preventing the Tervingi headmen from gathering a large enough piece of land to declare their own realm. After Mazael became the liege lord of the Grim Marches, there had been far more empty lands available, their former inhabitants slain by Lucan Mandragon’s runedead, and Mazael had further scattered the Tervingi. Many of Ragnachar’s former followers were not pleased that Mazael was hrould of the Tervingi nation. For that matter, many of the surviving lords of the Grim Marches were not happy about Mazael and even less happy about their new neighbors, but fear of the Tervingi kept them loyal to Mazael.

  Mazael had built a tenuous peace, one that could fly apart into bloody war at any moment. But it had held so far, and the Tervingi and the men of the Grim Marches had stood together against the Justiciar Order and the runedead. If the valgasts and their goddess arrived, he hoped they would stand together.

  Mazael spoke with the Tervingi headmen and holdmistresses, with the village knights and bailiffs. There were always rumors. Sometimes people or cattle disappeared. The watchmen saw creatures lurking in the night that matched the description of the valgasts. Mazael urged his vassals to greater vigilance, and they promised to obey.

  He brooded as he rode west, wondering what the valgasts intended. Perhaps that wizard had spoken the truth, and they merely intended to carry off whatever captives and loot they could seize. Or perhaps they were scouting for a larger invasion.

  No answers presented themselves, and Mazael rode on.

  ###

  A few days later they returned to Castle Cravenlock.

  The castle stood upon its rocky hill, grim and strong. More than one person had told Mazael that the castle looked like the stronghold of an evil wizard from a jongleur’s song, and Mazael could not disagree. For that matter, given how much time the Old Demon had spent there masquerading as Simonian of Briault, and how long Lucan Mandragon had kept his hidden workshop there, Mazael supposed the castle had indeed been an evil wizard’s stronghold more than once.

  It was a sour thought. But both the Old Demon and Lucan were dead, and could do no more damage to the world.

  Below the hill, perhaps a half-mile from the castle, stood the expanding walls of Cravenlock Town. Once it had been a sleepy town of four thousand people. The upheavals of the last few years had sent many people fleeing for its walls, and now its population had swollen to nearly ten thousand. Trade had sprung up between the Tervingi and the Grim Marchers and the people of the rest of the realm, and those trade routes converged on Cravenlock Town.

  “Better run up the banner, Sir Hagen,” said Mazael. “We wouldn’t want to startle Timothy and Cramton.”

  Hagen snorted. “We w
ouldn’t want to startle Lady Romaria, you mean.”

  “You’ve seen how well she shoots,” said Mazael. “You wouldn’t want to startle her, either.”

  Hagen unfurled the banner, attached it to his lance, and lifted it up. The black field fluttered overhead, showing the three crossed swords of the Cravenlock sigil. Mazael guided his horse to the castle’s hill, and they rode past Cravenlock Town and up the road to the barbican and the gates of the castle. Armsmen in black Cravenlock tabards bowed as Mazael rode past, and he reined up in the hard-packed earth of the courtyard.

  A storm of memories swirled through him as he looked around. He had grown up here, neglected by the man he thought had been his father and mocked by his mother, his sister Rachel his only friend. Master Othar and Sir Nathan had taught him, and likely only their discipline had given him the strength to hold back his Demonsouled impulses, to keep him from becoming a man like Amalric Galbraith or Ragnachar of the Tervingi. He had seen his brother Mitor die here, had faced the Old Demon in the castle’s chapel, and had seen Romaria die at his feet. Mazael had fought San-keth changelings within the walls of his castle, had seen the Guardian heal Romaria from Skalatan’s poison in this courtyard.

  He looked at the tree that still marked the spot, the only green and growing thing in the courtyard, and smiled.

  Two men awaited him below the doors to the great hall, and Mazael turned his mind from the past to the present.

  “Welcome home, my lord,” said the first man, stout and sweating and bearded. Master Cramton had owned Cravenlock Town’s inn until he had run afoul of Mitor’s men. Mazael had rescued him, and after Mitor’s death Cramton had become Mazael’s seneschal. Cramton’s cook Bethy had become the master of Castle Cravenlock’s kitchens and then Mazael’s mistress. After Mazael had married Romaria, Bethy had suddenly met and married a prosperous merchant of Sword Town. In fact, every woman Mazael had bedded at Castle Cravenlock – and he had to admit that there had been more than one – had found herself courted and married within a year.