Mask of Swords

by Jonathan Moeller

  For all that Romaria disdained the social life of noble politics, Mazael could not help but admire her skill when she applied herself to it. Though he suspected that Molly had helped her.

  “Thank you, Cramton,” said Mazael. “Any news?”

  “Some,” said Cramton. “Our winter supplies are lower than I might wish, but the weather has been good so I hope the planting can begin soon. There are, ah, other reports as well, stranger ones, but Timothy can speak more of them.”

  The second man stepped forward. He was shorter and much thinner than Cramton, with his brown hair slicked back and his beard trimmed to a point in the Travian style. He wore a long black coat, a black tunic, black trousers, and black boots, the coat and clothes worn by wizards across the realm.

  At least wizards who were members of the realm’s Brotherhood, who had trained at Alborg or one of the colleges under the Brotherhood’s authority. Mazael doubted that the valgast wizard had studied at one. Timothy had, though. He had been sent to Castle Cravenlock to study under Master Othar, and after the San-keth had murdered Othar, Timothy had taken over as the court wizard of Castle Cravenlock.

  Timothy had been a loyal and valuable friend, had stood at Mazael’s side through some very dangerous battles, and Mazael trusted few men as much as him.

  “My lord,” said Timothy, “we found a…creature. I’m not entirely sure what it is.”

  “Let me guess,” said Mazael. “Short. About four or five feet tall, rather spindly. Huge black eyes that are apparently made of crystal. Claws and fangs, and fights with poisoned daggers and darts.”

  Timothy grunted. “You’ve encountered them, I see.”

  “Aye,” said Mazael. “A large band of them attacked Toric’s hold at Gray Pillar. We fought them off, but not without losses. Did they attack the castle or the town?”

  “No, my lord,” said Timothy. “It was an outlying farm. A peasant came home to find his wife and children unconscious and a pair of the creatures trying to drag them away. He was a veteran of the Malrags and the runedead, so he fought them and won. He thought they were a new kind of Malrag, so he brought the creatures here.”

  “Good man,” said Mazael, looking at Cramton. “Send him some silver and his lord’s thanks.” Cramton bowed. “Do you recognize the creatures at all?”

  “No, my lord,” said Timothy. “Lady Romaria did, said she had encountered some of them during her wanderings years ago.”

  “She fought them?” said Mazael.

  “Aye, and won,” said Timothy, “though she knew little more about them. She thought the Guardian might know more.”

  “Is Riothamus here?” said Mazael.

  “No, my lord,” said Cramton. “He departed with Lady Molly for Sword Town two days past to attend to some business there.”

  Mazael grunted. “Well, we can speak when he returns.” He swung down from his saddle, and Rudolph hurried forward to take his reins. “Cramton, make sure the men get fed. I will be with Lady Romaria until dinner.”

  “Of course, my lord,” said Cramton.

  “Timothy,” said Mazael. “We have wards around the castle and town to warn against undead and Malrags. Could you modify them to include the valgasts?”

  “I believe so, my lord,” said Timothy. “I shall start the work at once.”

  “Thank you.” Mazael nodded, handed his shield over to Rudolph, and strode into the castle.

  Mitor and Adalon and all the previous lords of Castle Cravenlock had kept their apartments between the great hall and the chapel, but Mazael had taken rooms atop the King’s Tower and had never left them. Not that the realm had a high king – the various liege lords conducted themselves as petty kings, waging war and ruling their demesnes as they saw fit. Centuries ago, the realm had been ruled by a high king, he had once stayed in the King’s Tower, and so the name had stuck. Yet the liege lords had gone their own ways after the last high king had died. As he climbed the stairs of the King’s Tower, Mazael wondered if his father had played a part in that. The Old Demon had raised generations of Demonsouled only to slaughter them for their power, and a realm perpetually at war would have played to the Old Demon’s purposes. Mazael’s entire life had been shaped by the Old Demon’s manipulations – but Mazael was forty years old. The Old Demon had lived for over three thousand years, and Mazael had seen just the barest part of his plans.

  Had the valgasts and their goddess been part of the Old Demon’s schemes? Some plan that had unraveled after his death?

  He pushed the thought from his mind. The Old Demon was dead, killed at the very instant of his triumph, and could harm no one else.

  But the evil that men did often lived on after their deaths.

  Mazael opened the door to his bedchamber at the top of the tower. He disliked ostentation, and the room reflected that. The only furniture was the large bed, a wardrobe, and a writing table and chair. A rack on one side of the bed held his weapons and armor, and another rack near the door to the balcony held leather armor, a bastard sword, and a bow wrought by the master bowyers of the Elderborn.

  Romaria stood near the wardrobe, wrapped in a blanket.

  She was tall for a woman, only a few inches shorter than him, and her long black hair hung to her hips. Her face was lean and just a little too angular to be human, a sign of her mother's Elderborn blood, and her eyes were a shade of blue so icy it was almost eerie. She was five years younger than Mazael, but if he had not known better he would have said she was anywhere from fifteen to forty.

  “Husband,” said Romaria.

  “Wife,” said Mazael.

  “You’re a day late,” said Romaria. “I was worried.”

  “There was trouble at Gray Pillar,” said Mazael. “Valgasts.”

  “I thought that might be it,” said Romaria. She half-smiled. “I shouldn’t have worried. I suppose there are fewer valgasts in the world now.”

  “A few,” said Mazael, stepping closer to her.

  Her smile widened. “We shouldn’t talk about that now.”

  “No?” said Mazael.

  She cast aside the blanket, and was wearing nothing else beneath it.

  Mazael picked his wife up and carried her to the bed. His Demonsouled blood gave him an urge for things other than violence, but Romaria, with her half-Elderborn soul, was match for him in more ways than one.

  After they finished Mazael rolled onto his back. Romaria stretched next to him and let out a sound that was halfway between a sigh and a purr, sweat beading upon her skin.

  “It’s good you’re home,” she said at last.

  Mazael laughed. “Yes, it is.”

  “All those lords and knights and thains,” said Romaria. “They all talk so damned much. Thank the gods of the Elderborn that Molly and Riothamus were here for most of it. Molly’s better at that sort of thing than I am.”

  “You have other gifts,” said Mazael. “Such as hunting down valgasts.”

  “Yes,” said Romaria.

  “Timothy said you encountered them before,” said Mazael.

  “Years ago,” said Romaria. She raked her hands through her black hair, revealing the delicate point of her ears. “It wasn’t long after I left Deepforest Keep. The valgasts…they dwell in the underworld, and come forth on midsummer and midwinter to take slaves back to their hidden cities. Or at least they used to. I’d never heard of them coming forth in spring.”

  “Do they have wizards?” said Mazael.

  “Aye,” said Romaria. “Not powerful ones. A competent wizard of the Brotherhood could handle them, and Riothamus could hold his own against a dozen. But they’re troublesome if left unchecked.”

  “There was one at Gray Pillar,” said Mazael. “It started talking about my father before I killed it.”

  She sat up at that. “Your father?”

  “It called me a tainted one,” said Mazael. “I think it could smell the Demonsouled blood. It claimed that the Old Demon had destroyed their goddess and bound the valgasts to a pact, but now that th
e Old Demon was himself destroyed, they could come forth as they wished and their goddess would return.”

  She frowned. “Their goddess. Was she called Marazadra?”

  “I think so,” said Mazael. “The wizard and some of the valgasts I killed talked about someone called Marazadra, but I don’t know if they meant their goddess or not.” He shrugged. “For all I know, it was an insult in their tongue.”

  Romaria sighed and lay back down, curling against him. His left arm wrapped around her back, the skin smooth and warm beneath his fingers. “They’re dangerous, but not like the Malrags or the runedead. Riothamus will know more, once he and Molly return from Sword Town.”

  “Why did they go?” said Mazael. “I had hoped to talk with him about the valgasts.”

  “Some business there,” said Romaria. “You did make Molly the Lady of Sword Town, and Riothamus is the Guardian of the Tervingi. They both have responsibilities.”

  “I suppose I cannot complain when I gave her those responsibilities,” said Mazael. “She is learning to rule. She will carry on capably when I am gone.”

  Romaria tightened against him. “But not for many years yet.”

  Mazael laughed and kissed her forehead. “I should hope not.”

  They lay in silence for a while, and Mazael dozed off. He blinked awake some time later. It was darker in the room, the sun sliding away to the west. Soon Cramton and the servants would hold dinner in the great hall, and Mazael would need to preside, to speak with his knights and vassals and headmen and thains. Tomorrow he would hold court in the morning and hear any cases that had arisen in his absence. He would have Timothy prepare letters to the lords of the Grim Marches and the headmen of the Tervingi, warning them about the valgasts.

  Though it was hard to see how they could exercise greater vigilance. The Grim Marches had seen much war in the last few years, and every man knew how to handle a weapon, and every village and town had its own watch and its own militia.

  Romaria lay asleep next to him, her black hair pooled around her head. Mazael pulled a blanket over her, rose from the bed, and walked to the writing table. A stack of letters awaited his attention, and he sorted through them one by one. Lord Robert Highgate reported that he had driven back a Malrag warband from the Great Mountains. Tanam Crowley had caught and hung bandits who had been harassing caravans near Sword Town. There was a letter from Lord Gerald at Knightcastle. Rachel was pregnant again, and the child was expected by summer. Gerald had been the youngest of five brothers, all of them now slain, and Mazael suspected Rachel wanted at least six of her own.

  The last letter caught his attention.

  “What is it?”

  He looked up to see Romaria standing next to him. He hadn’t heard her rise or cross the room. She could move like a ghost when she wished.

  “A letter,” said Mazael, “from Adalar Greatheart.”

  “Adalar?” said Romaria. “I remember him. He was your squire when you returned to the Grim Marches.” She thought for a moment. “I suppose he is a knight by now.”

  “Lord Adalar, actually,” said Mazael. “Lord of Castle Dominus in Mastaria. While you were…”

  “Dead?” said Romaria.

  “Incapacitated,” said Mazael. “He came with me to Knightcastle for Rachel’s wedding. Saved my life from Amalric Galbraith during the Battle of Tumblestone. I knighted him after that, and he went into Lord Malden’s household. Lord Malden and Gerald made him the new Lord of Castle Dominus, and he stayed loyal to Gerald when Lucan corrupted Lord Malden.”

  Romaria laughed. “So Mazael Cravenlock’s former squire is the Lord of Castle Dominus? The knights of the Dominiar Order must be spinning in their graves.”

  “Lord Malden’s sense of humor was always pointed,” said Mazael.

  “So what does Adalar want?” said Romaria.

  “To bury his father’s ashes,” said Mazael.

  “Ah,” said Romaria, touching his shoulder.

  “Nathan Greatheart was a good man,” said Mazael, staring at the letter. “It’s just as well he died when he did. He did not have to live to see the runedead. I invited Adalar back to bury his father, but he was busy with Lord Malden’s campaign in Mastaria, and then the Tervingi came and the runedead rose.” He shook his head. “Sir Nathan had himself cremated after he died. He had seen too many undead...and that was before the runedead.”

  “Where will you bury him?” said Romaria.

  “Greatheart Keep,” said Mazael. “He wanted to be buried below the chapel at Greatheart Keep, and that’s what we’ll do when Adalar arrives.”

  Romaria frowned. “I thought Greatheart Keep was destroyed in the Great Rising.”

  “It was,” said Mazael. “The runedead rose and killed everyone in the village. We cleared it out a few months later.”

  “Does anyone live there now?” said Romaria. “I haven’t been that way for a few years.”

  “Yes,” said Mazael. “The Jutai.”

  “I didn’t think there were that many of the Jutai left,” said Romaria.

  “The Malrags almost wiped them out,” said Mazael. “When the Tervingi found them, some of them joined Athanaric, and Ragnachar wiped out their last town. There were few enough of the Jutai left to begin with, and many more of them died during the march. More fell during the Great Rising.”

  “Why did you settle them in Greatheart Keep?” said Romaria. “Isn’t that land Adalar’s by right?”

  “It is,” said Mazael. “It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement. But the Jutai were loyal to me, and fought valiantly at the Northwater against Caldarus and the Justiciars. They deserved a new home as much as the Tervingi…and, well, Adalar is lord of Castle Dominus in Mastaria. He likely has more lands than he can manage.” He scratched at his jaw. “That, and Greatheart Keep is a good distance from most of the Tervingi.”

  “The Jutai are not fond of the Tervingi?” said Romaria.

  “Nor are the Tervingi fond of the Jutai,” said Mazael. “You can hardly blame the Jutai, and apparently the Tervingi and the Jutai were ancestral enemies before the Malrags almost destroyed them. Earnachar especially hates them, and they would have gone to war if I had not forbidden it.”

  “In other words,” said Romaria, “they’re too frightened of your displeasure to fight each other.”

  “More or less,” said Mazael.

  “That sounds like the rest of the Grim Marches.” She stared at the letter on the table, a peculiar expression upon her face.

  “What is it?” said Mazael.

  “That letter,” said Romaria. “When you looked at it…the Sight came upon me.”

  “The Sight?” said Mazael with a flicker of alarm. The usurper Malaric had almost killed Romaria, and Riothamus had healed her, but the process had left its mark upon her in the form of the Sight. It let her see magical auras and sometimes showed her glimpses of far-off places and the future. “What did you see?”

  She shook her head, hair brushing against her shoulders. “Nothing clear. I thought I saw a…mask made out of swords?”

  “Sounds painful,” said Mazael. “Might be useful for shaving, though.”

  Romaria took no notice of his jest. “That letter…it is the start of something significant. I know not what. But there will be trouble.” She sighed. “I am sorry I cannot be more specific. The Sight is often more vexing than useful.”

  “Do not trouble yourself,” said Mazael. “One hardly needs an oracle to know that tomorrow shall bring trouble.”

  “The Jutai,” said Romaria. “Who is their headman?”

  “They don’t have one,” said Mazael. “All their men of rank were killed fighting the Malrags. Their leader is their last holdmistress, a young woman named Sigaldra. Fierce little thing. I suspect no one else could have held together the remnants of the Jutai.”

  “Fierce little thing?” said Romaria, raising her eyebrow. “If you had not married me, I suppose you would have bedded her by now.”

  “Quite probably,�
� said Mazael.

  She swatted the top of his head. “Such a thing to say to your wife, Mazael Cravenlock.”

  He caught her wrist and tugged as she retracted her hand, and she lost her balance with a surprised yelp and landed upon his lap. Since they were both not wearing any clothes, he found it quite a pleasant sensation.

  “There were a lot of women before you, yes,” said Mazael, “but none after you.”

  “Prove it,” said Romaria.

  He did. That, too, felt quite pleasant.

  They were late for dinner, but no one complained. Being the liege lord of the Grim Marches and the hrould of the Tervingi nation was a tremendous headache, but it did have occasional advantages.

  ###

  Mazael’s eyes opened.

  It was the middle of the night, and Romaria sat up next to him, her eyes wide, her right hand clutching the dagger she always kept near at hand while sleeping. Mazael cursed and sat up, reaching for his weapons, his eyes scanning the darkened bedroom for foes, whether San-keth changelings or assassins of the Skulls or more of those damned valgasts…

  At last Romaria let out a breath and lowered the dagger.

  “Nothing,” said Romaria. “It was a dream…or a vision of the Sight.”

  “The Sight?” said Mazael. “Another vision of the future?”

  “I think so,” said Romaria.

  “What do you see?” said Mazael.

  Romaria was silent for a long moment.

  “Spiders,” she said at last.

  Chapter 3: War Unending

  Adalar Greatheart, once of the Grim Marches, now Lord of Castle Dominus and a knight of Lord Gerald Roland’s court, rode alone through the dead village.

  He knew what to expect. He had seen so many like it.

  Weeds choked the streets between the houses. Part of the village had burned, the stone walls of the houses standing like empty shells. In other places they stood in half-crumbled ruin. The walls of the village’s church still stood, the burned timbers of its roof jutting from the walls like dead fingers. Adalar could guess what had happened here easily enough. On the terrible day of the Great Rising, the runedead had burst from the graveyard outside the village. Panicked and desperate, the villagers had fought back, burning down their houses, until they had finally been forced into the church as it burned around them. Some villages had held out until the wave of blue fire from Swordgrim had enabled their weapons to harm the runedead.