Mask of Swords

by Jonathan Moeller

  The warrior’s head hopped off his shoulders in a spray of crimson, and the limp body collapsed to the grass.

  Adalar turned, seeking new foes, but the battle was over. The Skuldari were fleeing back to the west, at least those who had survived. Dead Skuldari warriors lay everywhere, and Adalar saw that eight of the twelve spiders had been slain, the other four fleeing west with the warriors.

  Hooves stamped behind him, and Adalar turned just as Wesson reined up.

  “Good, you’re alive,” said Wesson, the head of his mace wet with blood. “When I saw that spider take your horse, I was sure you were finished.”

  “We lived through the runedead,” said Adalar, cleaning the yellow slime from his blade. “It will take more than some great damned spiders to kill us.”

  Odd that he felt nothing. He had felt nothing during the fight, either. If death had come for him he would have regarded it with dull curiosity.

  But he did feel curiosity.

  What had the Skuldari been doing here? And where had those spiders come from?

  He went to find out.

  ###

  The master of the caravan was a short, fat merchant named Niles Carver of Barellion, and his gratitude veered to the obsequious.

  “It makes no sense, my lord,” said Niles, wringing his hands against the front of his fine furred robe. “No sense at all. The roads are always dangerous, more so after the chaos of the last few years. That is why I always hire the finest mercenaries of Barellion to accompany me.” He gestured at his men. “But I have never seen the Skuldari come down from their mountains. I used to trade with them, from time to time, in the villages they allow outsiders to visit. Unpleasant and prickly people, I must say. But I’ve never seen them on the plains before.”

  “What are your wares?” said Adalar. Perhaps the prospect of a rich caravan had lured the Skuldari out of their mountains.

  “Paper and ink for the scriptorium of Cravenlock Town,” said Niles. “Some books, as well – one of the merchants of Cravenlock Town placed a large order. Stained glass from the master glaziers of Barellion. Some casks of spirits as well.”

  Adalar frowned. “They demanded your goods?”

  “No, my lord,” said Niles. “They demanded us.”

  “Us?” said Adalar. “You mean they wanted to take you captive?”

  “Aye, my lord,” said Niles. “They demanded our surrender, by the authority of Basracus and Marazadra.”

  Adalar shook his head. “Those names mean nothing to me.”

  Niles shrugged. “I believe Basracus is the name of a chieftain among the Skuldari. The name Marazadra…I have never heard it before. Perhaps it is another chieftain.”

  “Perhaps,” said Adalar. “As it happens, we are riding to Castle Cravenlock. If you have no objection, we shall ride with you.”

  “Of course!” said Niles. “We shall be most grateful for your presence, my lord. Thank you.”

  “There is one thing I must ask of you,” said Adalar. “Put one of the slain spiders in your wagons. Lord Mazael needs to know what happened here.”

  Niles only cringed a little. “Yes, of course. It shall be done.”

  Adalar nodded and went to rejoin his men.

  He had come here to bury his father. A quick journey to Cravenlock Town, a stop at the ruins of Greatheart Keep, and then he would return to Castle Dominus.

  He hadn’t thought to find himself pulled into yet another war.

  The thought only filled him with dull, tired resignation. What would be would be…and he would do his duty to the very end.

  Just as his father would have done.

  Chapter 4: The Last of the Jutai

  Sigaldra, holdmistress of Greatheart Keep, usually awoke alone.

  Usually.

  So she was not completely surprised when she opened her eyes to see her younger sister staring down at her. Liane’s eyes were pale and wide and focused on something that was not there, something that no one else could see.

  “Today,” said Liane, her voice little more than a whisper, “today is going to be an important day.”

  A wave of near-uncontrollable irritation rolled through Sigaldra.

  She closed her eyes again and made herself calm down. Liane looked so much like their mother. Their mother, who had died in the first wave of Malrag attacks. Their father had died defending the walls of their last town from the Malrags, and their brothers soon after. Then the Tervingi had come and Ragnachar had forced the remnants of the Jutai to join him, and Sigaldra had tried to hold the Jutai together during the long march west and the terrible war against the runedead. Liane was the only family that Sigaldra had left.

  Liane, half-mad, scatter-brained Liane. Liane who talked to things that were not there, who saw things others could not see, who had visions.

  Visions, as it happened, that came true.

  So if Liane said today was going to be an important day…

  “Why?” said Sigaldra, sitting up. “What do you see? Why is today important?”

  “Because,” said Liane. “It is going to be important.”

  Sigaldra felt the irritation come back. “It is much too early for this.”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Liane.

  Sigaldra looked out the window. The sun was already up. She had slept later than she had hoped. Despite that, she felt just as tired as he had yesterday. Sleep never seemed to bring her rest these days. But she was holdmistress of the hold of Greatheart Keep, the last hold of the Jutai nation, and she could not lie idle.

  “Well, as long as you are here,” said Sigaldra, pushing aside the blanket and standing, the stone floor cold beneath her bare feet, “you might as well help me get dressed.”

  “That isn’t what you really want to do,” said Liane.

  “No, what I want to do is slap away that smart mouth of yours,” said Sigaldra, though she never had lifted her hand against her sister. “Now help me get dressed. The watchmen might have seen more valgasts in the night.”

  “That is why today will be important,” said Liane.

  Sigaldra gave her sister a sharp look. “Why? Did the valgasts attack in the night?” She had hoped, at least, the valgasts had not followed them to the Grim Marches. Sigaldra had hoped some of the horrors that haunted the middle lands would not reappear in the Grim Marches.

  But why shouldn’t they? All her other hopes had been dashed. Why not this one as well?

  “Spiders,” said Liane.

  “Don’t kill the spiders,” said Sigaldra, walking to her wardrobe. “They’ll help keep the flies away come summer.” She slipped out of her nightgown, the air chill against her bare skin. “Or is that why today is important?”

  “I don’t know,” said Liane.

  Sigaldra sighed. “If you have been cursed with the Sight, at least it could be more useful.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Liane. She bowed her head, her blond hair hanging around her face like a hood, and for a moment looked crushed as only a fifteen year old girl could. Had Sigaldra ever been that young? It had only been seven years ago.

  It felt like centuries.

  “No, don’t be,” said Sigaldra. “Come, help me dress. I must speak with Vorgaric the blacksmith and then Talchar. A walk around the hold will do you good. Perhaps we’ll find out why today is important.”

  Liane offered a shy smile, and then went to help Sigaldra dress.

  She chose brown leggings, a sturdy set of leather boots, and a faded brown dress. Over that went a quilted arming jacket and a coat of chain mail that had once belonged to her brother. Her blond hair went into a stark, severe braid, a short sword and a quiver of arrows at her belt, and a short bow over her shoulder. The Jutai needed headmen and hroulds to defend them, but all their headmen had perished in the middle lands, and their hrould Mazael Cravenlock could not be everywhere at once. So it fell to Sigaldra to defend what was left of her people.

  She examined her expression in a fragment of mirror they had found in the ruined vi
llage. She looked stark and grim, her face harsh, her blue eyes bloodshot and ringed in dark circles. In truth, she looked like one of the shieldmaidens from the epics the loresingers loved so much, pale and stern and doomed to die in tragic battle against the Dark Elderborn.

  Sigaldra did not think it a flattering comparison.

  “You look like a headman,” said Liane.

  “I had better,” said Sigaldra. “Go get dressed and meet me in the hall.”

  Liane smiled and dashed from the room. Her sister’s moods were as changeable as the weather.

  Sigaldra descended to the keep’s great hall. Banners hung from the rafters, and weapons forged by the hands of humans and Malrags both adorned the walls. The Jutai had carried those relics of past glories with them out of the middle lands, and Sigaldra had insisted that they hang in the great hall, to remind the Jutai that they had once been a great nation. Doors behind the dais led to the chapel, where Sigaldra had placed the ashes of the past Jutai. The urns, too, had been carried out of the middle lands, and every Jutai that died was burned and a pinch of his or her ashes added to their ancestral urn.

  Perhaps someday those urns would be all that was left of the Jutai.

  She stood alone in the hall, gazing at the bow in her hand. It was well-worn, its haft and grip familiar. She had held that bow during the great battle of the Northwater, standing with the other Jutai archers in the host of the Grim Marches…

  “Holdmistress?”

  Sigaldra shook off her dark thoughts. Old Ulfarna, the chief of her bondswomen, stood in the hall. Her face was as hard and as lean as if it had been carved from oak. She wore a widow’s black dress, and though she leaned upon a cane, she was still vigorous otherwise. Her husband had fallen against the Malrags, along with two of her sons, and two more once they had come to the Grim Marches. Yet she still had three living sons. Ulfarna was one of the fortunate ones. Sometimes Sigaldra thought that Greatheart Keep was a hold of widows and orphans and cripples.

  “Is anything amiss?” said Ulfarna. “I was going to prepare the evening meal.”

  “No, nothing is amiss,” said Sigaldra. “I am simply lost in my thoughts, that is all.”

  “We all have much to be lost in, holdmistress,” said Ulfarna.

  “I have too much to do to brood,” said Sigaldra. “If the Jutai are to thrive in our new land, then there is much to be done.”

  “To which we owe a great deal to you,” said Ulfarna.

  “No,” said Sigaldra.

  “Yes,” said Ulfarna. “You kept Ragnachar from killing us all during the long march. When Athanaric sought for peace with Lord Richard, you supported him in the face of Ragnachar’s wrath. When Ragnachar betrayed Lord Richard, you sided with Lord Mazael. And when Mazael became the new hrould of the Tervingi nation, you accepted him as our hrould, and we now live on his land under his protection.”

  “I should have done more,” said Sigaldra.

  “You could not possibly have done more,” said Ulfarna, “and had you done any less, the Jutai would be no more, and there would be no one left to remember our ancestors.” She thumped the flagstones of the floor with her cane. “I say this to remind you of the obvious. You know I speak the truth. I am not a Marcher lordling, to speak honeyed words, or a Tervingi, to ramble endlessly about the deeds of Tervingar of old. I am Jutai, so I speak the truth in all things.”

  “Thank you,” said Sigaldra. “You are too kind.”

  Ulfarna snorted. “Girl, I just said am I not.”

  Sigaldra snorted. “Another way you are Jutai! You do not speak with proper language to your holdmistress.”

  “Bah! When you have seen as many winters as I have, then we shall see,” said Ulfarna, though she smiled as she said it. Boots rasped against the stairs, and Liane ran into the hall, wearing a dress of green with a dagger at her belt.

  “Are we ready, Sigaldra?” said Liane. She looked at Ulfarna and smiled. “It will be under the table in the corner of the kitchen.”

  “What will?” said Ulfarna.

  “The vial of spice that disappeared,” said Liane.

  “Ah,” said Ulfarna, and she bowed to Liane. “I see the ancestors have blessed you with another vision. I shall seek it at once.” She hurried from the hall, cane tapping against the floor. The Tervingi forbade the use of all magic, save for the power wielded by their Guardian, in memory of the dread wizards of the Dark Elderborn who had once held the Tervingi as slaves. The Jutai were more broad-minded, and believed their ancestors chose to grant visions to Liane, regarding her as sort of an oracle.

  Sigaldra did not know what to think. Perhaps her ancestors had no power, and she had carried an urn of ashes from the middle lands to no reason.

  “Shall we go, sister?” said Liane.

  Once again Sigaldra shook off her dark thoughts. She had to stop brooding so much.

  “Yes,” said Sigaldra. “Let us go for a walk.”

  She led the way from the great hall, the armor heavy against her shoulders, though she had grown accustomed to its weight. Sigaldra and Liane walked from the doors of the keep and looked at the village.

  Sigaldra’s village, she supposed. Under the laws and customs of the Grim Marches, she was Lady Sigaldra of Greatheart Keep, holding these lands in vassalage from Lord Mazael of Castle Cravenlock. If she wished she could grant some of those lands in fief to other men, to raise knights sworn to her. The thought was alien. Mazael was her hrould, she was the holdmistress of this hold, and she would raise spearthains and swordthains. Why bother with lords and knights?

  The keep sat upon a hill, and Sigaldra walked down the path to the village. Once, before the awful day of the Great Rising, the village had held seven hundred souls. Then the runedead had killed them all and haunted the ruins. After the defeat of the runedead, the Jutai had been in need of a home, and Mazael had settled them here. The last fifteen hundred of the Jutai had been eager to farm their own land, and Sigaldra had hoped they could live in peace with their neighbors.

  But their new neighbors, it seemed, had other ideas.

  She turned a wary eye to the north and kept walking.

  People greeted her, and she made sure to greet them back, to inquire after their lives and homes. Once, the Jutai men had worked the fields and the Jutai women had tended the houses, but there were too few men left to work the fields. So now men and women both worked in the fields, save for those craftsmen who worked full time. Their first year here had brought in a good crop, and their herds had increased. Sigaldra hoped the next year would be even more prosperous, that they could finally lay away a surplus for the future. She had confidence that the Jutai could do it.

  Unless, of course, they were driven from their homes yet again.

  With that dark thought in mind she went to the shop of the blacksmith.

  Her father had been a blacksmith, and Vorgaric’s shop always made her a bit wistful, its familiar smells of wood smoke and hot metal and sweat filling her nostrils. Over Vorgaric’s door hung a mangled steel cuirass, a massive hole in the center. At the great battle of the Northwater, a Justiciar knight had attacked Vorgaric, gloating that his magical black dagger would steal away Vorgaric’s life. The blacksmith had responded by collapsing the knight’s chest with a single blow of his massive two-handed hammer.

  Vorgaric’s wife Helen greeted Sigaldra at the door with a hint of nervousness. Helen was not Jutai, but a Marcher woman of common birth, her husband slain fighting the runedead at Swordgrim. Sigaldra was not sure how she felt about that. Vorgaric’s wife had died in the middle lands, there were no Jutai women of suitable age and birth for him, and she certainly did not expect him to spend the rest of his days alone. Many Jutai women had also married Marcher men. Yet if too many Jutai married the Marchers, would they cease to exist?

  At least Vorgaric had not married a Tervingi.

  “Holdmistress,” said Helen with a bow. She was at least ten years older than Sigaldra, but still remained nervous around her. “You wish to see Vo
rgaric, yes? He is inside.”

  Sigaldra nodded and stepped into the shop with Helen and Liane. Vorgaric straightened from his fire as she approached. He was a huge, shambling boulder of a man, his head a tanned dome, his remaining yellow hair and beard slowly turning to gray.

  “Holdmistress,” said Vorgaric, his voice a rumble. “You are here about the gates?” His teeth flashed in his beard. “Then I have good news for you. The braces, hinges, and bars are done.”

  “Already?” said Sigaldra.

  “I know my business,” said Vorgaric. He smirked. “Plus, you always expect the worst, so it amused me to surprise you.”

  “If I expect the worst I have rarely been disappointed,” said Sigaldra, “but you have disappointed me excellently, Vorgaric.”

  “The carpenters are installing it now,” said Vorgaric. “Should be done by the end of the day. Is it true, though?”

  “Which rumor?” said Sigaldra.

  “About the valgasts,” said Helen. She shivered. Odd that valgasts should frighten her when she had lived through the Malrags and the runedead. But the unknown was ever terrifying.

  “Aye,” said Sigaldra. “It’s true. A band of them tried to make off with some of the sheep three nights past, and the watchmen shot them down. We’ll hang the bodies on the walls as a warning. Let them seek easier prey.”

  “Will they be able to get inside the walls?” said Helen.

  “Perhaps,” said Sigaldra, “but I doubt it. We rebuilt the walls when we settled here, lining them with spikes to keep anyone from climbing over.” Perhaps that was why Sigaldra had a hard time thinking of herself as a lady of the Grim Marches instead of a holdmistress. A noble lady would have sipped wine and watched as her peasants toiled. Sigaldra and Liane had helped carry buckets of earth, had helped carve the stakes lining the ditch outside the walls. “I suppose they could tunnel into the village, but that much digging would draw notice. No, so long as everyone keeps their arms close at hand, we shall merely have to be vigilant.”