Mask of Swords

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Peculiar,” said Vorgaric. “In the middle lands, the valgasts only came forth on the days of midsummer and midwinter. I wonder what has changed. Perhaps fear of the Malrags or the runedead drove them forth from their caves.”

  Sigaldra shrugged. “Perhaps. Or maybe the valgasts of the Grim Marches follow different customs, just as the people do.”

  Helen laughed. “Surely, holdmistress, the people of the Grim Marches are better than these valgast devils.”

  “I happen to think so,” said Vorgaric, giving his wife’s rump a pat. She turned the color of Vorgaric’s fire.

  “Such high praise, husband,” said Helen, but Sigaldra could tell that she was pleased.

  She left the blacksmith’s shop and headed for the wall.

  “She has conceived,” Liane announced. “She will bear her first child in nine months.”

  “Truly?” said Sigaldra. “The Sight has shown this to you? That is good news.”

  “Probably,” said Liane.

  “Probably?” said Sigaldra. “She might miscarry?”

  Or would something worse happen to her?

  Liane sighed. “I do not know, sister. The vision is cloudy. The future is cloudy.”

  “Tell me something I do not know,” muttered Sigaldra.

  She climbed the stairs to the rampart. The village had been equipped with a sturdy wall of stone, fifteen feet high, but that had done the villagers little good during the Great Rising when the runedead turned immaterial and strode through the wall. Sigaldra had ordered the fortifications strengthened further, adding a stake-lined ditch and spikes upon the wall to deter anyone from climbing over it. Some of the Jutai had grumbled at the work, but Sigaldra had been proven right.

  She hated being proven right, since she always expected the worst.

  Talchar One-Eye, her only swordthain, waited atop the rampart, scowling to the north. He had lost his left eye long ago, long before Sigaldra had even been born, and replaced it with a red crystal sphere stolen from a tomb of Old Dracaryl. It gave his stern, craggy face an even more fearsome aspect, and at various times he claimed the crystal eye made him immune to magic, let him see when a man lied, or allowed him to see through an attractive woman’s clothes.

  But not ugly women – apparently the crystal eye had standards.

  Below Sigaldra saw the carpenters at work on the gate, pounding the final bars into place. Another few hours and they would be done, and the last weak point in the wall would be made strong. No place in the world was truly safe, but it would take a large and determined force to take Greatheart Keep.

  “Any valgasts?” said Sigaldra.

  “Maybe,” said Talchar. “Just one, I think. Old Eogar saw one last night near his sheep. Shot an arrow at it and the damned thing ran off. Or Eogar had too much beer and was seeing things again.” He turned his eyes towards her, one blue and one red. “We have bigger problems, though, holdmistress.”

  She sighed. “Earnachar?”

  “Aye,” said Talchar. “Another group of Tervingi horsethains rode through the northern fields last night. Didn’t damage anything, didn’t hurt anyone. But they all had torches, and they shouted at the top of their lungs.”

  “To everyone know that they were here,” said Sigaldra, “and that they could burn our fields.”

  “That’s the way of it, I suspect,” said Talchar.

  A shiver of rage went through Sigaldra, and she kept her face calm, though her hands curled into fists.

  There was no one, no one at all, she hated as much as Earnachar son of Balnachar.

  When Ragnachar had forced the Jutai to follow him, Earnachar had been the hrould’s trusted right-hand man. When Sigaldra had come before the terrifying, black-armored Ragnachar, Earnachar had urged him to kill at the Jutai and claim their goods and supplies for the Tervingi. Sigaldra asked Ragnachar to spare them, highlighting the valor of the Jutai thains against the Malrags. Earnachar mocked and belittled them, until finally Sigaldra had spun upon Earnachar, calling him an odious little keg of a man, a flatterer who polished Ragnachar’s armored boots with his lying tongue.

  Earnachar would have killed her then and there, but Ragnachar had laughed once, a brief, harsh grunt of amusement, and permitted the Jutai to swear to him.

  Ragnachar was dead now, cut down by Mazael Cravenlock on the day of the Great Rising, and Earnachar had sworn in haste to the new hrould. He had fought against the runedead and the Justiciars, and Mazael had awarded him and his followers with lands. Earnachar had been slowly but steadily expanding his influence, and now one of his villages bordered upon the lands of Greatheart Keep.

  “He wants our pastureland,” said Sigaldra.

  “He wants it all, I expect,” said Talchar. “Those pet sorceresses of his have made him bold.”

  Earnachar had been a troublesome neighbor, but a cautious one. There was only one thing that Earnachar feared, and that was the wrath of Mazael Cravenlock. He had seen what happened to those who challenged the Lord of Castle Cravenlock.

  Then the three strange women had come to Earnachar, and he had grown much more confident.

  Some said they were sorceresses, renegades from the realm’s Brotherhood of wizards. Others claimed they were priestesses, perhaps even servants of the San-keth. Sigaldra rather doubted that one. Earnachar detested the San-keth, as all the Tervingi did. Still others said the three women proclaimed a new faith and a new goddess, and that their leader called herself the Prophetess of this new goddess.

  “My guess?” said Talchar. “He’s going to try and force you to marry him.”

  “No,” said Sigaldra. “He hates me too much for that. He shall try to force Liane to marry him.”

  “I will not marry Earnachar,” said Liane calmly. Perhaps the Sight had revealed it to her. Perhaps she was simply in denial about how much danger they were in.

  “You will not,” said Sigaldra, “I can promise you that.”

  “Earnachar’s not going to like it,” said Talchar.

  “I do not give a damn what Earnachar wants,” said Sigaldra.

  Talchar grinned, which made him look more villainous. “Good girl. But Earnachar gives a great heaping damn about what Earnachar wants. He’ll do everything he can short of open war to force you to yield. His men will set ‘accidental’ fires, disguise themselves as bandits and steal our cattle, poison wells, everything. If you appeal to the hrould, Earnachar will claim that he is innocent, that he knows nothing of these nefarious doings.”

  “He is not going to marry my sister,” spat Sigaldra. “He wanted to kill us all in the middle lands. He will marry Liane over my dead body.”

  “I suspect,” said Talchar, “that he would prefer it that way.”

  “Why I can’t I simply marry you?” said Sigaldra.

  Liane made a choking noise, her eyes widening.

  “Well, you are young and pretty and thirty years younger than I am,” said Talchar, “so I can’t say I would object. My wife might, though, and she would express that displeasure by feeding us both to her dogs.” Sigaldra could believe it. Talchar’s wife Kuldura had survived the Malrags and the exodus and the runedead, all while raising eight sons, and Sigaldra had once seen the woman beat a Malrag to death with a cast-iron pan.

  “I would rather marry Kuldura’s dogs than Earnachar,” said Sigaldra.

  Talchar grimaced. “You might get to tell him that in person.”

  Sigaldra followed Talchar’s pointing finger with her eyes.

  A band of twenty horsemen were visible, riding down from the north.

  She turned to Talchar. “Sound the alarm and close the gates.”

  ###

  A short time later Sigaldra stood in the dust before the closed gate, arms folded over her chest. Talchar and Vorgaric and a dozen of her spearthains flanked her, weapons in hand, and militiamen waited upon the ramparts with short bows. Liane had wanted to come, but Sigaldra had refused. She would not put it past Earnachar to kill them all and kidnap Liane.

&nb
sp; The horsemen reined up, and Sigaldra stared at Earnachar son of Balnachar.

  He was a squat, bald keg of a man with a round head and narrowed eyes, but only a little of his bulk was fat. He rode with an easy grace that surprised Sigaldra. Horses had been unknown in the middle lands, and mounted knights had been the chief reason Richard Mandragon defeated Athanaric and Ragnachar at the Battle of Stone Tower. The Tervingi had spearthains and swordthains and skythains, but Earnachar had created horsethains, equipping his followers with horses and lances.

  Earnachar walked his horse forward a few steps, staring at Sigaldra, and four other riders accompanied him. Three of the riders wore black robes, their faces concealed beneath heavy cowls, though the robed shapes seemed somehow feminine. Were these the mysterious sorceresses who had been visiting Earnachar of late?

  The fourth figure was a hulking giant in steel armor. He was so large that he made his horse look like a pony. A pair of sword hilts rose over his armored shoulders, and more weapons waited at his belt and in his saddle. A peculiar steel mask covered his features, looking as if miniature sword blades had been layered over his face like falling leaves. The effect was disturbing and grotesque, and Sigaldra felt the masked man’s eyes settle upon her with a heavy weight.

  She recognized the masked man with sudden shock, and then turned her attention to Earnachar.

  For a moment they stared at each other, waiting for the other to speak first.

  An idea occurred to Sigaldra.

  “That man,” she said into the tense silence, pointed at the sword-masked figure. “Why have you brought him here?”

  “I am a headman of the Tervingi nation,” said Earnachar. She even detested the sound of his voice. “I have the right to bring my thains with me.”

  “That isn’t a thain, but one of Ragnachar’s orcragars,” said Sigaldra, remembering the fierce, cruel, mad warriors that had served the cold hrould. “His name is Rigoric. I remember him from the fighting in the middle lands. He’s a worshipper of the Urdmoloch, bound to demons in a pact of dark magic.” That pact made the orcragars faster and stronger and more ferocious than normal men. With a flicker of unease, Sigaldra realized that Rigoric could likely kill her and half her men before he was taken down. “The hrould has banished the surviving orcragars from the Grim Marches and forbidden the worship of the Urdmoloch. Are you so bold, Earnachar son of Balnachar, that you would defy the hrould’s commands?”

  Earnachar laughed, and his lackeys followed suit. Both Rigoric and the hooded women remained silent. “And are you so timid, holdmistress of the Jutai? The presence of one warrior unmans you so?”

  “Given that I am a woman, I fail to see how I can be unmanned,” said Sigaldra. Her spearthains laughed at that, and Earnachar’s eyes narrowed. “But how I feel is unimportant. The orcragars are forbidden from the Grim Marches, and you have brought one back…”

  “He is not an orcragar any longer,” said Earnachar. “True, the hrould has forbidden the worship of the Urdmoloch. But do not all men say the Urdmoloch perished at Knightcastle on the day the runedead were defeated? How, then, could Rigoric be a worshipper of the Urdmoloch?”

  “Men believe all manner of foolish things,” said Sigaldra.

  Earnachar scowled at her for a moment. “Is that any way to greet a guest, Sigaldra of the Jutai? Are all the holdmistresses of the Jutai so miserly and cold to guests?” He laughed. “Apparently they are, since I am talking to the only holdmistress of the Jutai.”

  “What do you want, Earnachar?” said Sigaldra.

  “Simply to call upon my neighbors and wish them well,” said Earnachar.

  “Well, you’ve done so,” said Sigaldra.

  “Such a short discussion,” said Earnachar with a mournful shake of his head. Again his men laughed. “Truly, the famed courtesy of the Jutai knows no bounds.”

  “Likes the courtesy of the Tervingi?” said Sigaldra. “Like your men driving off our cattle and moving our fences? Like your men opening our barns and terrorizing my herdsmen?”

  “You think to lay these misdeeds upon my sworn thains and bondsmen?” said Earnachar. His smirk sent a wave of hatred rolling through her. “It is not my fault if you are too weak to protect your lands and people, holdmistress. Perhaps if the Jutai had a proper headman instead of a woman to defend them, the Jutai might sleep safer in their beds.”

  “Perhaps if our neighbors were not deceitful rogues,” said Sigaldra, “we would have less need of protection.”

  “Even if you had different neighbors,” said Earnachar, “you would still need someone to protect you. It is a dangerous world, holdmistress. The Grim Marches are not as dangerous as the middle lands, true, but they are dangerous nonetheless. Someone must defend the Jutai people.” His smirk widened. “Someone must defend your fair sister. Where is she, by the by? I should like to greet her.”

  “Within the village,” said Sigaldra. “She does not issue forth to greet every passing brigand.”

  “Nevertheless, bring her out to me,” said Earnachar. “I wish to speak with her. She should meet the prominent men of the land.”

  “Should one appear, I will summon her,” said Sigaldra. “Until then, you may be on your way.”

  Earnachar walked his horse a step closer to her, and the spearthains bristled. “I must insist.”

  “And I must be blunt,” said Sigaldra. “I know what you want, Earnachar son of Balnachar. You want our lands. You want to make the Jutai into your slaves.”

  His smirk did not waver. “So perceptive for one so young.”

  “You will never marry either me or my sister,” said Sigaldra.

  Earnachar threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  “Truly?” said Earnachar. “You think I wish to wed you, Sigaldra of the Jutai? I would not even take you as a concubine. A man wants strong sons from his women, and you are a withered, skinny thing. One pregnancy would rip you open like a dry husk.”

  It should not have hurt her, but the words stung nonetheless.

  “You’ll watch your tongue, Tervingi,” said Talchar, his voice cold and flat.

  “Your sister, though,” said Earnachar, “is pretty enough, and young enough to be pliable. Quite insane, of course, but a woman needs good hips and a strong back, not wits. After a few beatings she will learn her place.”

  “I doubt that,” said Sigaldra, glaring up at him. “Given how old and fat you are, Earnachar son of Balnachar, I expect your heart shall give out on the wedding night.”

  “As if a termagant like you would know of such things,” said Earnachar. “I could ride and fight all day, and still have the strength to take your sister and then you.” He looked her up and down and laughed. “Assuming I was desperate enough, of course.”

  Vorgaric started to lift his hammer, and the spearthains their weapons, and it might have gone further, but a calm voice stopped them.

  “This is a waste of time.”

  It was a woman’s voice, soft and gentle. Sigaldra turned as one of the three robed women rode forward. The rider reached up and drew back her black cowl, revealing a face of remarkable beauty. She had pale, clear skin, large green eyes, and red hair that hung about her face and neck, swaying in the breeze blowing across the plains. Sigaldra could not guess her age. One moment she seemed old, and the next she looked younger than Liane. Certainly she was attractive. Earnachar and most of the other men were staring at her.

  “Who are you?” said Sigaldra.

  “I am merely the messenger,” said the red-haired woman, and the other two robed women shifted. “I am the herald. I am the preparer of the way for the new age to come.”

  Sigaldra felt her eyes narrow. “You are the woman they call the Prophetess.”

  “Some give me that title,” said the woman, “and it serves. I cannot see the future, not the way your sister can. I simply know what the future shall bring.”

  Sigaldra frowned. “What do you know about my sister?”

  “I know that she is special,”
said the Prophetess. “I know that she has the potential within her for greatness.” The pale woman held out a hand. “You should join with us voluntarily, Sigaldra, last holdmistress of the Jutai.”

  Sigaldra let out a scornful laugh. “And just why should I do that?”

  Unlike Earnachar, the Prophetess’s calm did not waver beneath Sigaldra’s mockery. “Because the headman is correct about one thing. The Urdmoloch did indeed perish at Knightcastle, overthrown in the very moment of his ultimate triumph. With his death, a great evil was defeated at last…but he held many lesser evils in check, lest they challenge him. Now that the Urdmoloch is dead, those lesser evils are free to do as they please, for they believe there is no one left strong enough to defeat them.” Her soft voice grew urgent. “The Jutai will perish in the coming storm. But join with me, and I can protect you.”

  “Your goddess, you mean,” said Sigaldra. “I have heard the rumors. This strange goddess you serve…you have converted Earnachar to her worship, and you wish to do the same with me?”

  “Yes,” said the Prophetess. “Why should this surprise you? Do not all priests proselytize? Have not the priests of the church of the Grim Marches come among you, seeking to harvest your souls for the Amathavian gods? Their gods are dusty and faded legends. My goddess has power. Join with me, and she shall protect you.”

  “Your goddess,” said Sigaldra. “What is her name?”

  “That is known only to the initiated,” said the Prophetess. “Follow me, and you shall learn all that and more.”

  “No,” said Sigaldra.

  She met the other woman’s green eyes for a long moment. They did not have Earnachar’s malicious glee, but they held no emotion whatsoever. With a chill, Sigaldra realized that the Prophetess’s eyes would likely show no emotion as she killed.

  “Very well,” said the red-haired woman, drawing her cowl back up. She turned her horse and rode back to the others. Rigoric moved to her side, and Sigaldra suspected that the masked orcragar served her, not Earnachar.