Mask of Swords

by Jonathan Moeller

  “It shall be done, hrould,” said Rilaric, and without further ceremony his griffin launched itself into the sky with a shriek, its great wings beating at the air.

  “Well,” said Molly. “What do we do?”

  “We ride to Greatheart Keep and lift the siege,” said Mazael. “An army is vulnerable when laying siege, especially when its target is about to fall.” He had used that stratagem once before, hitting Amalric Galbraith’s army as it laid siege to Tumblestone. “Ride them down, and kill as many as you can. Find the Prophetess and kill her. If possible, I want Earnachar alive.”

  “Earnachar?” said Molly. “Why?”

  “The Prophetess is too dangerous to keep alive,” said Mazael. “Earnachar, though, is not. I suspect that the Prophetess disclosed a large part of her plans to him. He’s going to tell me everything he knows.”

  “If he has one of these heart spiders,” said Riothamus, “I might be able to expel it. Along with any other men who have been infected. If I cure them, they might be willing to aid us.”

  “Do not be entirely sure of that,” said Mazael. “The Prophetess probably inflicted the spiders upon some against their will, as she tried to do with me. Others took the spiders voluntarily. If we win the battle, you can seek out the spiders and remove them. Until then, we shall need your powers to deal with any vrokuls the valgasts might have among their numbers…and any spells the Prophetess might fling our way.”

  “It shall be done,” said Riothamus.

  “Let’s finish this,” said Mazael, and he snapped his mount to motion. He shouted orders, and the horsemen spread out into a broad line, lances and spears glittering in their hands. They headed west at a fast walk, passing buildings destroyed by the Skuldari. It was just as well that Earnachar had launched his attack so early in the spring. There were not yet any crops for the Skuldari to steal.

  Hopefully there would be enough Jutai left to plant a crop.

  The Demonsouled rage stirred beneath Mazael’s thoughts, urging him to action. The Jutai were under his protection, and he had promised Sigaldra that he would defend her people. Yet Earnachar had betrayed him, allying with the Prophetess and the Skuldari and the valgasts to bring war and fire to the Grim Marches.

  It would end tonight. One way or another.

  Romaria lifted her face and closed her eyes for a moment.

  “What is it?” said Mazael.

  “Corpses,” said Romaria. “Dead flesh. I can smell them. A lot of dead men.”

  “There are going to be a lot more dead men in the next few hours,” said Mazael.

  “Let’s hope most of them are Skuldari,” said Molly.

  “We haven’t seen any scouts,” said Romaria. “Neither Tervingi horsethains nor Skuldari spider riders.”

  “Earnachar must have pulled them all in,” said Molly. “Or they came of their own volition, to get their share of the loot when the village falls.”

  “Aye,” said Mazael. He might have come too late to save Greatheart Keep and the Jutai, which only made his anger stir further. “If we’ve come too late to save them, at least we can avenge them.”

  “No,” said Riothamus, a pulse of golden fire gleaming in the sigils of his staff. “It’s not too late. Someone has been casting spells within Greatheart Keep, I can see it.”

  “Timothy?” said Mazael. His court wizard had been a loyal friend through some very dangerous times, and the man knew how to handle himself in a fight.

  “I think so,” said Riothamus. “A lot of spells, and recently. The fighting is still going on.”

  “Then let us hasten,” said Mazael.

  He ordered the horsemen to a trot, and the plume of smoke on the horizon grew larger.

  A few moments later, Greatheart Keep itself came into sight.

  A half-dozen houses burned within the walls of the village, throwing up the high plume of dark smoke. A dozen ladders rested against the spiked outer walls, and Skuldari warriors surged up the ladders, weapons in hand. A score of small melees raged along the ramparts as the defenders struggled against the Skuldari. Worse, someone had opened the gates, and the great mass of the Skuldari warriors was surging towards it. If the Skuldari got into the village, they would impossible to dislodge again, at least until Mazael had summoned more lords and knights to his side.

  The Jutai would be dead by then.

  Yet neither side in the battle had noticed Mazael’s force yet.

  “Sound the charge,” said Mazael.

  His standardbearer nodded, lifted a war horn to his lips, and blew a long blast, the note echoing over the field. For a moment the fighting along the walls of Greatheart Keep seemed to pause as the defenders and the attackers alike looked for the source of the noise. Mazael put spurs to his horse, and the destrier let out an angry snort and surged forward, steel-shod hooves tearing at the ground. His knights and armsmen shouted and charged, their lance points falling. A ripple of alarm went through the Skuldari warriors below the wall. They were in a horribly vulnerable position, and they knew it. Footmen could withstand a charge of horsemen, but only if they were properly equipped and positioned. The Skuldari warriors were neither, and they knew it.

  Mazael lowered his lance, raising his shield, and his horsemen slammed into the mass of Skuldari footmen. His lance speared a blue-painted warrior, driving through his leather armor and erupting out his back in a crimson spray. Another fell beneath the hooves of Mazael’s horse, his screams ending as the horse trampled him to a bloody pulp. The lance ripped from his hand with the impact, and he yanked Talon from its scabbard, striking right and left as his horse surged forward. He had been skeptical about using a curved blade at first, but it was a superb weapon to use from horseback, and his Demonsouled strength coupled with his mount’s momentum allowed him to strike the head from a Skuldari warrior with a single blow. All around him wedges of horsemen drove into the Skuldari, trampling and killing, and the Skuldari attack broke apart. The mass of warriors turned and fled, some running into the opened gates of Greatheart Keep, others fleeing into the fields.

  A horn rang out, and as the Skuldari fled, Mazael saw new groups of warriors forming up to the north. Tervingi horsethains, hundreds of them, gathering for a charge, and hundreds of Skuldari warriors upon their pony-sized spiders. The Skuldari footmen fled, but the spider riders and the horsethains arranged themselves for a charge.

  “Halt!” said Mazael. “Call the halt!” His standardbearer blew a sequence on his horn, and Mazael’s men slowed. “Reform! Reform the line, prepare to charge!” The horsemen formed up, and a blast of horns came from the spiders and the horsethains. The mass of Earnachar’s horsethains surged at Mazael’s men, flanked on either side by wings of Skuldari spider riders. “Molly! Go make trouble.”

  She laughed, high and wild, blood dripping from the blade of her slender sword. There was an edge of manic glee on her face, the lust of battle mixed with the joy of killing. It was a sensation Mazael knew well. “It’s what I do best, Father.”

  “Charge!” said Mazael, and his standardbearer blew another blast. His men cheered and kicked their mounts to a charge, trampling down any remaining Skuldari footmen in their path. Mazael adjusted his grip on Talon, raising his battered shield. He wished his lance had survived the first clash of battle, but a man could die on Talon’s edge just as easily.

  Molly disappeared in a swirl of darkness, leaving her horse to continue its run. Shadows rippled on the right wing of the spider riders, and suddenly Molly appeared in their midst, her sword and dagger flashing. One of the Skuldari fell dead from his saddle, his spider twitching, and Molly disappeared again as the other riders turned to face her. The right wing slowed just a little, and then Mazael’s men and Earnachar’s horsethains crashed together.

  A lance stabbed for Mazael, and he caught the blow upon his shield, the shock exploding up his left arm. He swung his shield as the horsethain galloped past him, the heavy wood smashing into the Tervingi thain’s face. The man tumbled backward out of his saddle
with a bellow, only to vanish beneath the churning hooves of the other horsethains.

  Both charges came to a grinding halt as the horsemen and the spider riders battled. One of Mazael’s men went down as a spider leapt upon the neck of his horse, its pincers tearing into its flesh. A horsethain went flying from his saddle, speared upon a lance like a piece of meat on a skewer. Darkness flickered through the battle as Molly disappeared and reappeared, her sword and dagger flashing. Romaria hung back, standing in her stirrups with her short bow in hand as she sent shaft after shaft at the Tervingi and the Skuldari. One of her arrows drove a horsethain from his saddle, and another punched into a giant spider’s eye, throwing the beast into a mad, frenzied dance.

  Mazael let the Demonsouled rage burn through him, making him faster and stronger, and he hewed a bloody path through the Tervingi horsethains. The fight hung in the balance around him, men screaming and shouting and bleeding and dying. He cut down a Skuldari warrior, his horse rearing up to trample the spider, and risked a look around. In the distance, the Skuldari footmen had recovered from their panic, reforming their ranks for a charge. That was bad. If they attacked while Mazael’s horsemen were still engaging the Tervingi horsethains and Skuldari spiders…

  “Cravenlock!”

  Mazael spun his horse as one Tervingi charged at him, a burly horsethain with a broad face and a heavy mace in his right hand.

  Earnachar himself.

  “Die!” screamed Earnachar. “Die for the glory of the Tervingi nation! Die in the name of the goddess! Die in…”

  “Shut up!” said Mazael.

  Their horses crashed together, the beasts lashing at each other with their hooves. Earnachar hammered at Mazael with his heavy mace, sending chips of wood flying from his shield. Mazael struck back with Talon, but the movement of the horses kept him from landing a telling blow upon Earnachar, and his sword’s edge rebounded from the Tervingi headman’s chain mail.

  “The old order dies!” screamed Earnachar. “The new world rises! The new world shall bow before the goddess!”

  Mazael swung a blow at Earnachar’s head, and their mounts finally jerked apart.

  “Behold!” said Earnachar, pointing his mace. “Your doom comes!”

  To the west, the Skuldari footmen had reformed and were running into the fray. The charge had given Mazael’s men the momentum, had driven the Skuldari and the horsethains back in disarray. But once the enemy recovered themselves and counterattacked, Mazael’s horsemen would be outnumbered.

  “Perish!” said Earnachar, and he spurred his horse towards Mazael. The heavy mace rose, and Mazael caught the blow on his trembling shield. He struck back with Talon, and this time the blade bit into Earnachar’s shoulder. The headman bellowed in fury and redoubled his attack. Mazael felt a flicker of grudging admiration for Earnachar’s skill. A few years ago no one among the Tervingi had ever seen a horse. Now Earnachar handled his mount with the skill of an expert rider.

  “So sure about that?” said Mazael, glancing to the west.

  “The goddess is invincible,” said Earnachar. “The world is hers. The victory is hers! We…”

  A booming cry interrupted his ranting, a trumpeting bellow of rage and fury.

  Earnachar’s speech faltered, his eyes widening.

  The five Tervingi war mammoths that Mazael had sent to circle around Greatheart Keep charged into the fray. When walking, the mammoths moved with deceptive speed. When the beasts charged, their momentum was nothing short of terrifying. It was as if a group of hills had decided to march to war. The archers atop the mammoths loosed volleys of arrows, but that was insignificant compared to the damage wrought by their stamping feet. A giant spider and a Skuldari warrior disappeared beneath one of the mammoths’ legs, crushed to a pulp in an instant. The mammoths also had spiked chains stretched taut between their massive tusks. As they charged into the Skuldari footmen, those chains acted like a reaper’s scythe. Dozens of men died as the mammoths stampeded forward, crushed beneath their feet, torn to shreds by the chains, or shot down by the archers.

  The Skuldari footmen fled in all directions before the mammoths’ charge. They had never seen the massive beasts before and had no idea how to fight them. The Skuldari lines dissolved into a chaotic mob, the spider riders clawing over their comrades to get away.

  Earnachar whirled to face Mazael, his teeth bared in a snarl.

  “Your goddess’s triumph might be delayed,” said Mazael.

  The headman bellowed and drove his horse forward. Mazael waited until the last second, and then turned his mount to the side, swinging his shield. He did not aim for Earnachar, but instead smashed his shield into the face of Earnachar’s horse. The animal reared up in surprise and pain, and Mazael swung Talon with all his strength. The blade slammed into Earnachar’s chest. The chain mail stopped the edge, but the force of Mazael’s strike drove the headman from his saddle. He fell backward with a grunt, and Mazael vaulted from the back of his horse. Earnachar started to rise, but Mazael hammered down with Talon’s pommel.

  Earnachar fell unconscious to the ground, blood leaking from his nose.

  “For your sake,” grunted Mazael, yanking off Earnachar’s weapons belt, “you had damned well better hope that one of those spiders is inside your chest.”

  “It is.” Riothamus reined up nearby, his staff glimmering with golden fire. “He has one of the spiders within him, and so do most of the men we’ve fought.”

  Mazael bound Earnachar’s wrists and ankles together with the belt and straightened up. “We’ll see if you can expel it after the battle is over. Any sign of the Prophetess or the vrokuls?”

  “None,” said Riothamus. “She is here, though, I am sure of it.”

  A ripple of shadow appeared before them, and Molly stepped out of it, her bloody sword and dagger in her hands.

  “Earnachar,” she said, looking down. “Should I kill him? I really ought to kill him.”

  “Not yet,” said Mazael.

  “Well, the battle’s over,” said Molly. “The Skuldari are on the run, and I don’t think they want to come back.” She let out a nasty laugh. “They’ve never seen mammoths before, I suspect.”

  “A wise man,” said Romaria, steering her horse to a halt besides them, “has that reaction when seeing a mammoth for the first time.”

  “The battle’s not over,” said Mazael, climbing back into the saddle. “Not until we’ve found the Prophetess and dealt with her. Molly. Send word to the mammoth drivers. Have them harry to the Skuldari until we’re sure they’re not coming back. We need a few men to keep an eye on Earnachar, as well. I want to have a talk with him once the battle is over.”

  Molly nodded and disappeared in a flicker of shadow.

  “Find the Prophetess,” said Mazael, and turned his horse toward the gates of Greatheart Keep.

  Chapter 19: A Mask of Swords

  Sigaldra loosed arrow after arrow, her teeth bared in a snarl.

  She was running out of arrows, but she was not running out of targets.

  The valgasts swarmed through the streets, battling Arnulf’s thains. Sigaldra took a deep breath, drew her bow, and released. The shaft slammed into the back of a valgast, and the creature went sprawling. It hardly mattered. There seemed to be hundreds of the damned things. Arnulf’s thains were putting up a ferocious fight, but step by step they were falling back into the village square. Worse, Skuldari warriors were pouring through the gate. The archers around her fired arrow after arrow, but it had little effect.

  There were simply too many of the enemy.

  Greatheart Keep had fallen, and the battle was over.

  Sigaldra’s next arrow sent a Skuldari warrior stumbling to the ground. Other warriors saw her and shouted commands, and a group of Skuldari ran for the stairs to the rampart. Sigaldra shot at them and missed. Most of the archers near her were older men and women, and the Skuldari warriors were all young, strong men. Her archers would not last long. She looked around, hoping to summon help, but the
Skuldari had seized most of the ramparts, and Adalar’s men and her thains were fighting frantically.

  It was…odd, really. She knew that the battle was over, she knew that she was about to die with the rest of her people, but her mind could not stop trying to find a way to save as many of them as she could. She had been doing it for so long that she could not stop, even at the bitter end.

  Her fingers closed around another arrow, and then a pair of horsemen galloped through the gate, trampling down any valgasts in their path. One was Rigoric, a hulking, giant form in his plate armor and his strange bladed mask. The other was a slim figure in a hooded black robe, riding with easy grace as her mount surged forward.

  The Prophetess.

  Fury surged through Sigaldra, and she raised her bow and released. The arrow flew true and hurtled towards the Prophetess. At least it would have, but the air around her rippled, and the arrow shattered into a hundred tiny splinters. A group of Arnulf’s thains charged towards the two riders, and the Prophetess gestured, rolling her wrist through an intricate gesture. Invisible force seized the thains and flung them against the walls of the nearby houses, and the Prophetess and Rigoric kept riding.

  They were going to get Liane. The Prophetess and Rigoric would not deign to slaughter the Jutai themselves, but would leave that chore to the Skuldari and to Earnachar’s men. The Prophetess wanted Liane, and there was nothing Sigaldra could do to save her sister.

  Pure panicked fury filled her, overriding her despair, and Sigaldra took a step forward, but the Skuldari warriors stormed onto the rampart. She cursed, dropped her bow, and yanked the short sword from her belt with a steely hiss. The archers followed suit, and the Skuldari warriors attacked. A man with a blue-painted face stepped toward her, grinning, and Sigaldra stabbed. The warrior must not have seen her as a threat, because her steel blade punched through his leather armor and sank into his breast. The man screamed and toppled backward over the rampart, but so did one of Sigaldra’s bondsmen, a man she had known her whole life.