Mask of Swords

by Jonathan Moeller

  Another Skuldari came at her in a flurry of blows, and Sigaldra retreated, trying to parry with her short sword. The Skuldari warrior was faster and stronger, and his blow slipped under her guard to rake across her stomach. The chain mail stopped his sword, but the power of the strike knocked her over. Sigaldra landed on the edge of the rampart and almost fell, the sword slipping from her grasp. She grabbed at the stonework and managed to keep herself from falling.

  The Skuldari warrior grinned, his teeth flashing white in his blue-painted face, and raised his sword for the kill.

  Sigaldra spat a defiant curse, though she knew it was futile. Words were a useless shield against blades.

  The sword came down…

  Darkness flickered behind the Skuldari warrior, and a woman appeared out of nowhere. She looked about Sigaldra’s age, with brown hair bound in a tail and icy gray eyes. She wore dark wool and leather, and carried a slender sword and a dagger that looked as if it had been made from a giant fang.

  It was a peculiar weapon, but nonetheless effective, which the woman proved when she opened the Skuldari warrior’s throat. The man staggered, his sword stroke missing Sigaldra, and the dark-clad woman put a boot in the small of his back and sent him tumbling from the rampart. The woman whirled and vanished again in a pulse of darkness, only to reappear in the midst of the attacking Skuldari. Her sword and dagger flashed, and she carved a bloody path through them.

  In a matter of moments she had cleared an empty space on the ramparts. Sigaldra started to sit up, her head ringing a bit, and one of her bondswomen helped her up.

  “Greetings,” said the dark-clad woman, shaking blood from her sword. “You must be Lady Sigaldra. Glad to see you’re still alive. Father would be even angrier if you were dead.”

  “You,” said Sigaldra, blinking. “You’re…Lady Molly, yes? The hrould’s daughter, the Guardian’s wife. What the devil are you doing here?”

  Molly grinned. It made her look half-mad. “Killing Skuldari. I found my father and brought some friends to help.”

  Sigaldra looked over the wall, something like hope flaring in her chest.

  Chaos reigned in the fields outside the wall. A mammoth lumbered past, driving the Skuldari warriors before it. Knights and armsmen galloped towards the gate, pushing Earnachar’s horsethains and Skuldari spider riders before them, and Sigaldra saw the black Cravenlock banner with its three crossed swords.

  Help had come. Gods and ancestors, help had come.

  She hoped one of those mammoths trampled Earnachar into paste.

  “The hrould is alive?” said Sigaldra.

  “Aye,” said Molly. “The Prophetess tried to put one of her pet spiders into him, but it didn’t take. It rather offended him, so now he’s come to kill the Prophetess.”

  “She’s in the village,” said Sigaldra, snatching up her bow. “Heading towards the keep. She’s come to take my sister.”

  Molly looked over the street, her gray eyes narrowed. “We’ll have to carve our way through those valgasts first. Ugly little devils, aren’t they?”

  “Can you not…walk through the shadows and stab the Prophetess in the back?” said Sigaldra.

  Molly grimaced. “Short hops are easy. Long strides are much harder. And the Prophetess is warded. If I stab her in the back and fail to kill her, she’ll blast me to ashes.” She glanced over the battlements. “We should have help coming shortly. Meanwhile, let’s clear a path to the square.”

  Sigaldra nodded, took a quiver of arrows from a dead man, and followed Molly from the ramparts.

  ###

  Adalar’s arms and shoulders ached from the strain of the battle, sweat pouring down his face. At least, he thought it was sweat. He had taken a few glancing blows upon his helm, and he wondered if he had a gash upon his forehead. He really ought to check it before he passed out from blood loss.

  The Skuldari had not given him the opportunity.

  Endless waves of enemies kept storming up the ladders, howling the names of Marazadra and Basracus. Adalar and Wesson fought side-by-side, flanked by some of Adalar’s remaining knights and armsmen. The dead and dying lay around them, the ramparts and battlements spattered with blood. Adalar killed another Skuldari, though his opponent’s sword bounced off his armor. He stumbled, almost losing his balance from the blow, and another Skuldari warrior stabbed at him with a spear. Wesson caught the thrust on his shield, and brought his mace down upon the warrior’s blue-painted face. There was a hideous crunch of breaking bone, and the warrior collapsed atop the dead.

  Adalar nodded his thanks to Wesson and turned toward the siege ladder, raising his sword to intercept the next warrior.

  Yet no other Skuldari warriors appeared.

  Adalar peered over the battlements. There was no one on the ladder, nor the one next to it. For a wild instant he wondered if they had killed all the Skuldari, but he dismissed the notion as absurd. Perhaps with the gate open, the Skuldari had abandoned their ladders. Yet Adalar should have come under attack from the streets as the Skuldari encircled them.

  “Adalar!” said Wesson. “Look!”

  Adalar had been so focused on the fighting that he had not looked over the wall in some time, and his eyes widened in shock.

  Chaos spread through the fields outside the village. The Skuldari fled in all directions, trapped between a mass of horsemen flying the black banners of the Cravenlocks and five Tervingi war mammoths. There were far more Skuldari than there were knights and armsmen, but pinned between the mammoths and the horsemen, the Skuldari force had degenerated into a panicked mob.

  “They’re fleeing,” said Wesson. “Help came.”

  “I think,” said Vorgaric, leaning upon his massive hammer as he took deep breaths, “that we’re winning now.”

  “Not yet,” said Adalar. “Not until we find Earnachar and the Prophetess. This isn’t over until we kill them.” The Skuldari were scrambling back down their ladders, but the valgasts still swarmed through the streets. He looked for Sigaldra but could not see her. He hoped that she had survived, but Adalar had to take action.

  “To the streets,” he said. “The Skuldari and the horsethains are fleeing. We have to clear the valgasts from the village.”

  “Should we not close the gates?” said Vorgaric.

  “No,” said Adalar. “Not yet, anyway. If that’s Lord Mazael out there, he’ll send men into the village. We will need all the aid we can get to finish off the valgasts.”

  “Lead on, then,” said Vorgaric, and Adalar lifted his sword, commanding his men to gather around him.

  ###

  Mazael galloped towards the village’s gate, a new spear in his hand. Romaria rode at his right, bow ready, and Riothamus at his left, the Guardian’s staff laid across his saddle. A wedge of knights and armsmen rode behind him, striking down any Skuldari raiders within reach. The great majority of the Skuldari raiders, at least those that had escaped the mammoths, were making their way to the west. The spider riders had abandoned the field long ago. Mazael hoped they would make their way back to Skuldar and trouble the Grim Marches no more. If not, he would have to hunt them down. The skythains could shadow them, and…

  Later. He pushed aside the thought and focused on the gate. His horse thundered through the gate and into the village. Valgasts filled the street, battling against Tervingi thains, and Mazael rode into the press, trampling valgasts beneath his mount’s hooves and skewering them upon his spear. The valgasts were too short to strike from the saddle with his sword, but they were quite easy to hit with the spear. More horsemen galloped into the street, and the valgasts began to flee. A cheer rose up from Arnulf’s thains.

  The air shimmered next to his horse, and a pair of translucent wolves appeared, manes of barbed tentacles streaming from their necks and shoulders, scorpions’ tails rising up over their haunches. Mazael wondered if the Prophetess had taken a hand in a fight, but then the spirit wolves attacked the nearest valgasts. Mazael turned and saw Timothy standing atop the wall, coat
flapping around him as he worked a spell.

  “Hrould!” shouted Riothamus, sweeping his staff before him as it blazed with golden fire. “Ahead! A cloaking spell!”

  Riothamus thrust his staff, and the street rippled. The distortion cleared, and a half-dozen crimson soliphages appeared. Their eyes gleamed with a pale white glow, and their spider legs hurtled them forward with terrific speed, their clawed hands coming up to work spells of their own.

  The Guardian of the Tervingi struck first, shouting and slamming his staff against the ground. White mist swirled above the soliphages and hardened into shards of razor-edged ice. Riothamus gestured again, and the shards hurtled forward. The soliphages cast counter-spells, but not quickly enough. Four of them withstood the attack, but the shards ripped through two of the creatures, tearing them to pulp.

  The Guardian was forbidden from taking mortal lives, but evidently the soliphages did not count.

  Mazael charged his horse, crashing the beast into the nearest soliphage. A man would have been knocked over by the shock of the impact. The soliphage held its ground, and the horse whinnied in fury. The creature raised its clawed hands to attack, and Mazael brought Talon hammering down. The curved blade of dragon claw ripped through the soliphage’s skull and sank deep into its head. The creature arched its back, its spider legs flailing in a death dance, and one of the legs struck Mazael in the chest and knocked him from the saddle.

  He struck the ground, rolled, and came up with sword and shield in hand, the Demonsouled fury filling his blood with mad eagerness. The three remaining soliphages surged at him, and Mazael met their attack, shield raised and Talon flying. A black shape bounded past him and slammed into one of the soliphages, knocking the creature from its feet. Romaria crouched in her wolf form atop the soliphage, her blue eyes blazing. The creature stabbed its talon-tipped fingers at her, but Romaria bounded to the side. Mazael took the opportunity to thrust, and Talon crunched through the soliphage’s chitin-armored chest and sank into its heart, killing it. Riothamus thrust his staff again, and a blast of golden fire ripped apart another soliphage.

  Mazael spun to face the final soliphage as the creature backed away. It was hard to read expressions on the alien, inhumanly beautiful face, but Mazael saw fear there. An arrow hissed out of the gloom and struck the creature in the belly, and the soliphage turned. Sigaldra hurried forward, bow raised, a band of Jutai archers around her. The soliphage darted towards them, and a silvery blur shot burst the nearby alley. Adalar appeared, his greatsword in both hands, and brought the heavy blade around for a mighty blow.

  His sword sank a third of the way into the soliphage’s neck. The creature flinched, and Mazael drove Talon into its chest. The soliphage shuddered once more, and collapsed to the street. Mazael ripped his sword free and looked around. Chaos still reigned in the village, but the area around them was clear.

  “You’re alive.” Sigaldra stepped towards him, her bloodshot eyes wide. “How? I was sure Earnachar would have killed you.”

  “Earnachar would have,” said Mazael. “He’s not in command, though. The Prophetess wanted to recruit me, so she tried to feed me one of those heart spiders. It didn’t take.”

  “How did you escape, my lord?” said Adalar, Wesson at his side. The young knight looked exhausted, his armor spattered with blood and slime, but he seemed otherwise uninjured.

  Romaria moved to Mazael’s side, wearing human form once more. “We had to kill a lot of people.”

  “We’re not done yet,” said Mazael. “We’ve dealt with Earnachar, but the Prophetess…”

  “She’s in the village,” said Sigaldra. “Heading for the keep with Rigoric. She’s here for my sister.”

  “I know,” said Mazael. “We had a little talk. She has brought fire and sword to the Grim Marches, and I will not forgive that.”

  “Her magic is strong,” said Sigaldra.

  Mazael gestured at Riothamus. Darkness swirled next to him, and Molly appeared, her weapons ready in her hands. “Others have stronger magic. Come. Let us show the Prophetess what it means to wage war against the Grim Marches.”

  He strode forward, the others following.

  ###

  A strange silence filled the village square as Sigaldra followed Mazael Cravenlock and the others.

  The valgasts, it seemed, had fled. The cowardly little scavengers had vanished back down their tunnels. Sigaldra would have to order the tunnels filled, assuming the Prophetess did not kill them all. Adalar walked behind Mazael, and Sigaldra was glad to see that he had survived. He deserved better than to fall beneath a Skuldari spear.

  Arnulf and a score of his surviving thains stood in the square, blocking the path to the gates of the keep. Dead valgasts carpeted the ground, pools of their blackish-green blood spreading across the earth. Rigoric stood in the center of the square like a tower of steel, his broadswords in either hand.

  The Prophetess waited at his side, a slender dark shadow.

  She drew back her cowl as Mazael drew nearer, and her green eyes widened.

  “Impossible,” she said. “The touch of the goddess should either have killed you or converted you. How…”

  Sigaldra did not care.

  She raised her bow, and before anyone could stop her, she loosed an arrow. Her aim was true, and the arrow hissed towards the Prophetess’s chest. Or it would have, had the air around the sorceress not rippled and torn the arrow to splinters. Sigaldra spat a curse, and Rigoric’s cold eyes turned towards her.

  “Foolish child,” said the Prophetess. There was no scorn in that voice, only disappointment. “All this bloodshed is your fault.”

  “My fault?” said Sigaldra. “My fault? You bring war and death to my people, and you have the temerity to blame me?”

  “All the world shall be gathered to the goddess,” said the Prophetess. “I am her instrument and her herald, and her triumph is inevitable. The sooner you accept this, the sooner you shall have peace.”

  “Damn you, and damn your spider of a goddess,” said Sigaldra. “You shall not have my sister.”

  “Your sister will be blessed beyond all women,” said the Prophetess, “and men yet unborn shall praise her name a thousand years from now. For she shall be the agent of the goddess’s return…”

  “Enough,” said Mazael. “This is over.”

  The Prophetess offered him a thin smile. “You were unable to withstand my power before.”

  “True,” said Mazael. “But this time, I’ve brought help.”

  His daughter stepped forward, as did the Guardian of the Tervingi. Sigaldra shivered a little at the sight of the Guardian’s staff. The sigils cut into the bronze-colored wood shimmered and pulsed with golden flame, and she had seen the power of the Guardian’s magic during the battle at the Northwater.

  “This is madness,” said the Guardian, his quiet voice cutting through the square. “Your goddess is defeated. She was defeated long ago, and she shall not return.”

  “You are so certain of that, Guardian?” said the Prophetess. “The goddess was defeated, but the Urdmoloch has been destroyed. He bound this world for long centuries, but now he has been overthrown, and the world is in chaos. A new order shall arise, and the goddess shall rule that order. You ought to join with me, Guardian. Your powers shall be welcomed.”

  “No,” said Riothamus. “Marazadra is dead, and she shall remain dead. Even if you were to restore her to the waking world, you would only unleash horror upon mankind. If you restore Marazadra, she will not bring order to the world. She will only feast upon it like a scavenger craving dead flesh.”

  “Then it is you, Guardian,” said the Prophetess, “who are blind to the true nature of reality.”

  “It is over,” said Mazael. “You cannot prevail against all of us, and your magic cannot contest against the Guardian. Surrender.”

  “Or?” said the Prophetess, raising one eyebrow.

  “Or I will kill you,” said Mazael.

  “I am the herald of the goddes
s,” said the Prophetess. “Do you think she would send me without defenders?” She gestured at Rigoric, who stood motionless next to her.

  “The soliphages are dead,” said Mazael, “and your pet orcragar,” Rigoric’s eyes shifted to Mazael, “is only one man. He cannot overcome us all.”

  “No,” said the Prophetess. “The soliphages are the emissaries of the goddess. But they are not the only emissaries.”

  She shouted and flung out her hands, ghostly fire playing about her fingers. The Guardian thumped his staff against the ground, and a white haze played before them, a barrier to turn aside any magical attacks. Yet Sigaldra realized that the Prophetess had not launched an attack at them, but was casting another spell.

  Gray mist swirled around her feet, shining with an ugly purple light.

  “Stop her!” said Mazael, but the Prophetess thrust her hands into the air.

  “Too late!” she said, and a shape erupted from the mist.

  It was a huge, hulking spider, far larger than the creatures the Skuldari had ridden into battle, nearly the size of a pair of oxen. The Skuldari spiders had been sleek and deadly, but this creature was to them as a hunting wolf was to a mewling puppy. It moved with the dangerous grace of a lion, its narrow body armored in black chitin, its legs like the blades of massive swords. A large crimson blotch, like a crude hourglass, marked the gleaming obsidian-like chitin of its thorax. Its eyes shone like dying coals, and a peculiar shimmering haze surrounded the creature, like the Prophetess’s wards but much stronger. The creature looked as if it could take on an entire army by itself.

  Two more of the giant spiders erupted from the Prophetess’s mist.

  “Behold!” said the Prophetess. “The Skuldari use their hunting spiders in war, but they are but the pale imitation of their ancestors! Behold their ancestors, the personal guard of the goddess Marazadra herself, the Crimson Hunters of old! Behold them, and know the wrath of the goddess!” She beckoned to Rigoric. “Champion! The voice of the goddess calls on you. Kill them! Kill them all!”