It had been spring when Mazael and his men marched south in pursuit of Ultorin. Now summer had come to the Grim Marches, and blood roses bloomed among the high grasses, like crimson wounds in the rolling plains. As Mazael rode past the villages, he saw crops growing in the fields, saw sheep and cattle grazing. That was good – he had feared Ultorin's attack would disrupt the planting, would lead to famine.
His mouth thinned.
Of course, Ultorin's attack had left the Grim Marches with far fewer mouths to feed. Mazael had made Ultorin pay for that, had seen the horror in Ultorin's eyes as death approached.
But that would not bring back his victims.
“You are scowling,” said Romaria.
“Ultorin killed so many of my people,” said Mazael. “And now Corvad thinks to do the same.”
“You killed Ultorin,” said Romaria, “and you'll do the same to Corvad, once you catch him.”
Mazael shook his head. “I did not defeat Ultorin alone.” He could have died countless times during the battle against Ultorin's Malrags, if Lucan had not deflected Malavost’s spells, if Romaria had not awakened the traigs.
“Nor shall you fight Corvad alone,” said Romaria.
###
She stayed in his tent that night.
Romaria was not Mazael’s first woman. He had spent years wandering as a landless knight, fighting for profit and glory, and in his travels there had been women. Widowed noblewomen, eager for companionship. The spoiled daughters (and sometimes wives) of rich merchants. Peasant women, awed or charmed by the wandering knight. Mazael had not known about his Demonsouled heritage, and he had spent years fighting and carousing, indifferent to the future.
Sometimes the memory frightened him. There had been so many women. What if he had gotten one pregnant? The child would carry Mazael's taint, the blood of the Old Demon, the power of the Demonsouled. And if that power manifested, the child could become a monster. A bloodthirsty warlord like Amalric Galbraith, or a cold manipulator like Morebeth Galbraith.
Then Romaria kissed him, and Mazael's worries fled.
Romaria was not Mazael's first, but he wanted her to be the last.
Afterward she lay against him atop his blankets, the rapid pace of her breath slowing.
“I look forward to returning to Castle Cravenlock,” she said.
Mazael opened his eyes. “Oh? Why's that?”
“Because the ground is far too lumpy for this.”
He laughed.
“You seem troubled,” Romaria said.
“I hoped the fighting would be over,” said Mazael, “that my people would live in peace. That we could return to Castle Cravenlock and live quietly.”
“Peace is a rare thing in this life,” said Romaria.
“I know,” said Mazael. “First Mitor's rebellion and the San-keth. Then Ultorin and his Malrags. And now Corvad and his little band.”
“That's not what's really troubling you,” said Romaria. She shifted, her side rubbing against his. “Fighting has never daunted you.”
“No,” said Mazael.
He lay in silence for a moment.
“I see myself in Corvad,” said Mazael at last. “What I could have become. What I still could become, if I am not careful.”
“You have yourself well in control,” said Romaria. He felt her smile. “You haven't tried to murder anyone in a rage for a while now.”
“No,” said Mazael. “But I have killed. The Dominiars, the San-keth, the Malrags. I have slain them all. I do not fear becoming a creature like Corvad or Amalric.” He thought for a moment. “The possibility of becoming a tyrant, without realizing it...that disturbs me. A great deal. I have killed many because I thought it necessary, but tyrants have all said the same.”
She kissed his chest. “The Malrags would have butchered every last man, woman, and child in the Grim Marches. Killing them does not make you a tyrant.”
She smiled.
“What?” said Mazael.
“If you were a tyrant, if you gave into your rage, I would not stay with you,” said Romaria. “I was drawn to you, from the moment I first saw you.” She grinned. “I like strong men. And you are strong. At first I was terrified of your strength. I thought you would destroy me.”
“I did,” said Mazael, remembering the Old Demon standing atop the altar, Romaria lying dead at his feet.
“I told you,” said Romaria, “that was the Old Demon's fault, not yours. You are a strong man, Mazael, but a good one.”
“Not so good,” said Mazael. “I've done foolish things. I've made mistakes, some of them terrible.”
“As have I,” said Romaria. “But you've learned from them. You are a different man than you were. You are still a strong man, but you've become a better one. And a strong leader, a strong lord, is what the Grim Marches needs, what your vassals and knights and peasants need. Someone to lead them against their foes, and to keep them safe. If you cannot do it, no one can.”
“If I am a good man, or at least a better one,” said Mazael, “it's because of you. You kept me from the edge, when the Demonsouled power threatened to overwhelm me.”
“You hadn't given in to it, even then,” said Romaria. “You may not have been a good man, but you weren't a monster, not like the others.”
“But without your help, the Old Demon would have lured me into becoming a monster,” said Mazael, and his arms tightened around her. “Thank you.”
“You'll still have my help,” said Romaria. “With my father...”
Her voice caught for a moment.
“With my father dead,” said Romaria, “there's no reason for me to ever return to Deepforest Keep. Castle Cravenlock is my home now. And I will fight alongside you to defend it.” Her fingers brushed his cheek and jaw, settling on his shoulder. “I will fight alongside you until the Grim Marches are at peace.”
“That might take,” said Mazael, “a long time.”
“So be it,” said Romaria, and Mazael kissed her again.
###
They rode north the next morning, making for Castle Cravenlock. Both Castle Cravenlock and its town lay three days' ride north of the Great Southern Forest, and Mazael wanted to return home as soon as possible. He didn't know what Corvad planned, but the sooner it was stopped, the better.
And it was good to return to the Grim Marches. Here, they could ride faster, unhindered by the massive trees of the Great Southern Forest. Everywhere they saw signs of the fight against Ultorin's Malrags. Most villages showed signs of damage, and some had been burned to the ground. Yet Mazael saw new crops growing, saw sheep and pigs grazing, and when he questioned the villagers, none of them had seen any Malrags since Ultorin had gone south.
Corvad, it seemed, was keeping himself hidden.
“Rachel and I will return to Knightcastle,” said Gerald as they settled down to camp. “Once we reach Castle Cravenlock. In another few months it will be unwise for her travel. And she would much prefer that our second child be born at Knightcastle.”
Rachel said nothing, gazing over the plains, Aldane cradled in her arms. Castle Cravenlock held too many dark memories for her, Mazael knew. Knightcastle was her home now.
“Aye,” said Mazael. “But I'll miss your aid, and Circan's.”
Gerald snorted. “Our aid? Without your aid, Mazael, my son would have perished at Malavost’s hand.”
“And I shall miss Rachel's aid as well,” said Mazael. “For without you, sister, Malavost would have slain us all, and unleashed a new horror upon the world.”
“I did what I had to do,” said Rachel, voice quiet. Then her eyes glinted, and Mazael saw the defiance she had developed during the ordeal, the courage that had allowed her to stab Malavost. “And if some other mad wizard gets it into his head to steal my next child...well, let that be a warning to him!”
###
At noon on the next day, they reached Castle Cravenlock.
The castle sat on a craggy hill over looking the plains. It looked the stronghold of an evil wizard
from some jongleur's song – its grim walls topped with battlements and ramparts, its towers tall and strong. The banner of the Cravenlocks, three crossed swords on a field of black, flew from the keep. Below the hill, perhaps half a mile from the castle, lay Cravenlock Town. It had once been an overgrown village of four thousand people, but the population had doubled as the surrounding peasants fled to safety behind the town's walls. Some had returned to their farms and villages after Ultorin's departure, but some had not. Now laborers built new houses and workshops, while others worked to expand the town's walls.
Mazael rode at the head of his men, Romaria and Gerald at his side. Both castle and town looked peaceful, much to his relief. Corvad had not decided to strike at Castle Cravenlock. Of course, he could have attacked elsewhere. Mazael had left Sir Nathan Greatheart and Sir Hagen Bridgebane in command during his absence, and he wanted to speak with them at once. Perhaps they had additional news.
Gerald frowned. “Mazael...look at the smoke.” He pointed at one of the new workshops outside of the town's walls. “Is that workshop on fire?”
“It’s supposed to be,” said Mazael. “Some of the more enterprising peasants set up a workshop for making pottery.” He scratched at his beard. “Apparently, the clay from the hills can be used to make especially fine pots, or so they tell me. If it works, I'll tax the merchants as they head west, and...”
“Mazael,” said Romaria, voice sharp, “that smoke isn't coming from a workshop. That house is on fire.”
Mazael frowned. As they rode past the town, he saw that a house behind the workshop was on fire, its interior burning. Even as he stared at the fire, he glimpsed dark figures running below the town's walls, figures with black armor and gray faces.
Malrags.
But no alarms rose from the town. Which meant the sentries on the wall hadn't noticed the Malrags yet, or had grown lax in their duties. If that was the case, Mazael would have them flogged. But if the town hadn't noticed the attackers, if they hadn't yet seen the Malrags...
“Gerald!” said Mazael. “Have your men sound an alarm, now!”
Gerald shouted orders, and a dozen of his knights lifted horns to their lips. The blasts rang out, and Mazael saw heads turn on the wall, saw the sentries move to look.
Saw them notice the Malrags.
Horn blasts rose from the walls of the town, and Mazael heard the sudden shouts of alarm, the booming crack as militiamen pulled shut the town's gates. The Malrags would not get into the town to cause havoc. Men rushed to the ramparts of the town's walls, bearing crossbows and spears. The militia, at least, had not been lax. So why had the sentries failed to see the Malrags? The Malrags moved in large warbands...
Unless they were trying to be stealthy.
That disturbed Mazael. The Malrags were never stealthy. But if Corvad had taken over the remnants of Ultorin's horde, and commanded them to use stealth and tactics, the Malrags would become much more dangerous.
Even as Mazael watched, the Malrags turned and fled from town’s half-built outskirts, running for the hills west of the castle. There were no more than thirty or forty of them, and Mazael's horsemen could ride them down with ease.
Even as he opened his mouth to give the command, he saw the dark mass emerging from the hills.
More Malrags.
Hundreds of them, marching in an orderly formation rather than their usual frenzied charge. The Malrags bore massive shields, creating a wall of black steel, and carried serrated halberds.
“Gods,” said Gerald. “They've never fought a formation like that before.”
“Those are Corvad's Malrags,” said Romaria. “I can see crimson veins on some of them.”
Mazael drew Lion. The sword shuddered in his grasp, the blade shimmering with blue fire as it reacted to the presence of the Malrags. “Any zuvembies with them?”
Romaria sniffed the air. “No. Just Malrags. I don't see Corvad, either.”
Mazael nodded. “Then something else is controlling the Malrags. A balekhan, most likely.” He had faced balekhans before, during Ultorin's attacks. Larger and stronger than normal Malrags, the demon spirits inhabiting them possessed the power to command lesser Malrags. “Corvad probably delegated his authority to it. If we can find and kill it, the Malrags won't be able to keep their formation. We can deal with them easily then.”
“A sound plan,” said Gerald.
“Form up the men,” said Mazael. “Heavy horse in the center, the mounted archers on the wings. We don't dare charge them directly, not when they're in formation like that.” Many a foolish lord had led his men to ruin by charging a wall of spears. “Send the horse archers to harass the Malrags. Keep Circan with us – we'll need him if those Malrags have any shamans. Oh, and send one man to the town, and another to the castle. Tell the town's bailiff to send out any mounted archers and militiamen he can spare, but to leave enough to hold the town. And bid Sir Nathan and Sir Hagen to come to our aid with as many knights and mounted armsmen as they can.”
Gerald nodded, shouting Mazael's orders. Within moments the horsemen had formed up, waiting the order to attack. Two men galloped away, one making for the gates of the town, the other riding for the road to Castle Cravenlock's gates. Mazael half-expected to see green lightning fall from the sky, to obliterate the messengers. But no blasts came. Either the balekhan commanding the Malrags did not care about the possibility of Mazael's reinforcements, or it did not have any shamans.
That was a welcome thought.
He looked at the advancing Malrags. There were at least five hundred of them, against Mazael’s one hundred and sixty horsemen. Close odds, but they could win. Especially if reinforcements came from the town and the castle.
Mazael lifted Lion over his head, the sword ablaze, and his men cheered as the mounted archers galloped to the attack.
Chapter 7 – Red Knights
Romaria swayed in the saddle as her mount raced forward. In one hand she held the reins, and in the other she carried a short curved bow, the sort favored by the men of the Grim Marches. Her composite bow, a gift from the Elderborn tribes, was a powerful weapon, but too large to use from horseback. Fortunately, the short bow had more than enough power to strike down a Malrag at short range.
“Arrows!” shouted Romaria.
She had taken command of Mazael's mounted archers. The archers had seen her take the shape of a wolf and rip out Malrag throats, had seen her wake the army of traigs to save Deepforest Keep, and therefore did not object.
Romaria dropped the reins, steering her mount with her knees. The sturdy little horse had been well trained, and continued running. She seized an arrow from her quiver, lifted it to her bow. Around her the men did the same, their horses' manes and tails streaming in the wind.
The wall of Malrag spears loomed before her.
“Release!” said Romaria, urging her horse to the left. In the same motion she raised her bow, drew the string, and released.
The archers galloped past the Malrag spear wall, loosing their arrows. Most of the shafts slammed into black shields or skidded off Malrag armor. But some penetrated the armor, and a few Malrags fell dead with arrows through their throats or eyes. A ripple went through the Malrag ranks, and for a moment Romaria thought they would break formation and attack, as they always had in previous battles.
But the formation held firm.
The horse archers rode past the Malrags’ right flank, still releasing arrow after arrow. The Malrags shifted formation, moving to keep their shields between them and the hail of arrows. Romaria grinned. If they could force the Malrags out of formation, that would leave them vulnerable to Mazael's knights.
She raised her bow, arms tight with tension. She had an advantage over the other archers. The Elderborn half of her soul, the beast within her, made her senses supernaturally keen. The vile stink of the Malrags filled her nostrils, along with the sharper corruption in their crimson veins, so similar to Demonsouled power. She heard their growls and snarls, the angry hiss of breath
over yellowed fangs.
And she saw their eyes, white and blank beneath their black helms.
Romaria released the bowstring, the arrow burying itself in a Malrag's eye, and the creature fell with a choked howl of pain.
And through the ranks of the Malrags, Romaria glimpsed a massive shape.
###
“Flank them!” said Mazael.
He kicked Hauberk to a run. Two bands of mounted archers circled around the Malrags like a swarm of bees, loosing their arrows. To Mazael's great surprise, the Malrags held their formation, not breaking to attack the horse archers. But even thought the Malrags had not attacked, the rain of arrows disrupted their tight formation. The Malrags could not face both Mazael's horsemen and shield themselves from the archers' arrows. One strong charge, and the Malrag lines would break.
He rode left, his men following, and he saw the dark shapes stir within the Malrags' lines.
###
Romaria released another arrow, and saw the hulking form stand up in the center of the Malrags.
The creature stood fifteen feet tall, arms and legs like tree trunks, armored in overlapping plates of black steel like a dragon's scales. It had the leathery gray hide of the Malrags, its skin covered in gnarled growths and cysts. But like Corvad's Malrags, a network of crimson veins overlaid its hide, pulsing and throbbing.
An Ograg, one of the larger, more dangerous cousins to the Malrags.
Romaria shifted her saddle and fired. Her next arrow flew over the Malrags' head and sank into the Ograg's neck. The creature bellowed in fury, slapping at the arrow like a stinging fly, and its massive white eyes turned to face her.
In the heart of the Malrag formation, she saw three more Ogrags stand up, each carrying a massive spiked metal club.
###
Mazael cursed, reining Hauberk up, his men halting.
The Ogrags lumbered through the formation, the Malrags parting to let the larger creatures pass. Four of the damned things, each covered with those crimson veins, larger and stronger than normal Ogrags. All four made straight for Mazael's knights and armsmen, ignoring the arrows that buzzed past them.
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