And if his control slipped…
A gust of wind struck him, so cold that Mazael’s eyes popped open, and he began laughing. Yes, he was a child of the Old Demon, the destroyer of the Dominiar Order, the vanquisher of Malrags and dragons. It certainly would be amusing if he died of a chill caught while agonizing over his woes on a balcony.
He went back into the bedchamber, closing the door behind him.
“Mazael?” said Romaria, her voice thick with sleep. Her blue eyes opened in her pale face. “Is something amiss?”
“No, nothing’s amiss,” said Mazael. “I cannot sleep.”
He had not told her of the dreams. He had almost killed her, years ago, caught in the grip of his Demonsouled madness, and he loathed the memory of his folly. Besides, she slept beside him almost every night. She knew already.
“Go for a walk, then,” murmured Romaria, closing her eyes. “It will clear your head.” She curled up beneath the blankets and sighed, the movement almost wolfish.
Appropriate, really.
Mazael dressed, pulling on a tunic, trousers, and boots. His sword, its pommel shaped like a golden lion’s head, went in a scabbard at his belt. Lion had been forged in the ancient world, created to fight things of dark magic, and its power had saved Mazael’s life more than once.
He shrugged a heavy cloak over his shoulders and left, closing the door behind him. Rufus Highgate, Mazael’s squire, lay snoring on a cot in the anteroom. The boy could sleep through almost anything. Yet his weapons lay close at hand beside the cot.
He, too, had survived the Malrag war.
Mazael left the King’s Tower, went to the main keep, and began climbing. The castle was quiet, save for the rasp of boots and the clink of armor from the sentries. The smell of bread baking in the kitchens reached his nostrils. Mazael climbed the stairs and reached the roof of the keep, the cold wind tugging at his cloak. From here he saw the barbican and the stables, and…
A dark flicker from the corner of his eye.
Mazael whirled, his reflexes taking over, and yanked Lion from its scabbard. The blade glimmered with hints of azure fire. Steel flashed for his head, and Mazael parried once, twice, three times, Lion’s glow growing brighter.
His attacker, a young woman of about twenty, stepped back. She was short and trim, her pale face made ghostly in Lion’s blue light. She wore trousers of dark wool, a leather jerkin, and a sword belt around her waist. Her cold gray eyes gleamed with a battle lust Mazael knew all too well.
“Daughter,” said Mazael.
Molly Cravenlock smirked. “Father.”
Rage filled Mazael, and his blood screamed for him to attack, to cut her down. Yet he made himself hold back. He saw the same struggle reflected in Molly’s face, her eyes glinting like sword blades.
At last they lowered their weapons.
“You should probably put that away,” said Molly. “Else your guards will see the light and come running.”
Mazael slid Lion back into its scabbard. “We’re jumping at each other like two rabid wolves. If we’re not careful we’re going to kill each other one day out of sheer reflex.”
“Yes,” said Molly. “And wouldn’t that be a tragedy. Two fewer Demonsouled to trouble the world.”
They stood in silence for a moment.
“Ill dreams?” said Mazael at last.
Molly looked at him. “I always have ill dreams, Father. Ever since Corvad murdered Nicholas.” Her eyes tightened at the mention of her slain lover. “I used to dream about killing you, watching you suffer. But now that Corvad is dead, I simply dream about watching Nicholas die.” She shrugged. “I haven’t slept the night in a long time.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mazael. “But those aren’t the kind of dreams I meant.”
“Ah.” Molly smirked. “Am I lonely, you mean? Those kinds of dreams? Well. Your armsmaster Sir Hagen is a bit large for my taste, but…”
“You know,” said Mazael, “what kind of dreams I mean.”
Molly looked away. The wind caught at her brown hair, the same color as his own.
“The dreams,” he said, “of blood and killing.”
“Yes,” she said. “You, too?”
Mazael nodded. “They…went away for a few years. I think it was because of the Malrags. I had enough killing to keep even my Demonsouled blood satisfied.”
Molly laughed. “Now you’ve got what you’ve always wanted. Peace for the Grim Marches, and it’s driving you mad. Nothing to kill, eh?”
“Yes,” said Mazael, voice quiet.
Molly grinned without a hint of mirth. “Romaria feels sorry for me, you know. When I tell her how the Skulls raised me after my mother died. How dreadful it must have been, raised by master assassins. Well.” She shook her head. “It was dreadful…but I liked the killing. I liked the hunting. The Skulls can burn for all I care, but, ah…I like to kill things, Father. And you do too.”
Mazael said nothing.
“We’re monsters, you and I,” said Molly. “The world would be better off without us.”
“And if we kill ourselves,” said Mazael, “who will stop your grandfather?”
That kindled a harsh light in her eyes. Molly sometimes talked of killing herself. Yet Mazael need only mention the Old Demon and her rage returned. Corvad might have killed Nicholas Tormaud, but the Old Demon had given the command.
Still, Mazael wished he could give her more.
One could not live on hatred forever.
Molly looked into the courtyard. “What’s all that?”
“That?” Mazael gestured at the row of tents standing below the curtain wall. “Lord Toraine Mandragon will be arriving tomorrow, or possibly the day after.”
Molly laughed. “Lord Richard’s mad dragon of a son. What does he want with you?”
Mazael already knew. Toraine wanted to kill Mazael and claim Castle Cravenlock for himself.
“To haggle,” said Mazael aloud. “I’m going to wed Romaria, and Lord Richard does not entirely approve.”
“You’re going to marry Romaria?” said Molly. “I thought you loved her. Why inflict yourself upon her?”
He’d wondered that too, sometimes. Romaria would be better off without him. Yet their lives were bound together by blood and fate. She had helped him keep his Demonsouled nature at bay, and he had helped rescue her from the wild magic of the Elderborn half of her soul.
With Lucan’s help.
Mazael did not want to think about Lucan Mandragon just now.
“Because,” said Mazael. “I love her.”
Molly snorted. “You’re a lord. Lords marry for power and land, not love. Besides. You already have one Demonsouled daughter. Do you desire more?”
“No,” said Mazael. “Romaria is a half-breed. Half human, and half Elderborn. She cannot have children.”
“Just as well,” said Molly. “I have no wish for any half-siblings. Given that my one full sibling tried to turn me into a monster.”
Mazael thought of Amalric and Morebeth. “I understand.”
“So why doesn’t Lord Richard approve?” said Molly.
“Because he knows Romaria won’t have children,” said Mazael. “Which means when I die, Castle Cravenlock will pass to my sister.”
“Who is married to Gerald Roland,” said Molly. “And when she dies, her son Aldane will become Lord of Castle Cravenlock. Which means a Roland will be Lord of Castle Cravenlock.” She gave a nasty laugh. “Lord Richard will love that.”
“He won’t,” said Mazael.
“He’ll probably try to kill you,” said Molly.
“Perhaps,” said Mazael. He had given Lord Richard good service, and Lord Richard would not turn on his sworn men. But Richard Mandragon would put the stability and safety of the Grim Marches before anything else, and if he felt Mazael’s death was necessary to secure the Grim Marches…
“Is that what you want?” said Molly. “A war with Lord Richard? Oh, but you’ll have plenty of killing then.”
“No,” said Mazael.
“You shouldn’t lie to your daughter,” said Molly.
“Perhaps my blood does want a war,” said Mazael, “but it shall not have one. I will marry Romaria, and I will find a way to keep the piece with Lord Richard.”
He did not tell Molly that he intended to leave Castle Cravenlock to her, not to Rachel’s son. Molly would find out, soon enough.
Molly’s smile was brittle. “Father, Father. These things have a way of coming to blood in the end.”
“I know,” said Mazael.
They stood in silence for a while longer. The eastern sky began to brighten, painting the bleak plains of the Grim Marches with a pale glow. Mazael saw more lights flare in Cravenlock Town as the blacksmiths and the potters lit their forges and kilns.
“Father,” said Molly.
He looked at her.
“Do you think,” she said, voice distant, “that something is wrong?”
“What do you mean?” said Mazael.
“With us.”
He burst out laughing. “Quite a bit is wrong with us.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Molly, and Mazael stopped laughing. Before leaving the Skulls, she had spent years as assassin. More specifically, she had survived for years as an assassin, which meant her instincts for trouble were invariably correct. “All these dreams, so suddenly. Like something is happening. Something’s going on, but I don’t know what.”
“Yes,” said Mazael. “I think…I think something is about to happen.”
“Do you know what?”
He gave an irritated shake of his head. “No.”
His sword hand balled into a fist.
But whatever it was, he would be ready for it.
###
In his dreams, Riothamus son of Rigotharic was always six years old again.
Riogotharic had been headman of his own hold, with over a hundred swordthains and spearthains sworn to him. Riothamus’s father had been a warrior of renown, tall and strong, his armor and sword fashioned from costly steel. All the clans of the Tervingi nation had respected him.
And none of that did any good when the Malrags came.
Riothamus ran, screaming, as the hold burned around him, the beams and thatch of the roof vanishing in curtains of raging flame. His father’s thains lay strewn across the muddy ground, their armor ripped apart by the black axes and swords of the Malrags. A blast of green lighting screamed from the black sky, setting the roof of the granary ablaze. Riothamus stumbled from his father’s hall, weeping, and stopped.
The Malrags ran at him.
The creatures were gray-skinned, with six-fingered hands and white, colorless eyes. Yellowed fangs jutted from their lips, and their long fingers ended in ragged claws. Black chain mail jingled as they ran, and black axes and spears gleamed in their hands.
Riothamus sprinted, his legs churning at the muddy street beneath his feet. The Malrags surged after him, roaring with glee and bloodlust.
Riothamus stumbled.
A hard hand closed about his shoulder, and he screamed…
“Riothamus!”
Riothamus jerked awake, his heart pounding.
A grim-faced man in chain mail stooped over him, face half-hidden behind a tangled yellow beard. The handle of a massive battle axe rose over his left shoulder, and a broadsword hung from his leather belt. A necklace of Malrag claws dangled from his neck, clicking against his mail.
“Arnulf,” said Riothamus, blinking.
“You were screaming to wake the dead, witcher,” said Arnulf, his voice a raspy rumble. “Half the camp was up.”
“Damnation,” said Riothamus. After twenty years, one would think the nightmares would stop.
Of course, the Malrags hadn’t stopped, either.
Arnulf snorted. “I’d heard that female demons visited witch-folk in the night for acts of unnatural congress. The way you were screaming, I think the rumors were true.”
Despite everything, Riothamus burst out laughing.
“No,” said Riothamus. “No such pleasure, I fear. Just…bad dreams.”
Riothamus could never recall Arnulf smiling, though the older man’s scowl did fade somewhat. “Bad dreams. Well, you’re still alive. The dead don’t dream.”
“No,” said Riothamus. “I suppose I’ve woken everyone.”
Arnulf grunted. “Aye. But it’s almost dawn. Past time we got moving.” He straightened up. “Up, lads! It’s a lovely day! And there are Malrags that need killing.”
The thirty men encamped on the hilltop cursed and bellowed insults, but began climbing to their feet. The swordthains and the spearthains were sworn to the great hrould Athanaric, all veterans of the long wars against the Malrag ravagers.
And all of them, these battle-scarred veterans, kept well away from Riothamus.
He tried to ignore that.
Riothamus picked up his spear, stretching his sore legs. He walked to the edge of the hilltop. It was a cold, gray day, the sky the color of hammered steel. Steep hills stretched away to the south, their slopes lined with barren trees. The Iron River flowed to the north, almost a half-mile wide. The air was still and silent.
A deceptive silence.
“Move, you sluggards!” roared Arnulf, pacing the crest of the hill. “Are you warriors or women? Move!” He stalked to Riothamus’s side. Unlike the others, he showed no fear of Riothamus. Of course, Arnulf showed no fear of anything. “Witcher. Any Malrags about?”
Riothamus shrugged. “No Malrags have been seen south of the Iron River since winter.”
Arnulf grunted. “You’re not that stupid. Check anyway.”
Riothamus nodded, drew in a deep breath, and cast the spell, just as the Guardian had taught him. He felt the power rise within him, obedient to his will, and he sent the magic out, soaking into the earth and air around him. For an instant he sensed the wind blowing against his face and the rock beneath his boots, the flow of the Iron River and the rustling of the barren trees.
He sensed no Malrags. A Malrag would have felt like a shadow against his senses, a corruption eating its way through the earth and wind.
The spell faded away.
“Nothing,” said Riothamus. “No Malrags for five miles in any direction.”
“Only five?” said Arnulf.
Riothamus shook his head. “I can’t reach any farther. The Guardian can, but I cannot.”
“It will serve,” said Arnulf. “Get moving. I want to reach Skullbane by noon.”
###
They saw the first dead village an hour later.
A few years ago the banks of the Iron River had been lined with villages of the Tervingi. The prosperous villagers had fished the river and logged the trees, trading with the Tervingi clans in the hill country or the other nations further south. But the Malrags had annihilated the other nations and driven the Tervingi from the hills.
And now the village lay desolate.
It squatted by the river’s bank. The stone walls stood like dry bones, their roofs and interiors burned away. Some of the docks had collapsed into the Iron River’s gray waters, and a half-sunken fishing boat jutted from the debris. Bones littered the village’s street. Some were the misshapen skulls and clawed fingers of Malrags, but most were the bones of the men and women and children the Malrags had butchered.
The hold of the village’s headman stood on a hill over the docks, now nothing more than a half-collapsed shell of loose stone. Riothamus saw the charring where the Malrag shamans’ lightning had ripped into the structure.
“Feasted there, once,” said Arnulf. “Old Eordric the Gray. Fat old bastard, but generous with his beer and his loot. Good man to follow into a fight. Suppose the Malrags did for him when they burned the village.”
He shook his head, and kept walking.
They passed three more burned villages, weeds growing in their fields and pens. Sometimes the Malrags preferred to amuse themselves with captives rather than slaughter them out of hand, and Riothamus sa
w ample evidence of that. In one village a row of empty skulls sat atop the loose stone wall of a sheepfold. In another a line of skeletons lay upon the earth, rusting iron stakes driven through the bones of their arms and legs. Every hour he cast the spell to detect the presence of Malrags, but he sensed nothing.
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