“Oh?” said Romaria. “You thought Mazael would spend the rest of his life taking up with mistresses and whores?”
Tanam laughed. “No, I expected we’d all be dead years ago. So watching you wed – and eating your food and drinking your wine – is much preferable.”
Lord Robert Highgate intercepted Mazael next. He looked like an older, balder, and considerably fatter version of his son Rufus.
His wife Tymaen waited at his side, eyes downcast. She was beautiful, with long blonde hair and large blue eyes in a pale face. Robert’s first wife had died after Rufus had been born, and Robert had married Tymaen a few years later.
She had once been betrothed to Lucan Mandragon. Perhaps that was why Lucan had not come to the tournament.
Though Mazael had not seen much of Lucan lately. The wizard had seemed subdued, and spent most of his time alone in the libraries of the castle’s chapel and the town’s church. Perhaps his experiences in Arylkrad had drained his strength.
“Congratulations, my lord Mazael,” said Robert, slapping him on the back. “I feel I should give you a broken leg, to celebrate the occasion.”
Mazael groaned. “That was twenty-five years ago.” He and Robert had been squires together, and Mazael had broken Robert’s leg during a vigorous session of sword practice.
“And you’ll have to go through me,” said Romaria.
“Ha!” said Robert. “I’m not so foolish. I’ve seen you in battle, my lady. You’re a feisty one, and I like my women quieter.”
Tymaen said nothing.
“Will you ride today, my lord?” said Romaria.
“Bah!” said Robert. “I’m too old and fat. I’ll watch the younger men bash each other over the head, and I’ll drink myself silly on your wine. A proper way for a man my age to celebrate a wedding, I say.”
Mazael and Romaria passed through the lords, greeting them one by one. A flourish of trumpets rang out, and the poorer knights and the armsmen departed for the melee.
“I’ll need to go to the archery butts,” said Romaria.
Mazael nodded. “I’ll see you there.”
She kissed him and left, and Mazael found himself standing by Molly, who stood in the corner of the nobles’ box, watching the proceedings with crossed arms and an amused glint to her eye.
“I shall never understand these spectacles,” said Molly. “All these nobles dressing up in polished armor and playing at war. War is about killing, not playing a game.”
“So there’s no young knight riding to win your favor?” said Mazael.
Molly smiled, faintly. “Nicholas would have. Gods, but he loved tournaments. I told him he’d be liable to get his purse cut. I guarantee there are a score of pickpockets among the crowd, and they’ll all go home richer tonight. Nicholas didn’t care. He…”
She sighed and closed her eyes.
“You could always fight in the melee,” said Mazael.
Molly opened one eye and snorted. “Truly? Your tedious noble peers are already scandalized that Romaria is shooting in the archery competition. If they hadn’t seen her put a hundred arrows through a hundred Malrags’ eyes, they’d probably complain about it. Besides, if I fight in the melee, we’ll never hear the end of stories about Mazael Cravenlock’s wild womenfolk.”
“As if that would trouble you,” said Mazael.
Molly barked out a short laugh. “It wouldn’t. And I might like the melee. I might like it…a little too much.”
Mazael nodded.
“And it’s not as if the other fighters can walk through the shadows,” said Molly. Her grin showed teeth. “I would have too much of an advantage over them, the poor dears. And it would look scandalous if your wife won the archery display, your daughter won the melee, and you won the tournament.”
“I might not win the tournament,” said Mazael.
Molly rolled her eyes.
###
Romaria won the archery competition handily. For anyone else, Mazael knew, there would have been grumbling. Rumors that the lord had paid the other archers to throw the contest in favor of his wife. But the herdsmen of the Grim Marches produced skilled archers, and the final ten archers were all bowmen of surpassing skill, their arrows landing with precision.
Romaria was simply better. The combination of Elderborn senses and years of experience made her an archer without peer.
The heralds blew the trumpets to announce the beginning of the tournament, and Mazael went to the lists.
His first ride was against Sir Tanam Crowley. Mazael broke his first lance against Tanam’s shield. On the next pass, he struck Sir Tanam square in the breastplate and knocked him to the ground.
“Gods,” coughed Tanam as his squires helped him to his feet. “That hit hard. Reminds me of the first time we met. Though at least we didn’t set any bridges on fire this time.”
Mazael returned to the nobles’ box to watch the next few rides. Lord Jonaril rode against a knight of Toraine’s household and beat him handily. Jonaril faced Toraine himself on the next ride, and Toraine unseated him on the first pass. Toraine rode back to the end of the lists, a slim dark figure atop his black horse.
“He’s doing rather well,” Molly observed.
“The tournament isn’t over yet,” said Mazael.
Molly smirked. She knew that Toraine wanted both her and Mazael dead.
She knew that Mazael wanted to kill Toraine.
Mazael rode in two more matches, first against one of Lord Richard’s knights, and then a minor lord from the western shore of the Lake of Swords. He defeated the knight easily. The minor lord put up a greater challenge, and Mazael broke three lances against him, but in the end he threw the noble from his saddle.
Romaria grinned as he returned to the box. “My lord husband rides well.”
“He’s had quite a bit of practice,” said Mazael, sitting beside her. “Though unhorsing a knight is easier than spearing a Malrag.”
“Less messy, too,” she said, and kissed his cheek.
Mazael remembered the last time he had ridden in a joust, during the great tournament Lord Malden had held to celebrate the marriage of his son Gerald to Mazael’s sister Rachel. Mazael had won that tournament and defeated the Dominiar commander Amalric Galbraith, much to the delight of Amalric’s estranged sister Morebeth. But both Amalric and Morebeth had been Demonsouled, children of the Old Demon himself, and Morebeth had seduced Mazael and tried to twist him into a monster.
He looked at Romaria and smiled.
“What?” said Romaria.
“It is a good day,” said Mazael.
She smiled back. “It is.”
Rufus and the pages brought cups of wine, and Mazael sat back to watch the tournament. Sir Hagen Bridgebane did well, winning victory after victory until Lord Astor Hawking defeated him. Lord Astor then found himself unhorsed by Toraine on the first pass.
Then the heralds called Mazael, and he rode again. He faced four opponents, and defeated them all. His Demonsouled strength and power gave him an edge they could not match, and his healing allowed him to recover from the battering of their lances.
He realized that he might well face Toraine.
The thought filled him with both concern and anticipation. If Toraine lost, he would not take it well, and add the defeat to his growing grudge against Mazael.
And if Mazael’s hand slipped, if he drove the broken end of a jousting lance through Toraine’s throat…
He pushed aside the thought.
He rode to the end of the lists, where Rufus and the pages stood, waiting to take Mazael’s shield and lance.
Lucan Mandragon stood there, wrapped in his cloak, gazing at the blue sky.
Mazael swung from his saddle, handed his lance and shield to the pages, and walked to Lucan’s side.
“I thought you didn’t care for tournaments,” said Mazael.
“I do not,” said Lucan, voice distant. “When I was a boy, I wanted to be a knight, not a wizard. They remind me too much of what
could have been.”
“So why are you here?” said Mazael. “Is something amiss?”
“Possibly,” said Lucan.
Mazael looked around the crowds, his mind racing through the possibilities. San-keth changelings among the spectators, waiting to strike? A Malrag warband raiding from the Great Mountains? A renegade necromancer?
“What is it?” said Mazael.
“I’m not sure,” murmured Lucan. “Something to the east. I think…a wizard of great power cast a spell near the Great Mountains.”
“Necromancy?” said Mazael.
“No,” said Lucan. “Not even dark magic. Just a spell of great power.”
“It might have nothing to do with us,” said Mazael.
Lucan snorted. “Yes, that’s terribly likely.”
He fell silent, gazing at the nobles’ box, and Mazael followed his gaze.
Lucan was staring at Tymaen Highgate.
“Why did I let her go?” said Lucan. He sounded almost bewildered.
“I’m sorry?” said Mazael.
“I let her go,” said Lucan. Growing anger entered his voice. “I let her go to that fat fool Highgate. Why? Why didn’t I take her? She was rightfully mine. Why did I let her go?”
“Because she left you and accepted Robert Highgate’s proposal,” said Mazael. “She rejected you, because of the changes Marstan’s memories wrought in you. You told me that.”
“I did,” said Lucan. “But I could have won her back. What stopped me? Something stopped me from taking her…but I cannot remember what.” He shook his head, confusion on his gaunt face. “I fear I have lost something, but I cannot remember what it was.”
“Lucan,” said Mazael, “you have always been a good friend. You’ve made some foolish mistakes, yes. But so have I. Without your help Morebeth would have killed me and the Malrags would have overrun the Grim Marches.”
The confusion vanished from Lucan’s face, replaced by cold, sharp clarity. “I did it to defend the Grim Marches from dark magic, as I swore to do. And I will do whatever is necessary to do it.”
“Just don’t destroy yourself in the process,” said Mazael, “as I have almost done. And as you almost did.”
Lucan walked away without another word.
Mazael shook his head. He was not sure what had happened to Lucan after the bloodstaff had broken. It had left scars upon him, though, deep scars. A man would never recover from scars like that, but he could learn to live with them.
But would Lucan learn to live with them?
Toraine won ride after ride, and Mazael was almost certain he would face Toraine in the final match of the tournament. And it would be so easy to kill Toraine during the ride. If Mazael’s lance wavered just for a moment, or if his blow struck Toraine’s horse, he could ensure that the Grim Marches would have peace. No one would blame Mazael for a jousting accident. And then Lucan would become the liege lord of the Grim Marches when Lord Richard died.
For some reason that thought unsettled Mazael almost as much as the prospect of Toraine becoming liege lord.
He shook aside his doubts and walked to the nobles’ box, trying to ignore the whisperings of his Demonsouled blood. Molly stood at the railing, watching the jousting, while Romaria peered up the sky, her hand shielding her eyes.
“Well, Father,” said Molly. “It looks like you get to ride against Toraine. Try to make it look like an accident.”
Her words chilled him.
“It’s a joust, not battle,” said Mazael. “The goal is not to kill anyone.” He looked at Romaria. “What is it?” He her followed her gaze and saw a tiny dark speck far overhead. “Not a dragon, I hope?”
She said nothing.
“Romaria?” said Mazael.
“I think,” she said, voice quiet, “that’s a griffin.”
“A griffin?” said Mazael. “Aren’t they legendary?”
“No,” said Romaria. “They’re extinct here, but still numerous on the eastern side of the Great Mountains. The barbarian nations of the middle lands tame them and use them as mounts.” She took a deep breath. “Mazael…I think someone’s riding that griffin.”
“A barbarian with wanderlust?” said Mazael. A darker thought occurred to him. “Or a scout for a raiding party?”
Romaria didn’t answer.
The trumpets rang out, and a herald strode into the lists, proclaiming that the final match of the day would be Lord Mazael Cravenlock of Castle Cravenlock against Lord Toraine Mandragon of Hanging Tower. Mazael turned, steeling himself…
At that exact moment a horseman galloped onto the lists, the horse sweaty and exhausted, the rider dusty and haggard.
“My lord Mazael!” shouted the rider, a young man dressed the leather armor of the militia. “Is Lord Mazael here? I have dire news for him! I must speak with him at once!”
A murmur went through the spectators.
“I am here!” said Mazael, descending from the nobles’ box. “What news?”
“I come with grim tidings,” said the rider. “Warbands are raiding the eastern villages. Dozens have already fallen, and the castles are sore pressed. We need aid, badly.”
“Warbands?” said Mazael. “Malrags?” A stab of dread went through him. Gods, had they fought off Ultorin’s horde only to have another wave descend from the Great Mountains?
The rider shook his head.
“No, my lord,” he said. “Not Malrags. Barbarians."
Chapter 11 – Followers of the Urdmoloch
The little village put up a ferocious fight.
According to the herdsmen Athanaric’s thains had captured, the village was named Iron Fall. Which was a strange name, since the village had neither a waterfall nor an iron mine. But an earthwork wall surrounded the village, topped with sharpened wooden stakes, and the villagers wielded their short bows and spears with skill. For a moment Riothamus wondered if Athanaric’s raiders could take the village.
Then the mammoths lumbered into the fray.
The Tervingi had labored for days in the Great Southern Forest, cutting down trees to create war towers for the mammoths’ backs. Now three mammoths strode toward the village, their faces and head veiled in chain mail. Swordthains and spearthains crouched in the towers, shields raised to ward off the arrows.
“Should we use our spells?” said Riothamus.
“No,” said Aegidia. “The Guardian’s power must be used to defend the Tervingi nation. Not to slaughter defenseless men and women. Even in circumstances as desperate as this.”
The mammoths reached the wall, and the thains leapt from the towers, shouting battle songs. Riothamus saw Athanaric in their midst, his steel sword a blur. The thains on the mammoths threw down rope ladders, and the rest of Athanaric’s raiding party scrambled up to join the fight.
The struggle was soon over.
###
After the battle Riothamus stood with Aegidia in Iron Fall’s square.
Athanaric’s thains scoured the village and its barns, claimed any food and cattle they found, and loaded it onto wagons outside the village. At Athanaric’s order, they only took half of the food, and did not touch the villagers’ seed stock. He claimed this would keep the villagers from turning against the Tervingi.
Riothamus doubted it. He saw the angry glances the villagers threw at the Tervingi, heard the women of the slain defenders wailing in their homes. These people would turn on the Tervingi at the first opportunity.
After the food was secured, Athanaric ordered all the villagers herded into the square.
“People of Iron Fall!” he shouted. The language used by the folk of the Grim Marches it was similar to the tongue of the Jutai. “I am Athanaric, a hrould of the Tervingi nation.”
Silence answered his pronouncement.
“We are now your hroulds,” said Athanaric. “The Tervingi need a new homeland, and we have chosen to settle here. Your hroulds cannot stop us, and if they face us, we will defeat them in battle. So I urge you to return to your farms and works
hops, and to go about your work with diligence. We shall protect you from all attackers, and in return, you shall feed us.”
Still the villagers said nothing.
“Be loyal to us,” said Athanaric, “and we shall be generous. But rebel against us, and we will crush you utterly.”
He left without another word.
###
“They will turn on us,” said Aegidia, “at the first opportunity.”
“I know,” said Athanaric.
Riothamus walked with the Guardian and the hrould as the warband left Iron Fall. Ragnachar and Athanaric had agreed on a strategy for the conquest of the Grim Marches. The women, children, and those too weak or sick to fight would remain with the wagons near the foothills of the mountains, at a ruined village called Gray Pillar. Meanwhile Ragnachar’s and Athanaric’s thains would split into dozens of raiding parties, striking as many villages and securing as much food as possible. They would draw the attention of the lords of the Grim Marches, who would summon their knights to drive out the Tervingi. Then Ragnachar and Athanaric would gather their forces, crush the knights, and claim lordship over the Grim Marches.
It was a good plan.
It might even work.
“Aye,” said Athanaric. “They’ll rebel against us as soon as they get their nerve up. Which means we have to defeat their lords as soon as possible. Once we break their lords, they’ll see that it is useless to fight against us. They will settle down then, especially if we rule with a light hand.”
“Assuming we can defeat their lords,” said Riothamus.
Athanaric glanced at him. “You think we cannot, witcher?”
“I think the folk of the Grim Marches are not as soft and weak as Ragnachar made them out to be,” said Riothamus. “You saw all those ruined villages near the mountains. All those Malrag bones. I think the Malrags attacked them.”
Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) Page 12