Part of Mazael's mind - the dark part, the part that plotted how to kill everyone he met - realized it was the perfect place for an ambush.
Timothy jerked in his saddle and nearly lost his seat. His horse whinnied, tried to bolt, but Mazael wheeled Chariot around and put a firm hand on Generosity’s head.
“What is it?” said Mazael. For a moment, he thought Timothy had been hit with a crossbow bolt, and the blood started to thunder in his temples...
“My lord knight,” said Timothy. “There are men watching us, from the monastery. Six, I think.” His hand clutched at the wire-wrapped quartz crystal.
Mazael looked up at the fortress wall. “Are there, now? Well, let them look. It’s their road, after all. They can stare until their eyeballs shrivel, for all I care, so long as they don’t try to stop us.” He scratched Generosity behind the ears. The horse’s ears perked up. “Next time, try to keep your saddle. Sir Gerald and I didn’t rescue you from the bandits to have you break your neck.”
Timothy’s smile turned sheepish. “I fear that I have little experience with horses, my lord knight. And I sensed their presence...suddenly, that’s all.”
“We’ll work on your horsemanship later,” said Mazael.
“Mazael, let’s go,” said Rachel. “I don’t trust the Cirstarcians. Any number of those monks have been to Mitor’s court and they could recognize me. The Cirstarcian monks support Lord Richard. I’d rather not have them deliver us to Swordgrim.”
Mazael frowned. “Since when do monks abduct travelers from the road?”
“My lady,” said Timothy. “The Cirstarcians are legendary for their reclusive nature. They are likely watching us to make certain we are not one of the mercenary bands plaguing the countryside. If we leave them alone, they will let us pass in peace.”
Rachel glared at the wizard. “Let’s go. The gods only know what goes on behind those monastery walls. I’d rather not find out. Please, let’s ride before they find us.”
Mazael contrasted the smiling, cheerful girl he remembered with the suspicious woman he saw now. When had Rachel grown so fearful? For the first time, Mazael found himself wondering what had happened to Rachel since he had left.
What sort of woman she had become.
“I think the wizard is right,” said Mazael, “but if it troubles you that much, yes, then we’ll go from this place with all speed.”
Rachel sagged with relief. “Thank you, Mazael.”
They continued along the hill path and the monastery soon vanished into the mists behind them.
“A pity we couldn’t stop,” said Gerald. “I would have liked to make prayers at the monastery.”
“There’s a chapel at Castle Cravenlock,” said Mazael. “You can make your prayers there.”
“True,” said Gerald. “But it’s been so long since I’ve been at a proper church for a proper prayer.”
Mazael shrugged. “The gods are eternal. I’m sure they’ll wait two days for your prayer.”
Gerald made a sound that was a curious mixture of a laugh and a sigh. “You never did care much for the gods, did you?”
Mazael laughed. “You’ve known me for—what—ten years now, and you’ve just realized it? I thought I trained you to be more perceptive.”
“You know what I mean,” said Gerald.
Mazael shrugged. “So what? If the gods exist, then they either ignore us, which is fine, or they take interest in the lives of men, in which case they are obviously cruel.”
“That’s impious,” said Gerald. “A knight is sworn to be pious.”
Mazael laughed. “Actually, my father tapped me on the shoulder with his sword and shoved me out the door. You remember, Rachel? After Lord Richard defeated him, my father wanted no one to interfere with Mitor the Mushroom’s inheritance. He gave me a sword, a horse, knighthood, and told me to leave and never return.”
Rachel frowned. “Our father was a good man.”
“Oh, I don't doubt that,” said Mazael. “Generous and kind, but weak and none too bright. Gerald, did you know that Lord Adalon had twice the men Lord Richard did? My father could have sat in Swordgrim and waited for Lord Richard’s army to starve. Winter was coming. Instead, he marched out to meet Lord Richard in battle. He didn’t want to seem a coward, you see. As Rachel said, Lord Adalon was a good man, but he was no commander. Lord Richard tore his army to shreds, killed my two older brothers, and took Lord Adalon captive. Now, what sort of gods allow a weak man like my father to lead his land to ruin?”
“Evil comes from men, and good from the gods,” said Gerald.
“And now it might happen again,” said Mazael. “Instead of Lord Richard Mandragon rising against Lord Adalon Cravenlock, Mitor will rise against Lord Richard. Unless I talk some sense into the fool, Lord Richard will crush the Cravenlocks once again.” Mazael smirked. “Like father, like son.”
They rode in silence for a moment.
“Mitor could win,” said Rachel.
Mazael stared at her. “Mitor? Defeat Lord Richard the Dragonslayer? And just how would he do that? A pact with the Old Demon and all the powers of darkness? His soul for the Grim Marches?”
“Mazael, that’s not funny,” said Rachel.
Mazael sighed and scrubbed his fingers through his beard. “Very well. How in the name of the gods do you think Mitor could possibly defeat Lord Richard?”
“Mitor’s no battle commander, like you said, but he has men who could serve him as one. Lord Marcus, Sir Nathan, Lord Roget of Hunter Hall,” said Rachel.
“Lord Marcus Trand is, as I remember, a bootlicking toad,” said Mazael. “Lord Roget is a scholar, not a warrior. And Sir Nathan...Sir Nathan could lead an army against the Dragonslayer...but Mitor considers him too old, remember?”
“Sir Albron could lead Mitor’s army,” said Rachel. Her face beamed at the mention of her betrothed. “He’s as good a fighter as Sir Nathan. He could defeat the Dragonslayer.”
Mazael doubted it. “Even if he could, what would he fight Lord Richard with? Mitor could probably call, say, ten thousand men to his banner. Lord Richard could easily call twenty thousand, maybe even twenty-five. Your Sir Albron had best be a damned fine commander, if he’s going to face those odds.”
“When we fight,” said Rachel, “we won’t just have the men of Castle Cravenlock and the other lords. The Knights Justiciar will fight with us.”
“The Justiciars?” said Gerald. His lips twisted into a frown beneath his moustache. “What do they see in this? Most of their land is west of my father’s holdings.”
“Yes,” said Mazael. “But they hold estates in the Grim Marches as well.”
“Lord Richard has been stripping away those estates from the Justiciars and bestowing them on his followers,” said Rachel. “When...if Mitor rises against Lord Richard, the Justiciars will follow him!”
“Really?” said Mazael. “If that happens, then the lords of the Stormvales will rise and join Lord Richard, along with the lords of the Green Plain. The Castanagents of the High Plain will come to join Mitor, along with Lord Malden Roland and all his vassals. The lords of Travia will probably become involved as well. If Mitor decides he wants to be liege lord of the Grim Marches, he might be able to do it, but he’ll rip the kingdom apart for years of bloody war...” For a moment Mazael saw an image of a vast, bloody sea. Chunks of meat floated in the gory ocean, and something within him found the sight beautiful. He shook his head and his vision cleared.
“Why does the prospect of war trouble you so?” said Rachel. “Mitor just wants to take what belongs to our family.”
“The Mandragons held the liege lordship of the Grim Marches before the Cravenlocks took it from them,” said Mazael, “and they were descended from the old kings of Dracaryl.”
“So?” said Rachel. “The Grim Marches belong to the Cravenlocks, Mazael. It belongs to us. Mitor wants to take back what is ours.”
“No,” said Gerald. “Pardon, my lady, but it is wrong. I saw much of war in Mastari
a. Good men were slain on both sides. I slew good men, loyal and brave, with my own blade. I will face war again if I must...but only for a true and good reason. Lord Mitor is already a powerful lord. Let him be content with what he has. Those who are discontent with the gods’ blessings may find those blessings taken away.”
“My lord knight, if I may speak?” said Timothy. Mazael nodded. “I agree with Sir Gerald. I was a boy when the princes of Travia contended for the throne. I was young, but I remember the war very well...the fires, especially. The gods have mercy, the fires...my brother and my mother burned to death when raiders torched our house. If my lord knight would forgive my frank tongue...if Mitor would bring such death and misery to the Grim Marches, with no reason but his own power and prestige...then...then...he is much a murderer as those who threw the torches through the windows of my father’s house.”
“Don’t worry, wizard,” said Mazael. “I prefer honest men to liars.”
“They were just peasants,” said Rachel, so softly that Mazael almost didn’t hear her. For a moment he wanted to shove her from the saddle, until chagrin restored his control. What was he thinking? This was Rachel, his sister, his only friend growing up. What was wrong with him?
She would never have said such a thing as a child.
"Perhaps a war is unavoidable," said Gerald.
Mazael thought of the war, and excitement tingled through him, the fingers of his sword hand clenching. He could defeat Lord Richard. He could lead Mitor’s army and cast down the Dragonslayer and his son. What could stop him? What enemy had ever stood against him? But what would Sir Nathan and Master Othar say about this? He thought of their words, as he often did when the path seemed unclear.
“Sir Gerald is right. Timothy is right,” Mazael said. “If Mitor starts this war he’ll have the blood of thousands on his pudgy hands. Nobles and ‘just peasants’ alike.”
Rachel flushed. Mazael thought it made her look healthier. “I...that was a heartless thing for me to say. I should know better. I do know better. I’m sorry.”
Mazael smiled. “You’ve had a hard few days. Sir Tanam did kidnap you, after all.”
“Yes,” said Rachel, “but...that defeat killed Father. He died five years after you left. Mother died less than a month later. They wasted away, Mazael, they wasted away from shame. Father and Mother both made Mitor promise to restore the house of Cravenlock to its old glory.”
Mazael recalled his first clear memory of his mother. He had been no more than three or four years old. He had come into her bedroom and seen Lady Arissa crying, her green eyes puffy with tears. The sunlight shone through the window and glinted off her hair. He remembered that very clearly, the glint. When she saw him, she screamed in rage and pushed him out the door. He fell and cracked his head on the hard stone floor, raising a lump. Master Othar tended the lump, but Mazael had cried and cried. He cried for days. When he stopped crying, he no longer cared what his mother thought or did.
“You loved our parents, I know,” said Mazael. “But, Rachel, sister, they were both fools.” She started to protest. “You know that. You loved them, fine. Don’t follow their path to ruin.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Rachel. Her voice held little conviction. “Maybe...”
“My lord knight!” said Timothy. He swayed in his saddle and managed to seize the pommel. Generosity gave out a frustrated grunt. “Someone approaches!”
All thoughts of family and dead parents vanished from Mazael’s mind. “Where?” he said. His hand curled around Lion’s hilt.
“From the south,” said Timothy. He regained his balance and pointed. A narrow path came down between two crags and intercepted their trail. “Just one.”
Mazael frowned. “Just one?” Timothy nodded. “Well, let him come.”
Mazael reined in Chariot at the fork in the path, reined up, and waited, Gerald at his side.
A horseman appeared in the mists, riding a gray mare. The rider was lean and slender, clad in an old green cloak with the hood pulled up, and armed to the teeth. Two daggers waited in his belt, the hilt of a bastard sword rose over his shoulder, and the staff of an unstrung longbow rested over the saddle horn. Mazael watched the man closely and frowned. The shape of the leg was wrong, the hip too curved. The rider was a woman.
The woman reined up the lean mare.
“Waiting for me?” she said, and pulled back her hood. Black hair hung loose over her shoulders, and her eyes were an odd shade of blue. Mazael had only seen that color once before, as a boy, when Sir Nathan had taken him to the mountains. The ice topping some of the mountains had been that strange, rich shade of blue. He could not place her age. She could have been anywhere from fifteen to forty.
“We were waiting for you,” said Mazael. “I didn’t know if you were friend or foe. With these bandits loose through the countryside, it seemed safer to be cautious.”
The woman grinned. “Ah. You don’t know if I’m friend or foe, yet you sit here talking?”
“You could try to rob us,” said Mazael. “You wouldn’t like the results.”
She laughed. “Is that so? Well, let’s see who you are, then we’ll see if we’re friends or foes.” She pointed at Rachel. “She’s a Cravenlock.”
Rachel stirred. “How could you know that?”
“The eyes,” said the woman. “They’re green. Only Cravenlocks have eyes like that.” She frowned. “I don’t know you, nor do I know the man with the mustache, nor do I know that red-faced fellow with the goatee.”
“Very well,” said Mazael. “I am Sir Mazael Cravenlock. This is Sir Gerald Roland. The man with the goatee is Timothy deBlanc, a wizard, and the boy is Wesson Joran, Sir Gerald’s squire.”
“Sir Mazael Cravenlock?” said the woman. “You don’t look like a Cravenlock. You’re something of a hero in the Old Kingdoms.”
“And why is that?” said Mazael.
“The Knights Dominiar conquered the Old Kingdoms. When you defeated Sir Commander Aeternis at of Tumblestone, you broke the main strength of the Dominiars. It was all Grand Master Malleus could do to hold onto Mastaria, let alone fight the war with the Old Kingdoms.”
Rachel looked at Mazael with admiration. “That was you? When the Mastarian war ended, we heard it was Sir Mandor Roland who led Lord Malden’s army to victory against the Knights Dominiar, at cost of his life.”
Mazael shrugged. “Sir Mandor had been dead for three months by then. Lord Malden decided to credit the victory to his son.”
“Wiser men know better, Mazael,” said Gerald.
The woman laughed. “The Dominiars crushed Lord Malden north of Tumblestone, Sir Gerald. Your father undoubtedly wanted a Roland besides you to have a victory.”
“So, who are you, and how do you know all this?” said Mazael.
The woman smiled and did a mocking little bow from her saddle. “I am Romaria Greenshield, of Deepforest Keep.” That explained her unusual garb and knowledge. Deepforest lay within the Great Southern Forest, isolated and surrounded by the dense forest and the Elderborn. Visitors rarely came to the keep, and rumors swirled around the Greenshields. The men of Deepforest Keep lived and traded with the Elderborn, it was said, and adopted their ways as well. The peasants whispered that the women of Deepforest lay with the Elderborn, producing half-human, half-Elderborn abominations.
“Deepforest Keep!” said Rachel. “There’s no such place!”
Romaria grinned, her smile mocking edge. “Oh, there is. I should know. After all, I spent many years there. Now Castle Cravenlock...is there such place as that?”
Gerald laughed, and Rachel blushed. “You needn’t be rude.”
“What brings you this far north?” said Mazael. Chariot's nostrils flared, sniffing at Romaria's mare, and Mazael yanked at the reins. “Stop that.”
Romaria laughed. “Don’t blame him. My little mare’s in heat. I suspect they’ll be at each other if we give them the chance.”
“And then you’ll have to walk all the way back to Deep
forest Keep, leading a pregnant horse,” said Mazael. “We can’t have that.”
“Oh, I don’t plan on leaving Castle Cravenlock for some time. After all, I came all this way,” said Romaria. “My father, Lord Athaelin, sent me to visit Castle Cravenlock in his name.”
“Why?” asked Mazael.
Romaria looked towards the east. “My father believes there is something wrong near Castle Cravenlock. He says that dark magic haunts the countryside.”
Timothy looked troubled. “There are...such things, my lord knights and my lady. Some wizards turn against their oaths and seek forbidden knowledge. The magisters execute those that seek such dark arts...but even the magisters cannot police every wizard in the kingdom.”
“That’s rubbish,” said Rachel. “Rumors spread by addle-brained peasants and slanders told by drunken jongleurs.”
Romaria raised an eyebrow. “I’ve seen this dark magic. In the barrow fields near Deepforest, I saw a corpse claw itself free from the grave.” Her voice was calm, but her blue eyes grew distant. “It killed three of my father’s men before they took down the creature. It took fire and magic to kill the monster.” She smiled at Rachel. “Now, Lady Rachel, are you calling me addled?”
“No,” said Rachel, her voice angry. “I’m calling you a liar.”
Romaria laughed. “You might not see such things in your safe castle...but you’ll see them soon enough, if it’s not stopped.”
“The only troubles I’ve seen here are court intrigues,” said Mazael. “Sir Tanam Crowley kidnapped Lady Rachel less than a week ago, under Lord Richard’s orders.”
“My father’s told me of old Sir Crow,” said Romaria. “How did Lady Rachel here manage to get away from the likes of Sir Tanam?”
“Sir Mazael and I...ah...had something of a hand in it,” said Gerald.
“I see,” said Romaria. “My father believes that a renegade wizard is responsible for the troubles we’ve experienced. Perhaps our problems and yours have a common root?”
“Nonsense,” said Rachel. “Utter nonsense. There is no wizard, no dark magic. The real enemy is Lord Richard Mandragon and his murdering son. Can’t you see that?”
Mazael raised his hand. “No. I’ll hear her out. Gerald and I have dealt with rogue wizards before, during my service with Lord Malden. A wizard’s trickery might be at work here...no insult, Timothy.”
“None taken, my lord knight,” said Timothy. “Such a schemer does not deserve the title of wizard.”
“Lord Athaelin sent me to warn Lord Mitor, and to find and kill this wizard if necessary,” said Romaria.
“Mazael, I can’t believe you’re listening to this!” said Rachel. “Sir Tanam is scouring the countryside for us, and Lord Richard is probably marching towards Castle Cravenlock with an army as we speak, and you sit here listening to this...this wild woman!”
Romaria's mocking grin returned. “Wild, am I? What does that make you? Tame? Helpless?Helpless enough to let Sir Tanam spirit you away in the dark of the night?”
“Enough,” said Mazael. “I don’t care if you’re right. Insult my sister again, and I’ll see to it that all your talk of wizards and walking corpses falls on deaf ears. Understand?”
Rachel glowered, but Romaria only sketched a shallow bow. “If you wish.”
“So, you think a rogue wizard is behind all this turmoil?” Mazael said. “What do you intend to do if you find him?”
“That’s simple enough,” said Romaria. “A man that would summon such abominations as I saw does not deserve to live. I will kill him.”
“With what?” said Mazael. Her flippant confidence annoyed him, but it also appealed to him. In some strange way, she reminded Mazael of himself. “Do you have magic?”
Romaria smiled. “I do.”
“Witchcraft!” hissed Rachel.
Mazael looked at his sister. “Weren’t you complaining two days ago that Sir Tanam had accused you of that?”
Timothy looked interested. “You can cast spells, Lady Romaria?”
“Oh, a few,” she said. “Watch.” She leaned forward and her fingers plucked at Mazael’s ear. His hand lanced for his sword, but she leaned back, something glittering in her fingers. Romaria grinned and flipped a silver coin in her fingers.
Timothy’s disappointment was plain. “That is not magic, my lady. Simple trickery. Any street charlatan could do the same.”
“Quite true,” agreed Romaria. “But show me a street charlatan who can do this...” She balanced the coin atop her hand, closed her eyes, and swung her fist in a slow circle. Her lips moved in silent words and the fingers of her free hand waggled. Then her blue eyes opened wide, and she thrust her hands in Timothy's direction. A spray of silver coins, dozens of them, burst from her fingers and rained across the path. Then Romaria snapped her fingers, and the coins vanished in a flash.
“And I’ll eat your horse,” she finished.
“Illusion,” said Timothy. He tugged at the spike of his beard. “I was never very skilled at illusion.”
“Very impressive,” said Mazael. “But what use is it? Will you throw illusionary coins at this renegade? Can you use that sword over your shoulder?”
“Better than you could, I imagine,” said Romaria.
Mazael grinned at her. “We’ll see.”
He had Lion free from it scabbard in an instant, the blade arcing for her head. Romaria could not possibly get her heavy blade out in time to block his strike. Yet she did. Lion clanged against her sword, and the gray light of the overcast day flashed from the steel of their naked blades.
“Sir Mazael!” said Gerald, grabbing Mazael's arm. “Have you completely lost your mind? You just attacked a traveler, a woman, on the road!”
“He didn’t attack me,” said Romaria. “His sword was an inch too far to the left. It would have missed me entirely. Sir Mazael just wanted to see if I was all talk and no action.”
“Not bad,” said Mazael, sliding Lion back into its sheath.
“You, sir, are mad,” said Gerald.
“Oh, undoubtedly,” said Mazael. “Lady Romaria, will you accompany us to Castle Cravenlock?”
Rachel looked shocked. “You...you can’t be serious! She’s wild, and she knows magic...a woman!”
“Three swords have a better chance than two,” said Mazael. “And she knows how to use that ugly sword of hers, I’m sure of it.”
“Why not?” Romaria said. She turned her coin over in her fingers, an odd light in her eyes. “Maybe I can shock your lord brother Mitor into action.”
Mazael thought of what Mitor would say when he met her and laughed. Rachel was right. Romaria Greenshield was wild. But she was no wilder than Mazael himself.
“After all, Rachel,” Mazael said. “If Mitor starts this war, we’ll need every sword we can find.”
3
The Townsmen’s Welcome
Demonsouled Page 7