“Lord Mitor commands your presence at once in the great hall,” said the page.
Mazael stared at the boy. “Does he, now?”
The page’s face whitened. “Ah...he sent me to tell you, Sir Mazael, if you please.”
Mazael waved a hand. “Go. Tell him I shall be there shortly.”
The page ran from the room. Mazael yawned, leaned back in his chair, and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. He had not slept at all last night. That was fine. If he did not sleep, he did not dream.
Timothy returned, bearing a clay cup filled with a vile-smelling black fluid. “It is ready, my lord knight.”
Mazael took the cup and sniffed. “What is it?”
“A southern elixir made from the beans of a wild plant,” said Timothy. “It is called coffee. I understand it is quite popular among scholars.”
Mazael sipped at it. “Tastes vile.”
“It does,” said Timothy.
“Will it keep me awake?” said Mazael.
“Oh, yes,” said Timothy.
Mazael shrugged and drained the cup in one long draught. The black liquid burned like hot pitch going down. “Strong stuff. Thank you. Adalar!” Adalar handed Mazael his sword belt. Mazael rose, exited his chambers, and started down the stairs. The wizard and the squire followed him.
He found Gerald waiting in the courtyard, with Wesson standing behind him. Gerald’s armor had been polished, and the leather of his sword belt and boots gleamed. No doubt Gerald had kept Wesson quite busy last night.
“You look awful!” said Gerald.
“And a fine morning to you, as well,” said Mazael.
“I mean no insult,” said Gerald. “You look ill again, Mazael. You should speak with Master Othar.”
“I’ve spoken to a wizard,” said Mazael. He felt the aftertaste of the coffee. Gods, that was foul stuff. “I’m fine. I didn’t sleep well last night, that’s all.”
“He didn’t.” Romaria stepped out from the entrance to the King’s Tower. She wore her traveling clothes and her worn green cloak. “I should know. I was with him.”
Color flushed Gerald’s cheeks. Mazael heard Wesson’s ribald snicker. “Ah...I see...I did not mean to pry...”
Mazael laughed. “Never mind, Gerald. Let’s go see what Mitor wants.”
They crossed the courtyard and entered the anteroom to the great hall. A herald in Cravenlock livery raised a hand for them to halt. Mazael walked past, and left the flustered herald behind.
Mitor stood at the high table with Marcelle, his advisors, his allies, and his vassals - Sir Commander Galan in his armor, Lord Marcus and Lord Roget in their finery, Albron in his mail, Rachel at his side. And Simonian, watching Mazael with a smile. Mazael wanted to sprint up the dais and gut the wizard, but he did not. Perhaps Sir Nathan and Master Othar’s presence stopped Mazael. They stood with Mitor and his advisors on the dais.
Mitor’s bloodshot eyes locked on Mazael. “It is customary to wait for the herald,” he said.
Mazael strode up the dais. “You did summon me here, my lord brother. Should the business of the Lord of Castle Cravenlock wait upon mere formalities?”
Sir Albron smirked. “Is it customary for a landless knight to ignore his lord brother’s preferences?”
Lord Marcus puffed up. “Lord Mitor is your elder and your lord, Sir Mazael! It is your duty to heed his wishes.”
Simonian drummed his gnarled fingers on the table. “Sir Mazael may speak wisdom, my lord.”
“What?” said Mitor and Marcus.
“Have the great men of history waited upon mere formality when events moved about them?” said Simonian. “No, my lord, they moved with speed and acted with decisive power! Now history taps upon your shoulder, my lord, and it is time for you to seize the liege lordship of the Grim Marches.”
Mazael heard Mitor’s teeth grinding. “Very well. Come here, Mazael. There are events afoot that we should discuss.”
Mazael and his companions stepped up to the dais. The wrist of Albron’s sword hand had been bound with a bandage. Mazael wished he could kill Albron and Simonian both and have done with them.
“I have just received word,” said Mitor. “Lord Richard has marched from Swordgrim.”
Dead silence answered his announcement.
“With him is the entire might of Swordgrim, nine thousand foot and horse,” said Mitor. “Marching with him are Sir Tanam Crowley,” he shot a sour glance at Mazael, “Sir Commander Galan’s brother, the Lord Astor of Hawk’s Reach, the Lord of Drakehall, the Lords of Highgate and the other mountains passes, for a total force of perhaps twenty-two thousand men.”
“My Lord Mitor,” said Lord Roget. “Our own hosts number under ten thousand fighting men. The Dragonslayer brings two armsmen for every one of ours. How can we hope to defend against him, let alone defeat him?”
Lord Marcus sneered. “You doubt our Lord Mitor?”
“No need to fear, old man,” said Sir Commander Galan. “My brother Astor is a traitor and a usurper. The gods are on our side. More importantly, I bring the might of the Knights Justiciar to deal with this traitor Richard Mandragon. Two thousand sergeant foot and Justiciar knights, and ten thousand more once I inform the Grand Master in Swordor that we stand to regain our ancient estates!”
“Sir Commander,” said Sir Nathan. “The forces of the Justiciars are scattered across the kingdom, and your two thousand, however strong, are still only two thousand. By the time your order marches, they will arrive to see the Mandragon banner over Castle Cravenlock.”
“Have you lost your courage, old man?” said Sir Commander Galan.
“I have lost my youth,” said Sir Nathan, “in the service of Lord Adalon and Lord Mitor, but I have gained the experience of years. My lord Mitor, I beg that you heed my words. Meeting Lord Richard in open battle is folly.”
“Folly, eh?” said Mitor, waving his spindly hand. “Well, we shall see what is folly! My father had twice the men that Lord Richard did, and the Mandragons defeated him nonetheless. Now the tables are turned, yes? Lord Richard has twice the men, but justice and the gods are on our side, and we shall prevail! Besides, Sir Albron shall lead my host, and he has a few tricks for the mighty Dragonslayer.”
“He had better,” said Romaria. “Else you’ll get to personally explain to Lord Richard why you are the rightful liege lord of the Grim Marches.”
Mitor’s face soured. “When I want your counsel, woman, I shall ask for it.”
“She is right and you know it,” said Mazael. “Unless you have some brilliant strategy, Lord Richard will tear your army to shreds.”
“Do not fear, Sir Mazael,” said Albron. His smile turned wolfish. “I plan to kill Richard myself and present his head to Lord Mitor.”
“Oh, I should like to see that,” said Mazael. “Especially with the broken wrist.”
“Enough,” said Mitor. “I did not summon you here for advice, Mazael. I will not entrust my plans to a brother who has not visited his home in fifteen years. I have a task for you. I hope you can carry it out.”
“What sort of task?” said Mazael.
Mitor waved him over. A detailed map of the Grim Marches had been laid out across the table, its corners weighed down by empty wine goblets. The map was old, but accurate. The towns and villages that had been destroyed in Lord Richard’s uprising were underlined in red ink, while additions and notes had been made in Master Othar’s firm hand.
Mitor tapped a thin finger on Swordgrim. “Lord Richard marches for us. I shall face him and crush him. But if I am to do so, then my flanks and rear must remain secure.”
Mazael snorted. “What threat do you face from behind? The Castanagents and the Rolands will support you. The lords of the Green Plain might side against you, but they would have to march around the Dim Mire. The nearest army, other than Lord Richard’s, will take weeks to arrive. The only threat you face is Lord Richard.”
Mitor smirked. “Oh, is that so? Well, it seems your reputation is inflated. You forgot a po
tential foe.”
Mazael laughed at him. “Then enlighten me, my lord brother.”
“Oh, not them,” said Mitor. He reached across the map and tapped Deepforest Keep.
They stared in silence at the map.
“What is this?” said Romaria. “You mean to make an enemy of Deepforest Keep? That is not a wise course. I...”
“Bah!” said Mitor. “Deepforest Keep? What is there that any lord would wish to rule? Trees? Perhaps some rocks, with a bit of moss, as well? And if Lord Athaelin does side with Lord Richard, what shall he send, hmm? Wenches painted up to be war-women like you, my lady?”
Romaria’s smile was chill. “You should hope not, my lord Mitor. You had best keep your guards close. If one of those war-women would get past them, I fear that you would not live long.”
“Must your brother bring this odious creature to court?” said Marcelle. “I fear her stench is quite overpowering.” Romaria ignored her, which seem to infuriate Marcelle all the more.
“You said you do not wish an enemy in your flank,” said Mazael. “Why make one now, by offending Lord Athaelin’s emissary and daughter? Rein in your wife, my brother, lest her lips make you an enemy.”
“How dare you mock me?” said Marcelle.
“How dare you mock my daughter?” bellowed Lord Marcus, shaking a fist.
“Have him removed,” said Marcelle. “He does not mock me. No one mocks me.”
“Ha!” said Mitor. “Even if they are right? You talk too much, woman. Remove yourself. You are giving me a headache.”
Marcelle staggered. “What...but...but he...”
Mitor fluttered his fingers at her. “Go. This is not business for a lady, but a matter for men. You as well, Rachel.”
A dozen expressions fluttered across Marcelle’s face, rage, pride, hate, and a deep and profound misery. Mazael almost felt sorry for her. Was it Rachel’s fate to end as Marcelle had, married to a proud wretch? Marcelle descended from the dais, shot a venom-filled glance at Mazael, and then glided from the throne room. Rachel looked relieved as she slipped out through the lord’s entrance.
“I must apologize for my daughter,” said Lord Marcus. “She has always been proud...”
“Quiet,” said Mitor. He pointed at a servant. “You, bring me wine!” The servant scampered from sight. “Sometimes I envy you, brother. You have not had to marry. All women are base creatures, full of cunning and envy and deceitful tricks.”
“No,” said Mazael. “Not all.”
Mitor sneered. “All. Your savage woodland woman can stay. After all, she is no proper lady.”
Romaria looked at Marcelle’s retreating back. “I should hope not.”
Mitor ignored her. “I do not speak of Deepforest Keep as the enemy in our flanks. After all, not one man in a hundred knows the place exists. No, it’s the wood elves who threaten us. The Elderborn, as the wizards and the scholars call the creatures.”
“The wood elves?” said Sir Nathan. “My lord, that is absurd. The Elderborn venture out of their forests only when their lands are threatened. War looms with Lord Richard in the north, not in the south. The only village near the Great Southern Forest is White Rock. The others were destroyed during Lord Richard’s uprising.”
Romaria shook her head. “Sir Nathan is right. The Elderborn have no reason to make war on Castle Cravenlock. I doubt that the tribes know, or care, who rules the Grim Marches.”
“Your father sent you, did he not?” said Mitor.
“My father sent me to find the dark wizard,” said Romaria. “I learned about the other troubles riding through the countryside.”
Mitor smirked. “Oh, we may have found your dark wizard, Lady. It seems your father does not know his neighbors as well as he may think.”
“We have all heard the rumors,” said Simonian. “The dark creatures that hunt the night, the disappearances, the tales of sorcery. It is all hogwash! It is the wood elves, I say.”
“That is hogwash,” said Romaria. “The Elderborn don’t creep through the night and kidnap peasant farmers from their hovels.”
“Lord Richard has hired them, most likely,” said Albron. “He fears to face Lord Mitor’s might in open battle, and has sent these sneaking wood demons to harass his lands.”
“And just why would the Elderborn work for Lord Richard?” said Romaria.
Simonian shrugged. “Who can say? The wood elves are wicked creatures, full of fey enchantment and devilish cunning. Perhaps they commit atrocities for amusement. Or perhaps they have kidnapped innocent men and women from their homes for sacrifice to their demon gods.”
“The Elderborn do not worship demon gods,” said Romaria.
“We should not trust her words, my lord!” said Albron. “After all, by her own word, she has dwelt in the forest of these creatures all her life. Perhaps they have bewitched her.”
“Bewitched?” said Romaria. “I tell you the truth, and you call it bewitchment? If I hand you a fistful of gold, will you call it dung?”
“Enough!” said Mitor. “I will not listen to a wild woman quibble with my armsmaster! My armsmen have seen these wood elves prowling the edge of the forests near White Rock.” He pointed at Romaria. “You have been sent north to chase a dark wizard, yes? Well, you were sent to chase your own neighbors. A pity you did not stay at Deepforest Keep. You would have saved yourself a long journey.”
“You believe that the Elderborn raid your southern border and are responsible for the rumors?” said Mazael. “Why is this my concern?”
“You were always blunt,” said Mitor. “The wood elves and whatever dark sorcery they practice are an irritant, nothing more, but an irritant I need removed. I must have my full attention focused upon Lord Richard and his vassals.”
“I still fail to see why this is my problem,” said Mazael. “You need the wood elves removed? You have no lack of willing servants. Albron certainly seems eager. Or why not Lord Marcus? Let him serve you in deed as well as fawning word.” Lord Marcus sputtered, but Mazael ignored him.
“I need them at my side,” said Mitor. “But you, my brother, you appeared out of nowhere, as if the gods had sent you to my cause. So, this is what I would have of you, Mazael. I will give you some men. Take them south and drive these wood elves from my land. We have all heard tales of your exploits in the Mastarian war. Now let us see if they were truth or mere lies.”
Mazael frowned. “No.”
“No? You would tell me no?”
“I just did, didn’t I?” said Mazael. “No. I don’t believe the Elderborn are behind these troubles.”
Mitor’s flabby face twisted with rage. “You...you believe the ramblings of this wild wood woman...”
“She’s more credible than you,” said Mazael. “When was the last time you left Castle Cravenlock? I doubt you would know a Elderborn from a zuvembie.”
Mitor’s bloodshot eyes bulged. “You defy me?”
“You want to start a war with the Elderborn tribes, then find someone else to do it. I won’t,” said Mazael.
“You are my younger brother,” said Mitor. Flecks of spittle flew from his lips. “You will do as I command.”
“I am sworn to Lord Malden Roland,” said Mazael, “not you. I obey him, not you. Someday, I will obey Lord Malden’s eldest son Sir Garain, or Sir Tobias, or if death takes them both, then Sir Gerald. But not you.”
Mitor’s voice was a harsh whisper. “Careful where you tread, brother. The steps are perilous.”
“Is that a threat?” said Mazael.
“Oh, no,” said Mitor. “But remember, then...that you are in my castle, in my lands, surrounded by ten thousand of my men. You’re right, of course. I cannot command you. But I can strongly suggest that you follow my requests.”
Mazael drummed his fingers against Lion’s hilt. “You suggest, then, hmm?”
“Enough!” said Sir Nathan. “Sir Mazael, my lord Mitor, we have enough enemies without bickering amongst ourselves. We do not know who or what is behind
these rumors. It might be dark magic and walking dead, as Lady Romaria claims. It might indeed be the Elderborn. For all we know, it might be Sir Tanam and his crows, or raiders searching for plunder. I propose we send Sir Mazael to search out the cause of these rumors and to deal with them, since we do not know what is really happening.”
“My lord knight,” said Simonian. “I believe that is folly. My divinations have revealed that the Elderborn are indeed behind these dark tidings.”
Master Othar cleared his throat with a deep rumble. “Is that so? Well, Master Simonian, I have cast my own divinations, and they have reached different results than yours. The Elderborn are not behind these tidings...although my divinations have revealed some very interesting things.”
Simonian laughed. “Ah, you wizards of Alborg limit yourselves, my friend, to such minor magic. Just give me the chance, and I will teach you spells the likes of which you have never imagined.”
“I prefer not,” said Othar. “I would not enjoy burning at the stake for practicing dark magic.”
Simonian sounded amused. “The magic I practice is not dark, oh, no...just merely different.” His muddy eyes shifted to Timothy. “And what of you, my young friend? You are young, not yet set in your ways. Learn from me, and I’ll show you magic no man of Alborg has seen in generations.”
Timothy tugged at his beard. “Ah...no, thank you.”
“Ah,” said Simonian. “A pity. The young are so unwilling to learn, these days. I have so much to teach.”
Master Othar smiled. “You have nothing I need learn.”
“We shall see,” said Simonian.
“Enough!” said Mitor. “I have neither the time nor the patience to listen to wizards gloat about their learning! Very well, Sir Nathan, despite your advanced age you yet have some wisdom about you.”
Sir Nathan bowed stiffly. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Mazael, if you will not go out to hunt the wood demons, then go and...investigate,” said Mitor. “I will give you four hundred of my best men. Take them, go south, and do not return until you have found and dealt with these rumors of dark magic. I care not who or what is the cause. Most likely Simonian is correct and it is these wood demons. But find it and deal with it.” He fluttered his fingers at Mazael. “Now, leave me. I must consult with my captains. Sir Nathan, you will see to the arrangement of the troops and accompany Sir Mazael. Sir Albron, Simonian, with me.” Mitor walked through the lord’s entrance with Simonian and Albron. Sir Commander Galan marched away, while Lord Marcus and Lord Roget looked like dogs abandoned by their masters. Mazael glanced at them with contempt and turned to Gerald.
“That went well,” said Gerald.
Mazael frowned. “Oh, did it? Mitor’s given me four hundred men to go and chase rumors. How could it possibly have gone any better?"
“He’s getting you out the way,” said Romaria.
“What do you mean, my lady?” said Gerald.
“Mitor’s never shown any concern about the zuvembies and their master before,” said Romaria. “Now he’s told Mazael to go hunt them. He’s getting you out the way, Mazael. For whatever reason, he doesn’t want you here over the next few days.”
“Why?” said Mazael.
Romaria shrugged. “I don’t know. Between Albron and Simonian and your brother, this place has more secrets than a courtesan’s diary.” She looked at Sir Nathan. “And he has sent you away, as well. He doesn’t trust you or Mazael.”
“Perhaps I should refuse him,” said Mazael.
“No!” said Romaria. “You and Sir Gerald and Sir Nathan may think this fight between Lord Richard and Mitor is important. But finding this necromancer and his zuvembies is more important by far.”
“I thought you believed that Simonian raised these creatures,” said Mazael.
“I do. Or, at least, he and Albron are allied with the necromancer,” said Romaria. “Hear me out. I know that a wizard can use an enchanted object to track the enchantment’s caster.”
Master Othar grunted. “It is true. If you could bring me a bone from one of these undead creatures, I have a spell that could trace the necromancy back to its caster.”
“I suspect that all that has befallen us recently, the difficulties with Sir Tanam, the coming war with Lord Richard Mandragon, and these creatures are all tied together in some wizard’s trickery,” said Sir Nathan.
“But to what purpose?” said Sir Gerald.
Nathan shrugged. “The wizard knows, the gods know, but I do not. It is up to us to discover.”
“But if you find and destroy a zuvembie," said Othar, "then we can find out who is behind it."
“Simonian, most like,” said Timothy. “I do not like that man, and I have told you about the enchantments I sensed upon him and Sir Albron. You should see the way the servants react to his presence. The castle’s dogs howl at him as if he were a wolf!”
“Perhaps he’s not a man,” said Gerald. “Perhaps he’s a ghost...or a demon.”
“Perhaps Demonsouled,” said Romaria.
Mazael laughed. “You believe in Demonsouled?”
Romaria shrugged. “I believe in the gods, I’ve seen a zuvembie. After seeing such a creature, Demonsouled are not so hard to believe.”
“Milady Romaria is correct,” said Timothy. “I told you how I saw San-keth writings at Alborg. I have read of darker things, as well.”
Master Othar fumbled for his pipe. “The boy’s right, of course. Why, in this very castle, a thousand years past, the histories tell of a lord that led a cult of serpent worshippers.”
Mazael shrugged. “There may be serpent people, there might be serpent kissers, and there may be Demonsouled, but right now I have more immediate problems. Chasing ghosts, zuvembies, and Elderborn, for one.” He turned to Sir Nathan. “I’ll start gathering the necessary supplies and arms. We can depart by noon, I believe, if you...”
Sir Nathan held up a hand. “No. Lord Mitor gave you the command.”
Mazael sputtered. “Me? But you, you’re...”
“Older?” said Sir Nathan.
Othar lit his pipe with a burst of magical flame from his finger. “Aren’t we all.”
Nathan sighed. “I had noticed, thank you, Othar. Sir Mazael, I am no longer armsmaster of Castle Cravenlock. I am just another knight in the service of the Cravenlocks. You are Lord Mitor’s brother. He has seen fit to give you the command.” He smiled and a glint came into his eyes. “Besides, I have heard you led Lord Malden Roland’s armies well in the Mastarian war. I should like to see how well you have learned those lessons Othar and I tried to teach.”
Othar snorted. “Tried to pound into his head, you mean.”
“We shall see,” said Nathan.
Mazael sighed. “Very well. I suppose if Mitor intends to lay blame on someone, it had best be me. I don’t plan to remain here long. Gerald, Sir Nathan. Go to the barracks and round up our four hundred men. You know the garrison best, Sir Nathan, pick men you would trust, and not fools like Brogan. Gerald, then go to the armory and select the weapons. Adalar, go with him, you can learn...what are you grinning at?”
“This reminds me of Mastaria,” said Gerald, “after you took command.”
Mazael snorted. “Pleasant memory, too, isn’t it? Marching through mud and rain with Grand Master Malleus’s army dogging our heels. We can reminisce later. Get going.”
Gerald grinned and marched off, followed by the squires.
“It will take me a few hours to find the best men,” said Sir Nathan. “Sir Albron scattered those who displeased him.”
“Take all the time you need. Timothy, assist him,” said Mazael. Sir Nathan nodded and left with the wizard.
Romaria cleared her throat.
“I suppose you’ll want to come, too,” said Mazael.
Romaria smirked. “This concerns my home and my people, lord knight. You couldn’t stop me from coming. And I will find this wizard and his creatures, and I will kill them.”
“Then I won’t try
to stop you,” said Mazael. “I hope to leave by midday.” Romaria left, leaving Mazael alone with Master Othar.
“I’d like you to come,” said Mazael. “If we do indeed find zuvembies or some necromancer, I’d like your spells with us.”
“Bah,” said Othar. “I’m too old and too fat for much traveling. I pity the horse that would have to bear my arse. Besides, young Timothy is more than adequate to the task.”
“Timothy is...well, Timothy is not you,” said Mazael.
Othar boomed laughter. Puffs of smoke drifted towards the ceiling. “Of course he’s not! I’m pleased to see all the effort we expended to teach you perception didn’t go to waste.” Mazael grimaced. “In seriousness, though...do not underestimate that young man. He survived the war of Travian succession. He knows his way around a fight. Timothy deBlanc has some depths, I think, that will surprise you.”
“I hope so,” said Mazael, “though I don’t wish to test that claim in a battle.”
Othar took a draw on this pipe. “I would go with you, boy, if I could. Fat and old I may be, but a good adventure still gets my blood up. But...I can’t leave, not right now.”
Mazael frowned. “Why not?”
Othar sighed and tapped the stem of his smoking pipe against his jaw. “Nathan’s right, you know. There’s more to all this. It’s like one of pretty young Romaria’s coin tricks. You see depths within depths, until you’re not sure what’s really there.” He sighed. “She is a fine young woman. I wish I was thirty...well, forty years younger.”
“What do you mean?” said Mazael.
Othar hooted. “Do you mean I have to explain that to you? Ho, ho, ho! You always were a lusty lad, I thought you would have bedded a wench or three by...”
“No!” said Mazael. “ Master Othar, say what you mean, and say it plain.”
Othar sighed. “I have a theory, more of a suspicion. No proof, not yet, at least. The entire thing could prove to be some fantasy of smoke, mirrors, and balanced cards. Do you know what begins tomorrow?”
“No,” said Mazael.
“A new moon. Or the Black Nights, as they’re called by some circles,” said Othar. “I will have a chance to test my theory. I’m wrong, most like. Gods, I hope I’m wrong.”
“Wrong about what?” said Mazael.
Othar chuckled. “Nothing, most likely. I will tell you my suspicions when you return, and we shall have a good laugh, my boy, at the foolish ravings of an old man!” His old face hardened. “But if I’m right...if I’m right...gods, Mazael...you think Timothy’s stories about old dark books are bad?”
“What are you talking about?” said Mazael.
“I can’t tell you,” said Othar. “Not yet, anyway. But when you return, and if I’m right, then we’ll take some steps, you and Sir Nathan and I. By all the gods, we’ll take steps.”
The old wizard turned and left.
3
White Rock and Ride
Mazael left Castle Cravenlock three hours later at the head of four hundred men. To his surprise, the armsmen were disciplined and tough, with shaven faces and well-maintained armor and arms. Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising; Albron surrounded himself with bootlickers, cowards, and thugs, while the good men were left to rot.
The village of White Rock lay two days’ ride southwest of Castle Cravenlock, and Mazael led his men along the main road. A pity that the Old Crow had likely headed north for Swordgrim by now. Mazael would have liked to renew their acquaintance now that he had four hundred armed men at his back.
He planned to travel south to White Rock and to question the villagers. White Rock sat on the main road to Castle Cravenlock, and the village had seen every traveler for the last few months. Mazael hoped that the village was still there. He knew that some of Mitor’s mercenaries would not hesitate to burn and rape White Rock off the map.
They rode past many fields and hamlets, the farmers staring at them with suspicious faces. Bit by bit the cultivated fields changed to empty plains filled with blood roses. Past the cultivated lands near Castle Cravenlock the land was empty but for the ruined villages destroyed during Lord Richard’s uprising. They made camp the first night in one of the ruins. Romaria insisted that they light dozens of watch fires, and kept watch almost all night.
But they saw nothing, whether human foe or eldritch creature.
The next day they broke camp and continued their ride along the road. What few peasants they saw fled indoors.
“We are not welcome here, it seems,” said Gerald.
Mazael grimaced. “Not surprising. With a lord like Mitor, how can you fault them?”
When night fell, they made camp in the open. Romaria lit her fires and kept watch once again. No foes showed themselves.
They came within sight of White Rock before noon on the third day.
“Look at those fortifications,” said Gerald. “Heavens above, Mazael, we saw smaller castles in Mastaria!”
A palisade of sharpened wooden logs encircled the small village, straddled by wooden watch platforms. A ditch had been dug at the base of the palisade wall and lined with fire-scorched wooden stakes Large patches of earth beneath the wall had been blackened by flame.
“The mercenaries,” said Gerald. “The villagers must have raised the wall for defense.”
“Perhaps they have memories of the last war,” said Sir Nathan. “Many unprepared villages were destroyed.”
“No,” said Romaria. “Not mercenaries. See those burned spots? They built that wall to keep out zuvembies.”
“They built that wall to keep someone out,” said Mazael. “Let’s find out who. Adalar, the banner. The rest of you, wait here.”
Adalar raised up the banner Mitor had given them before they departed, a black field with the three crossed swords of Cravenlock.
Mazael spurred Chariot towards the gate, Adalar following, and reined up about thirty paces from the wall. “Hello, the gate!”
A ragged peasant farmer stood over the closed gate, crossbow in hand. “Who are you and what’s your business here?”
“I am Sir Mazael Cravenlock,” said Mazael.
His words caused a stir atop the walls. Men rushed atop the crude ramparts, bearing crossbows, spears, and even pitchforks.
“Cravenlock!” said the peasant. “We’ve already paid our taxes, and we’ve only enough food to last until the harvest. Leave us in peace.”
“I am not here for your gold or your grain,” said Mazael. “We have heard rumors of disturbances. I have been sent to investigate.”
“Investigate!” said the man. He spat over the wall. “You know full well who brought this darkness down on our heads, you and the castle lordlings!”
“Shut your mouth!” said another man. “You’ll bring them down on us!”
Mazael laughed and held out his hands. “If I had come to kill you, you’d all be dead already. Who is in charge here?”
“Don’t see why you’d need to know,” said the first man.
“Gods, grow some sense!” said the scarred man. “Sir knight, Sir Albert Krondig holds this village. When we heard rumors that Lord Dragonslayer was going to war against Cravenlock again, he had us build the wall.” The man forked his first and fourth fingers and spat through them. “Damned good thing he did. Right after that...those hell-spawned creatures started coming down on us.”
Mazael saw Romaria sit straighter. “Creatures?” he said.
“You heard me right,” said the scarred man. “Creatures.”
“Laugh all you want,” said the first man. “You’ll laugh no more when they come for you, when these demons turn on those that summoned them!”
“What are you babbling about?” said Mazael.
“He wouldn’t know,” said the scarred man. “You said you're Sir Mazael, right?”
“Yes,” said Mazael. “Get on with it.”
“The Sir Mazael that went off to fight the Mastarian war?” said the first man. “The Sir Mazael that killed a hundred Dominiars and defeated the
ir Grand Master? That Sir Mazael?”
Mazael snorted. “Close enough, once you take away the jongleurs’ exaggerations.”
“That Sir Mazael!” said the first man, his eyes still wide. “Gods!”
Mazael realized he would get nothing useful from this lot. “Can you send word to Sir Albert that I would like to see him?”
“Aye, that I will,” said the scarred man. “Sir Albert and Brother Silar like to see you, I’m thinking. You can come in, but only you and four others.”
“Four?” said Mazael. “I already said I wasn’t here for your gold, your grain, or your women!”
“That you did,” said the scarred man, “but we’re not for trusting anyone from the castle these days.”
“Knowing my brother, I’m not surprised,” said Mazael. “Very well, give me a moment.”
The scarred man gestured with his crossbow. “Go ahead.”
Mazael and Adalar rode back to the waiting lines of armsmen.
“They seem suspicious,” said Gerald.
“No. It’s the zuvembies,” said Romaria. “You heard them, they mentioned creatures.”
“They blame Lord Mitor?” said Mazael. “What does that mean?”
Sir Gerald shrugged. “It’s not uncommon for the peasants to blame every misfortune upon their lords.”
“There have always been a number of legends surrounding Castle Cravenlock,” said Nathan.
Romaria laughed. “Not surprising. That place looks like the dark wizard’s tower from a children’s tale.”
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