Armor glittered and flashed under the afternoon sun as they rode north. Crowley’s banner flapped in the wind, while Mazael had entrusted Adalar with the Cravenlock banner, and Wesson had unfurled the Rolands' greathelm standard.
“What is that?” said Mazael.
Romaria grinned. “This?” She hefted the canvas sack hanging from her saddle.
“Yes, that,” said Mazael. “It looks like a bag of rocks.”
Romaria laughed and reached into the sack. “They’re apples. Want one?”
“Of course,” said Mazael, and she tossed one at him.
“You know, I’d never had apples before,” said Romaria, taking one for herself.
“What?” said Mazael.
“They don’t grow in the Great Southern Forest,” said Romaria. “Not enough sun, perhaps. Are there are none south of the mountains. I’d never seen one before last month.” She took a bite, swallowed. “They’re quite good, really. I talked a sack out of Cramton.”
Mazael gave Chariot half of his apple. “He was charmed by your beauty, no doubt.”
Romaria’s smile was sly. “Oh, no doubt. It’s fairly common. But you're the one with the charm.”
Mazael snorted. “Gods, I hope not. I prefer women.”
“I had noticed. But that’s not what I meant and you know it. You inspire loyalty.”
Mazael snorted. “Hardly.”
“Really?” said Romaria. “What about Sir Gerald? He’s a son of the great Lord Malden! He needn’t follow you. And Timothy and Adalar. And Sir Nathan, your old teacher, follows your orders without question.”
“I don’t want Castle Cravenlock, Romaria,” said Mazael.
Romaria shrugged. “You might not have a choice.”
“Destiny?” said Mazael. “Fate? I...”
“Don’t believe in it?” said Romaria. “I thought I explained that to you. We were fated to meet.”
“That’s different,” said Mazael. “I need you. I would have gone mad but for you. And I still could.”
“And what is that? Fate, or destiny, or the will of the gods, whatever you want to call it?” said Romaria.
Mazael had no answer.
Romaria leaned towards him. “We’d best speak of this later. It looks as if Sir Tanam and Brother Silar want a word with you.” The Old Crow and the monk rode up together.
“We should make Lord Richard’s camp in about three and a half days,” said Sir Tanam. “Longer, if any Mandragon forces demand explanations.”
“You don’t seem worried about any men from Castle Cravenlock,” said Mazael.
Sir Tanam cackled. “Worried? Of course not! I didn’t see a single one from here to Castle Cravenlock. I rode right up to the gates before anyone even saw us.” He smiled. “Sir Mazael, I could march an army to Castle Cravenlock and Lord Mitor wouldn’t know until we knocked him over the head.”
“He’s right, of course,” said Silar. “Lord Mitor’s defenses are limited, to say the least.”
“And how would you know?” said Mazael.
Silar laughed. “Remember White Rock? Who do you think helped Sir Albert design that palisade? I know a few things about war.”
Sir Tanam’s eyes flicked to Lion. “That is a most fine sword, by the way.”
Mazael shrugged. “Sorry I had to hit you with it.”
Sir Tanam snorted. “I should be grateful you didn’t hit me with the blade. It looks rather sharp.”
“It has other properties, as well,” said Silar.
“We’d heard of that,” said Sir Tanam. “Effective against the walking dead things, right?”
Mazael stiffened. “How do you know about that?”
“One of our outrider bands slipped past Castle Cravenlock and stopped by White Rock a few days past,” said Sir Tanam. “The village was buzzing with stories of your battle.”
“You got a band of outriders south of Castle Cravenlock?” said Mazael.
“That surprises you? Sir Albron Eastwater is not an effective commander,” observed Sir Tanam. “Do you really think he can defeat Lord Richard? I wonder, why are you siding with Mitor? If I might ask, of course. He obviously cares nothing for you. And you have everything to gain by going to Lord Richard’s side. If Mitor falls, you’ll be the next Lord of Castle Cravenlock.”
Mazael glared at him.
“I see I’ve given you much to ponder,” said Sir Tanam. “Worry not, Sir Mazael. Many of your questions will be answered once we reached Lord Richard’s camp.”
“Questions?” said Mazael. “What sort of game is your lord playing? I’m tired of games. Mitor plays one, Albron has his own, and Simonian...”
“You’ll see,” said Sir Tanam. He rode off, Silar following.
They passed many small villages and hamlets. Nearly all were deserted. Crowley told them that the peasants had fled north for the safety of Lord Richard’s forces. The silence reminded Mazael of the stillness that would rise before storms swept down from the mountains.
They made camp near one of the abandoned river hamlets. Romaria curled up besides Mazael and went to sleep. This raised some eyebrows amongst Crowley’s men, but none dared say anything.
Mazael didn't care. His sleep was dreamless and peaceful.
The next day Crowley's men veered to the northeast, setting a direct route towards Lord Richard’s camp. The lands north of Castle Cravenlock’s hills had been depopulated since Lord Richard’s uprising, and the grass had grown thick and high. They were forced to take their horses at a walk to avoid stones and debris hidden in the grass.
Later that day, a snake in the grasses spooked Chariot. The big horse reared and threw Mazael, and he took a long gash down his forearm from a jagged rock. Mazael made a show of having Timothy tend his wound, but even as the wizard wrapped bandages about the arm, Mazael felt the itch as the skin healed itself. By the time Timothy had finished, the gash had faded to a pale pink scar, and it vanished entirely an hour later. Fortunately, no one noticed. They had accused Rachel of witchcraft and sorcery. How would the Old Crow react if he saw Mazael’s flesh knit itself back together?
It troubled Mazael for the rest of the day. How powerful was the healing? Could it heal a mortal wound? Would it regenerate a severed limb? A finger of ice brushed his spine. Could he even be killed? The thought was terrifying and exhilarating.
They made camp for the second night. Again Romaria slept touching him, and again his rest was free from his father's bloodshot green gaze.
The third day of their journey was uneventful. Breezes ruffled the grasses of the Grim Marches, and Mazael saw countless blood roses. They made camp and the night passed quietly, untroubled by bandit or zuvembie.
Halfway through the fourth day, they reached Lord Richard Mandragon’s camp.
Romaria smelled it first. “We’re almost there.”
Mazael looked at her. “How do you know?”
“I can smell it,” she said.
“I can’t smell anything,” he said.
Romaria smiled. “You can’t? I’m surprised. Twenty-five thousand men, their horses, and their pack animals smell after a while.”
Gerald laughed. “Remember my brother Mandor’s camp after three weeks, Mazael? He never bothered to order fresh privy trenches dug. An old woman in the village died of the stink, I heard.”
Mazael grimaced. “Don’t remind me.”
“The most splendid lady is quite correct,” said Sir Tanam. “We near Lord Richard’s camp. We should arrive within the hour.”
A few minutes later Lord Richard Mandragon's camp came into sight.
It was a city of tents and a sea of waving banners. Mazael saw the Mandragons’ standard, the sigil of Hawk’s Reach, the fiery dragon of Drake’s Hall, and two dozen others. The tents themselves were lined up in neat rows, and a stake-lined ditch encircled the entire encampment.
Sir Tanam greeted the guards and rode into the camp. A thousand sounds and smells surrounded Mazael. He heard the hammering of blacksmiths, the bellow of shouted orders, the lau
ghter of off-duty men, and the measured tread of drilling soldiers. He smelled cooking food, heated metal, sweat, blood, and the undercutting reek of the privy trenches.
A man-at-arms in chain mail and a Mandragon tabard ran up to Sir Tanam. “My lord knight, Lord Richard has been informed of your arrival. He and his captains await you and his...ah, guests in the command tent.” It was less than a minute’s ride to the command tent, a pyramid of green canvas atop a wooden pavilion, the Mandragon banner fluttering from a pole overhead.
“Here we are!” said Sir Tanam, sliding from his saddle. Grooms ran forward to take their horses. “Right this way, my lord knights, my lady. Lord Richard is expecting us.”
A long wooden table ran the length of the tents, maps and papers covering its surface. A dozen men stood around the table. One was short and stout and wore a surcoat emblazoned with the burning dragon of the Mandrake family, undoubtedly Lord Jonaril Mandrake of Drakehall. The man standing next to him was a younger version of Sir Commander Galan Hawking, no doubt Lord Astor Hawking.
But despite the others, Mazael recognized Lord Richard the Dragonslayer and his sons at once.
Lord Richard was in his mid-forties. His red hair and beard were streaked with white, making it seem as if encircling flames crowned his head. His eyes were black and unreadable, and his crimson armor was magnificent. Mazael had never seen anything like it. The armor was a combination of hand-sized plates and gleaming chain mail. He realized the plates were scales, taken from the dragons Lord Richard had slain in his youth.
The young man besides Lord Richard wore similar armor, though his was night-black. He was fit and lean, his expression arrogant and amused without the slightest hint of fear. This must be Toraine Mandragon, the infamous Black Dragon.
Behind him stood a shorter man clad in black wizard's garb, his hooded cloak shadowing his face. This was Lord Richard’s younger son Lucan Mandragon, the wizard the jongleurs called the Dragon’s Shadow. Lucan’s face was gaunt, his eyes hard and cold, and a mocking smirk played on his lips.
“Sir Mazael Cravenlock,” said Lord Richard, his deep voice resonant. “I am pleased Sir Tanam brought you.”
“Lord Richard Mandragon,” said Mazael. “Now that we’re certain of each other’s identity, shall we begin?”
“You are refreshingly direct,” said Lord Richard. “Many of my lords and knights would rather talk than act.”
Mazael thought of Albron and Mitor. “I understand.”
“Then let us begin,” said Lord Richard. “This is my son and heir, Toraine.” Toraine did not acknowledge Mazael. “This is my second son, Lucan." Lucan gave Mazael a grave nod, his dark eyes unreadable. "These are my lord captains.” He introduced Lord Jonaril and Lord Astor and the others. “You’ve already made the acquaintance of my old crow, I understand.”
Sir Tanam grinned. “Twice, actually.”
“This is Sir Gerald Roland,” said Mazael.
“Well met, Sir Gerald,” said Lord Richard. “I did not think to see the day when I would speak peacefully to a son of Lord Malden.”
Gerald bowed. “I’ve seen many strange things over the last month, my lord. Why not another?” Lucan’s sardonic smile widened.
“This is Sir Nathan Greatheart,” said Mazael. “This is Timothy deBlanc, a wizard in my service. And this is Lady Romaria Greenshield, sent by her father Lord Athaelin to investigate these events.”
“My lady,” said Lord Richard. “I am pleased your father chose to involve himself. Perhaps together we can bring an end to the madness that threatens this land.”
“I hope so,” said Romaria.
“And this is Brother Silar of the Cirstarcians, a monk who has decided to involve himself,” said Mazael.
“Brother Silar and I have met,” said Lord Richard. “He advised me on the history of Castle Cravenlock before he went to assist Sir Albert Krondig against the zuvembies. Please, be seated.” Mazael and his companions sat, and Lord Richard and his captains followed suit. “I assume Lord Mitor has sent a message for me?”
Mazael’s mouth twisted. “Oh, yes. He commands you to disband your armies, surrender Swordgrim, travel to Castle Cravenlock, and acknowledge his liege lordship. He hasn't decided if he will show mercy.”
Toraine Mandragon laughed. “Then Mitor is a bigger fool than I believed. Let us see his pride once we mount his head above his castle gate.”
Lord Jonaril snorted. “A poor idea, I say. I’ve met the man. His head would make a terrible eyesore.” Mazael remembered his dreams and tried not to shudder.
“You realize, of course,” said Lord Richard, “that I have no intention of standing down. The Mandragons are the rightful liege lords of the Grim Marches. That makes Lord Mitor a rebel and a traitor.”
“I realize that,” said Mazael.
Lord Richard folded his hands and placed them on the table. “I also have considerable information on Lord Mitor’s army. He has ten thousand men. Only six thousand are loyal. The four thousand from his own house, and two thousand more from Lords Roget and Marcus. The remaining four thousand are mercenaries of dubious reliability.”
“The Justiciar Knights have gone to support Mitor’s cause,” said Mazael.
Lord Richard did not blink. “The Justiciar estates in the Grim Marches will only supply Lord Mitor with two thousand men. Neither Lord Alamis Castanagent of the High Plain nor Lord Malden Roland of Knightcastle can move fast enough to aid Lord Mitor. I am only three days' march from Castle Cravenlock. By the time the Justiciar Grand Master sends reinforcements, the issue will have been decided.”
Toraine smiled. “If they hurry, the Justiciars will come in time to see the end of the Cravenlocks.”
“I see why my sister didn’t want to marry you,” said Mazael. Toraine bristled, but Lord Richard stilled him with a glance.
“I also possess a great deal of information on the formation of Lord Mitor’s forces,” said Lord Richard.
“From the Old Crow, no doubt,” said Mazael.
“Sir Tanam’s scouting work has been of great benefit to me,” said Lord Richard. “But the vast bulk of my knowledge has come from my many spies within the mercenary encampments. This fool Albron Eastwater is a tenth of the battle commander you are, my good Sir Nathan. Mitor's army is a farce.”
“It is sloppy, my lord,” said Sir Nathan. “Sir Albron will learn some bitter lessons.”
"Should he survive them," said Toraine.
“Ten thousand men against twenty-five thousand are poor odds in any circumstance,” said Lord Richard. “And when those ten thousand are poorly led, ill-disciplined, and improperly arrayed, the outcome is all but certain.”
“I know all this,” said Mazael. “I came here for a parley, not for a recitation of facts I already know.”
“The parley has yet to begin,” said Lord Richard. “I merely state what I will do. Tomorrow, I will march. I will fall on Castle Cravenlock and I will smash Mitor’s armies to shreds. Once the castle has fallen, I will hang Sir Albron Eastwater, my traitorous vassals Marcus Trand and Roget Hunterson, this foreign necromancer Simonian of Briault, and Lord Mitor and Lady Marcelle. I offered Lord Adalon and his sons mercy fifteen years ago. I will not have it thrown back in my face. Lord Adalon was wise enough to know that. It seems Lord Mitor is not.”
Mazael shoved back from the table and stood. “And what of Lady Rachel Cravenlock?”
“Her fate has yet to be decided,” said Lord Richard. “I would prefer to spare her life.”
Mazael laughed at him. “You call this a parley? This is a bill of execution.”
“Lord Mitor’s fate and the fate of his allies has been sealed,” said Lord Richard. “I have no desire to parley with them. You, however, are a different matter.”
“What?” said Mazael.
“Have you not yet realized it?” said Lord Richard. “I sent my old crow to Castle Cravenlock in hopes that Lord Mitor would send you as his emissary. Sir Tanam was instructed to work towards that end.”
/> Mazael sat back down. “Is that it? You want me to join you, and in return for my undying loyalty, I’ll become the next lord of Castle Cravenlock once Mitor’s hangs?”
Lord Richard did not blink. “Yes.”
“No,” said Mazael. “I’ll not...”
“Not what?” said Lord Richard. “Betray your brother? Sir Mazael, did it not occur to you that Lord Mitor has already betrayed you? He did not send you here to parley a peace. He sent you here in hopes that I would capture you or kill you. He is afraid of you. Lord Mitor and Lady Marcelle have proven incapable of producing children. You are his lawful heir, whether he likes it or not. Most men in your position would have killed Lord Mitor and taken his place by now.”
Mazael remembered what Lord Adalon had said in the nightmares. “No. I’ll not do it. Do you think I’ll betray my brother and my sister for the damned castle? Mitor can keep it. I’ll have nothing to do with you.”
“I did not expect you to,” said Lord Richard. “And why not? Your brother has lied to you at every turn.”
“What do you mean?” said Mazael.
“Have you ever wondered why I sent Sir Tanam to abduct Lady Rachel?” said Lord Richard.
“A hostage,” said Mazael.
“Lord Mitor would not have cared what I did with Lady Rachel,” said Lord Richard. “I sent my old crow to seize Lady Rachel because of the sorcery she practiced. She could have provided me with valuable information on the San-keth cult at Castle Cravenlock.”
“No,” said Mazael, slamming his fist down onto the table. Lord Jonaril arched a bushy eyebrow. “I listened to this slander once at White Rock. I will not listen to it again. I have seen the zuvembies. I know they’re real. But I have not seen San-keth, nor fools worshipping snakes. I will not listen to this.”
“Then you shut your ears to the truth,” said Lord Richard.
“The San-keth cult has been in Castle Cravenlock for at least thirty years,” said Lucan. His voice resembled the rustling of dead leaves. “I’m fairly certain Lady Arissa was involved.”
Mazael snorted. “I lived at Castle Cravenlock for nine years! I would have noticed.”
“Most of the cult’s activity centered at Swordgrim in Lady Arissa’s time,” said Lord Richard. “We found some of their scrolls once I had defeated Lord Adalon’s host and retaken Swordgrim.” His dark gaze settled on Mazael. “How do you think I gathered the men to face Lord Adalon? To regain my family’s place, yes. But the lords of the Grim Marches liked the worship of the snake god no more than I.”
“This is nonsense,” said Mazael.
Lord Richard continued as if Mazael had not spoken. “I killed all the snake-worshippers I could find. Undoubtedly some survived and restarted the cult at Castle Cravenlock.”
“Slander,” said Sir Nathan.
“It is not,” said Lord Richard. “I considered offering Toraine in marriage to Lady Rachel for a number of years. When I decided to make the offer, the rumors of San-keth worship had already begun. At first I discounted them. But the peasants near Castle Cravenlock began disappearing. Then reports of the zuvembies filtered in. And then Lord Mitor showed signs of rebellion. I sent Sir Tanam to make the offer anyway, and to investigate. Sir Tanam?”
The Old Crow cleared his throat. “That was about six, seven months ago, as I recollect. I found the castle and town in sorry shape. I hadn’t yet heard that Sir Albron had replaced Nathan Greatheart as armsmaster.” He laughed. “Never seen a sorrier lot of troops, and I’ve seen quite a few sorry soldiers in my day. And the town was worse. Armsmen ran the place like it was their private kingdom. There was this one fellow, Brogan, had the temperament of a whelping bear and all the wits of a stone.”
“I met him,” said Mazael. "Briefly."
“Castle was worse,” said Sir Tanam. “The servants were scared to death, just the same as the peasants. It only took a bit to figure out why. They were scared of the cult. Seems a large number of the castle residents had taken up the worship of the snake god. Lord Mitor and Lady Marcelle had, as well as Sir Albron Eastwater. Perhaps Sir Commander Galan Hawking as well.” Lord Astor sighed. “And there was that Simonian villain as well. I’ve spent a few years on the other side of the mountains and visited Briault for a few weeks. The peasants there still whisper about this necromancer Simonian. Thoroughly unpleasant fellow. Tales have him down to the tee. So, with the zuvembies, the peasants’ stories, and Simonian of Briault as Lord Mitor’s guest, a blind man could have seen what was going on. I’d seen the San-keth cult during the war with Lord Adalon, and now I was seeing it again.”
Sir Nathan closed eyes.
“Sir Tanam returned to Swordgrim with his news,” said Lord Richard. “I was most displeased. I did not throw down one Cravenlock lord and the accompanying San-keth cult only to find myself confronted with another. I sent word to the Cirstarcian monastery west of Castle Cravenlock. They sent Brother Silar and other monks to assist my cause.”
Mazael raised an eyebrow. “That so?”
Silar grinned. “My order has been here for centuries. We remember the old tales. And we remember the dark magic and necromancy that a serpent-cult brings.”
“I had no other recourse but war,” said Lord Richard. “I called my vassals and gathered my armies. I also commanded my son to investigate using his skills.”
Lucan’s lips twisted. “It was fairly obvious. Dark magic hangs about Castle Cravenlock like a stink. Even a wizard of mediocre skills like Master Othar could have detected it.”
Mazael shifted in his seat. “You knew him?”
Lucan smiled, and for an instant the bitterness vanished from his face. “Of course! I apprenticed under him, once I had finished my training at Alborg. He was no magister, certainly. But a finer master I could not have found elsewhere.” Bit by bit the sardonic mask cast returned to his features. “I contacted Othar through the use of a magical sending. He already shared many of my lord father’s suspicions. We soon had a regular correspondence. He believed that there was a San-keth temple hidden within Castle Cravenlock. Master Othar planned to investigate that temple, if possible.” His empty eyes fixed on Mazael. “I have not heard from him since.”
Mazael remembered Othar’s last words to him. “Master Othar is dead.”
Lucan’s face could have been carved from stone. “How?”
“Necromancy of some sort,” said Mazael.
Lucan snorted. “And do you need any more proof to confirm this ‘slander’, my lord knight? Or shall I beat you over the head with it?”
“Lucan,” said Lord Richard, and the Dragon's Shadow fell silent.
“I sent Sir Tanam to capture Lady Rachel,” said Lord Richard. “I am almost certain she was involved in the San-keth cult.”
“No,” said Mazael. “No.”
“It does not matter. Were she innocent, she would have been safer at Swordgrim than at Castle Cravenlock. Were she guilty, as I believe she is, then she would have proven a valuable source of information. It was at this point, of course, that you intersected with events.” Lord Richard leaned back in his chair. “Now, do you see why you must join me? There is no other choice. You will get the castle and the lordship once Lord Mitor is dead. But what of that? The cult of the serpent people is an abomination. Their necromancy and dark worship pollute the land. The Cirstarcians and Deepforest Keep see this. So would the Justiciars, if they did not hate me for reclaiming the lands stolen from my family.” The Dragonslayer made a fist. “When I rose against your father, my goal was to exterminate the San-keth cult root and branch. That your father was inadvertently allied to the cult through Lady Arissa was an unfortunate circumstance. And I will do the same once more. I will destroy this new cult and wipe it from the memory of man. And you will either stand with me or against me.”
Mazael thought of his mother and her hateful spite. Mazael could imagine her in a serpent cult. But Rachel? He could not imagine Rachel in a San-keth cult...but he had not seen Rachel for fifteen years. And he thought o
f Simonian, the way the wizard's murky eyes stared.
“I don’t know,” said Mazael.
“There is no middle ground,” said Lord Richard. “Will you stand by and let the cult spread across the Grim Marches like a plague? It is a disease and I will stamp it out. If you stand with Lord Mitor, I shall crush you.”
“What proof is there?” said Mazael. “This is all supposition. What proof do you have?”
“What further proof do you need?” said Lord Richard. “If you wish to blind yourself to the truth, that is your folly. I am offering you a chance to escape your brother’s fate.”
Mazael’s palm smacked against the table. “You don’t have any proof.”
“The zuvembies.” Lord Richard ticked off the points on his fingers. “The disappearing peasants. Lord Mitor’s timely rebellion. I have all the proof I need, indeed, all the proof that any reasonable man would require.”
“Reasonable man?” said Toraine. “A reasonable man, Sir Mazael, you are not. You shall never see the truth. Father, I say have off with his head and have done with it.”
“Silence,” said Lord Richard. “And why, Sir Mazael, do you persist in blinding yourself?”
“I blind myself to nothing,” said Mazael. “My sister could never have been involved in this. Never. Not her.”
A dead quiet answered his pronouncement.
“Then you leave me no choice,” said Lord Richard. Mazael’s hand shot to Lion’s hilt. “I’ll not attack you here. Return to Castle Cravenlock and share in your brother’s...”
“Wait!” said Timothy. "My lord, please, wait." All eyes fell on the wizard, who swallowed and tugged his beard.
“What?” said Lord Richard.
“Sir Mazael, you trusted Master Othar’s judgment, correct?” said Timothy.
“Absolutely,” said Mazael.
“Do you remember the morning after Master Othar’s funeral?” said Timothy. “When I told you of Master Othar’s journal?” Mazael nodded. “It was warded and sealed. I could not read it.”
Lucan smiled. “Not surprising. The old man was clever enough to protect his investigations. I designed the ward for him myself.”
“Then you would know how to release it,” said Timothy. “My lord knight, you trusted Master Othar’s judgment in life. Trust it now that he is gone. I propose that we return to Castle Cravenlock and unseal Master Othar’s journal. You say there is no proof? Master Othar would have found proof, one way or the other.” The young wizard struggled for words. “The fate of so many lie in your decision. My lord knight, look at what Master Othar had to say before you make a choice.”
Lord Richard looked to his wizard son. “Can you teach Sir Mazael's wizard the spell to open the journal?”
Lucan clenched a hand. “Certainly, my father. He has the badge for dispelling. The spell to open the ward sealing the journal is no more than a specific variant.”
Lord Richard turned to Timothy. “And are you willing to learn the spell?”
Timothy bowed beneath the Dragonslayer’s black gaze. “Yes, my lord.”
“And you, Sir Mazael?” said Lord Richard. “What of you? You seem so certain of your brother’s innocence. If the words of Master Othar indicate otherwise, if they show that Lord Mitor has invited the necromancer Simonian and the San-keth cult to his court, will you stand with me?”
Mazael could believe Mitor would sell his soul to the San-keth. But he could never believe it of Rachel. “I will do it. I shall return to Castle Cravenlock and read Master Othar’s journal. And I will prove that you are wrong.”
“Perhaps you shall, sir knight,” said Lord Richard. “Perhaps you shall discover that Simonian of Briault has tricked and betrayed your simpleminded yet innocent brother and his misguided wife. Perhaps you shall then rid his court of the blight, saving myself and my vassals the trouble of killing him. We can all then go home.” He paused. “But I know better. You shall discover the truth. You are in for some very hard lessons.”
Mazael did not flinch from Lord Richard’s stare. “One of us is.”
Toraine was aghast. “You can’t be serious, father. You invite this Cravenlock into the heart of our camp, tell him all our plans, extend to him your mercy, and then let him go? This is madness! He shall tell his brother everything he has seen here. It shall be our undoing...”
“I have no intention of letting Sir Mazael undo us,” said Lord Richard, a hint of anger creeping into his iron tones. “Either way, he shall work to our advantage. Either he shall kill Simonian, or he shall discover the truth of his family and return to us. Our position shall be strengthened.” He waved his hand. “And Lord Mitor cannot stop us. Leave and do not return until you have composed yourself.”
Toraine stalked towards the tent flap. Lucan smirked at him, and for a moment Mazael thought Toraine would kill his younger brother. Then the elder Mandragon son stormed out into the camp.
“Please forgive my son,” said Lord Richard. “He is often passionate.”
“I know all about family troubles, my lord,” said Mazael.
“Indeed,” said Lord Richard. “The evening draws nigh, Sir Mazael. I invite you and your companions to dine with my family and lord captains tonight.”
Mazael was surprised. “I doubt they’ll approve.”
“Why not?” said Lord Astor, chuckling. “Lord Richard tells us what we are allowed to approve.”
“After all, we have established that you are not my enemy,” said Lord Richard. “Whatever choice you make, my hand shall be strengthened. Will you not eat?”
“Then I shall be honored,” said Mazael. They rose.
“Ah, not you,” said Lucan to Timothy. “I do believe you have a spell to learn.”
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The Monk’s First Brother
Demonsouled Page 33