Mask of dragons, p.7
Mask of Dragons, page 7
Mazael frowned.
He couldn’t quite make out the flickering thing atop the altar.
At first he thought it was similar to the mistgates that Corvad’s Malrag warlocks had conjured before the Great Rising. Yet it looked too violent for that. It was like a curtain of gray mist ripped and torn by flickering fingers of violent lightning, snapping and ripping. It should have made a tremendous noise, but it was silent, utterly silent.
Mazael had no idea what it was.
He turned in a slow circle, examining the rest of the vast courtyard. Looking at the flickering rift atop the altar made his head hurt. He saw the entrances to other naves opening off in the massive wall, maybe five or six of them…
No. Eight naves opened into the courtyard. Like the legs of a colossal stone spider.
Which would make the thing atop the altar…
“The Heart of the Goddess,” said a woman’s voice, quiet and confident.
Mazael whirled, Talon coming up to strike.
A woman in a black robe stood a dozen paces away, its folds stirring a little in the wind coming from the rift atop the mound. She reached up to draw back her cowl, revealing a pale face with wide green eyes and red hair that hung lose around her temples and neck. It was a remarkably lovely face, but there was an alien cast to the expression, as if something was wearing the face the way that Rigoric had worn his mask of swords.
The harsh red glare glimmering in the depths of those green eyes only reinforced that impression.
“Or the Heart of the Spider,” said the creature wearing the guise of the Prophetess, tilting her head to one side as she regarded him. “It depends upon whom you ask, of course, as it so often does.”
“You’re not the Prophetess,” said Mazael.
She smiled a lovely red smile that made Mazael think of hungry predators. “What a bright young man you are. You remind me of your father. Which is, of course, both a compliment and an insult.”
“Marazadra,” said Mazael.
“Ah,” said Marazadra. “You should be careful with that name. Some of my servants would cut you down for blasphemy should you dare to utter it.” She spoke as the Prophetess did, with a lyrical Travian accent, her voice musical.
“If they try it,” said Mazael, “you shall soon have fewer servants.”
Marazadra laughed. “Yes. Very much like your father.” She considered Mazael for a moment. “Do you understand what is happening?”
“This is a dream,” said Mazael.
“Obvious, but true enough,” said Marazadra.
“Though I wonder why you are bothering,” said Mazael. “You know I won’t agree to serve you or side with you.”
She smiled. “Anyone can be persuaded, if given enough time.”
“The Old Demon himself spent most of my life trying to persuade me, and he failed,” said Mazael. “What makes you think you will have any greater success?”
Marazadra’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the Old Demon, and for a moment the silent rift atop the altar seemed to flash and writhe with greater violence. “Because the Old Demon is dead,” hissed Marazadra, “and I am not.”
“Given that I killed him,” said Mazael, “perhaps you should not make threats lightly.”
Marazadra seemed to collect herself, her face settling back into its cool mask. “Who said this is a threat, child of the Old Demon?”
“If this isn’t a persuasion, and it isn’t a threat,” said Mazael, “then what is this? If you’re trying to seduce me, you should know that I’m married…”
“An accident,” said Marazadra.
“An accident?” said Mazael. That had happened once before, when the gathered power in Cythraul Urdvul had drawn Mazael’s dreaming mind there. The Old Demon had been annoyed by the intrusion, but otherwise indifferent to it. His father had been so certain of success that he hadn’t viewed Mazael as a threat any longer.
Perhaps Marazadra would make a similar mistake.
“My herald attempted to give you my gift,” said Marazadra. “Unfortunately, you proved more resistant than even I anticipated. You rejected my gift and silenced my voice.”
“I cut the heart spider out of my chest,” said Mazael.
“I expect it made quite the mess,” said Marazadra. “But the blessing of my venom remains in your blood. Consequently, you can hear my voice, even if you would rather not.”
“And you get another chance to persuade me,” said Mazael.
“Precisely,” said Marazadra. “You will see the wisdom of following me soon enough, Mazael Cravenlock. Or else you shall die.”
Mazael stared at her, the flashes of purple light from the altar throwing crazed shadows across the courtyard. His first impulse was to threaten her, or to tell her just what she could do with her offer of persuasion. As a younger man he would have done exactly that.
Yet he knew that she was his ultimate enemy. The Prophetess and Rigoric, the Skuldari and the valgasts, the soliphages and Basracus…they were just her tools, just as Lucan and Corvad and Ragnachar and the others had been the Old Demon’s tools. If Mazael was to defeat her, he needed to know what she planned to do.
“All right,” said Mazael, meeting those red-lit eyes. “Persuade me. Why should I follow you?”
The red lips smiled again. “Ah. Perhaps I shall spell out my entire plan, allowing you to defeat me?”
Mazael shrugged. “If you wish to do so, I shall not stop you.”
“Tell me, then, child of the Old Demon,” said Marazadra. “What do you know of the ancient world?”
Mazael frowned. “The ancient world? Old Dracaryl and the Roland kings of Knightcastle…”
She let out a laugh. “You are young! No, more ancient than that, far more ancient. The Old Demon was three thousand years old when you slew him, but this world is much older than that. Tell me, Mazael Cravenlock. What do you know of the ancient world?”
“Little enough,” said Mazael. “The High Elderborn ruled the world, but were consumed when the Dark Elderborn created the first Demonsouled. When the Great Demon was destroyed, the Imperium of the Dark Elderborn conquered the world, but fell into ruin and decline, and the kingdoms of humans arose instead.”
“A crude summary, but mostly accurate,” said Marazadra. “The High Elderborn were but one of the ancient races and powers that strove for dominion of this world. The San-keth were another, as were my children.”
“The soliphages,” said Mazael.
“For a time, the High Elderborn ruled unopposed,” said Marazadra. “Then some of them became the Dark Elderborn and created the Demonsouled, and they destroyed one another.” She took a deep breath, her eyes seeming to flare. “For a time, we did as we wished. We contested for the rule of this world...and then your father interfered.”
“He trapped you,” said Mazael.
“Yes,” said Marazadra, her voice an icy hiss of hatred. “Many rules bound the Old Demon, and he could not harm another unless the other first harmed him. That never stopped him. He tricked and deceived and bound us, one by one. He convinced the San-keth to cripple their own god, and they never knew he had done it.” The red fire in her eyes flared brighter. “He bound me within a prison, and laid iron laws upon my worshippers that they could not break.” She laughed. “It is fitting that you fight dark powers, child of my greatest foe. Your father defeated and bound more dark powers than anyone else in the history of this world.”
“He didn’t do it out of benevolence,” said Mazael.
“Of course not,” said Marazadra. “He wished to gather the scattered power of the Great Demon to himself, to rule this world as a tyrant god for epochs beyond count. The other powers that once contested this world were…competitors, and that was something the Old Demon would never tolerate. He could not destroy us, so instead he bound us, trapping us within our own power.”
“But he’s dead now,” said Mazael.
“Yes,” said Marazadra, “and with his death at your hand, the bindings that held us have been broken.”
It made a grim amount of sense. The Skuldari had not ventured outside of their borders in generations. The valgasts had only raided the surface twice a year. Yet now both considered themselves free to do as they wished. Fear of the Old Demon had kept them in place, but now the Old Demon was dead.
Unease spread through Mazael. He did not regret killing the Old Demon.
Yet he wondered what he might have unleashed upon the world with the Old Demon’s death.
“You begin to understand,” murmured Marazadra. “You made a new world, Mazael Cravenlock. Many things begin to awaken that once slumbered. And of the old powers that now stir, I must be victorious.”
“Why?” said Mazael. “So you can devour the world?”
“Of course,” said Marazadra. “But you misunderstand. I do not want to destroy the world. I merely want to feed upon it, just as humans feed upon their sheep and cows. You should side with me, Mazael Cravenlock, before it is too late. I merely want to feed upon the world. The others wish to destroy it.”
“Perhaps I would prefer that no one conquers or devours the world,” said Mazael.
“That is not your choice to make,” said Marazadra.
“Isn’t it?” said Mazael. “Then why waste all this effort in trying to recruit me?”
“I’m giving you a chance, child,” said Marazadra. “My rivals shall not be as generous.” She looked towards the sky. “As you may learn soon enough.”
“What do you mean?” said Mazael, and the ground lurched beneath his feet.
The temple collapsed, the colossal walls falling, the megalithic pillars weaving and stumbling like drunken men. Mazael stumbled, catching his balance, and as he looked at Marazadra, the guise of the Prophetess shredded and unraveled, revealing…
A creature from a nightmare.
It was like a spider the size of Castle Cravenlock, its legs like towers, its mandibles like the blades of some titanic siege engine. Its eyes blazed like furnaces that threatened to devour anything their light touched.
The huge spider reared up before Mazael like a mountain wall, the true form of Marazadra revealed at last, and everything went black.
###
Mazael sat up with a jerk, reaching for the dagger next to his bedroll. His eyes darted back and forth through the tent, seeking any sign of the huge spider, as if the creature would somehow squeeze its vast bulk into the small tent.
But there was nothing, save for the sounds of the camp settling down for the night.
Mazael’s next thought was for Romaria. He had set up so violently that he must have flung her off. He looked around, fearing that he had thrown her into the chair, but instead he spotted her squatting near the flap to the tent, still naked, her braid like a coil of dark rope against her pale back, her head titled as if listening, her eyes narrowed.
She hadn’t even noticed that he was awake.
“What’s wrong?” said Mazael.
“You should get dressed,” said Romaria in a distant voice. “Something…the Sight.”
“Something’s wrong,” said Mazael, getting to his feet and reaching for his clothes.
“Not yet,” said Romaria. She straightened up and stretched, a sight which Mazael would have enjoyed in less ominous circumstances, and then began getting dressed. “It was hard to say. Like ripples in the Sight.”
Mazael nodded and reached for his sword belt. He remembered Marazadra’s threats from the dream. Were her servants about to launch an attack? Or were they about to face an assault from some other dark power, one of Marazadra’s rivals? The San-keth, perhaps? Mazael had driven them out of the Grim Marches, but he had always known the serpent priests would come slithering back one day…
The tent flap jerked open, and a squire stuck his head inside.
“My lord?” said the boy.
“Aye, what is it?” said Mazael.
“Lady Molly asks that you join her, my lord,” said the squire. “The Guardian has…had a vision of some kind. He needs to speak with you at once.”
Chapter 5: The Sight
Sigaldra stood alone in the heart of the camp, not far from where the great black banner with the three crossed swords of the Cravenlocks flew from its staff. Night had fallen, and the light of a hundred campfires threw back the darkness. She knew that the lords and knights would gather for their dinners, and part of her realized that it would be wise to speak with them. The Jutai had a powerful protector in Lord Mazael, but it would be a good idea to befriend as many of the lords and knights as possible, to make allies against the Tervingi headmen if they decided to make war against the Jutai as Earnachar had done.
Yet Sigaldra could not make herself do it. Her father Theodoric and her brothers had been good at making friends, especially among warriors. If they had been set loose among the lords of the Grim Marches with a few jugs of wine, by dawn they would have been fast friends with every lord and knight sworn to Mazael. Sigaldra did not have that gift. She was too prickly, too irritable, and had too much responsibility to find that sort of thing enjoyable.
After Earnachar’s attack upon Greatheart Keep, she had even started wondering if she ought to find a husband among the lords of the Grim Marches, a man who could act as a protector for the Jutai. The thought of taking a husband not of Jutai blood displeased her, but she realized it may be necessary. She had seen some of the lords watching her, and knew that if she wished it, she could have been betrothed by dawn.
Yet she could not think of the future now. Not until they had rescued Liane.
Not until they had made those responsible for her kidnapping pay for their crimes.
She stared at the tent, her right hand opening and closing, as if her fingers yearned to grasp a sword hilt.
Two Tervingi spearthains stood guard outside the tent. It was small and unremarkable, and it could have been any of the countless tents that had filled the camp. Yet that tent currently held Earnachar son of Balnachar, headman of the hold of Banner Hill…and the man who had allied with the Prophetess to attack Greatheart Keep and wipe out the Jutai.
He had not been responsible for his actions. Not completely. Earnachar was a venal, grasping ass…but he had not marched to war against the Jutai until the Prophetess had taken control of him with a heart spider. Sigaldra’s mind recited the facts, over and over again, a bulwark against her rage.
The bulwark was crumbling.
She wanted to find a way into the tent and kill him. It would be so easy. She could distract the guards, slip into the tent, and cut Earnachar’s lying throat. The smug expression would vanish from his ugly face then.
Her hands clenched against, the fingers of her left hand brushing against the short sword that hung from her belt. Yes. A few moments to distract the guards, and she would slip into Earnachar’s tent and gut him like a fish…
A boot crunched against the ground.
Sigaldra whirled, her heart leaping into her throat as Adalar stepped out of the shadows, still wearing his armor, the hilt of his greatsword rising over his shoulder. For an awful moment she thought that he had guessed her intentions, that he had come to stop her. A deep stab of shame went through her, much to her surprise. Why should she care what Adalar Greatheart thought of her? He was not Jutai.
But he had fought to defend the Jutai from the Skuldari. He had saved her life from the Prophetess, and promised to help her get Liane back.
And he understood what it was like to have one’s entire world destroyed.
“Lord Adalar,” said Sigaldra. Her voice only quavered a little.
“Lady Sigaldra,” said Adalar. “Talchar wondered where you had gone. He thought you might wish to dine with the bondsmen.”
“Yes,” said Sigaldra. “Yes, that…that is a good idea.” The Jutai capable of bearing arms had marched from Greatheart Keep. They were a pitifully small number compared to some of the retinues of the great lords and powerful headmen, but the Jutai would still come. “Would your men like to join as well, Lord Adalar?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “The Jutai do not seem very fond of outsiders.”
“You are not an outsider,” said Sigaldra. “Not any longer. You and your men fought to defend Greatheart Keep. That makes you a…a friend.”
Adalar inclined his head. “I would be glad of it.”
He hesitated, as if trying to decide what to say next.
Then he frowned.
“What is it?” said Sigaldra, wondering if the offer had somehow displeased him.
“Something’s wrong,” said Adalar.
She followed his gaze and saw Lord Mazael and Lady Romaria following a squire, all three of them moving with haste.
“Are we under attack?” said Sigaldra. She didn’t hear any alarm from the rest of the camp, but…
“No,” said Adalar. “They’ve gotten news, though.”
“Perhaps the Guardian had a vision,” said Sigaldra.
“He might have,” said Adalar. “Let’s find out.”
###
Mazael sent the squire away and pushed open the flap, ducking into Molly’s tent.
“Good, you’ve come,” said Molly, her voice tight. “You’ll want to hear this.”
Neither Molly nor Riothamus had much taste for luxury, and the tent reflected their austere preferences. There was a bedroll, a chest for clothing, a stand for Molly’s armor and extensive collection of weaponry, and a corroded old bronze brazier holding a bowlful of smoldering coals. Mazael thought the battered brazier looked as if it should have been melted down, but Molly was found of the thing. Evidently Riothamus had found it for her at the market in Sword Town, and she had taken a liking to it, probably because her husband had found it for her.
Right now she knelt next to the brazier, gripping Riothamus’s arm. Riothamus himself looked exhausted, leaning upon the staff of the Guardian to remain sitting upright. The last time Mazael had seen him look so tired had been after the furious final battle in Cythraul Urdvul against the Old Demon and the archpriest Skalatan.
