Mask of Dragons (7 page)

Come to think of it, Romaria might have been the perfect wife for a lord like Mazael Cravenlock. 

“My lords,” said Romaria, “I visited Skuldar a long time ago, and passed its borders and returned.” 

Talchar grunted. “Truly? Why?” 

Romaria shrugged. “I was curious and bored. Attend to the map, my lords.” She pointed at the map spread out upon the table. It showed many details of the Grim Marches and the Stormvales and the Krago Hills, but little of Skuldar save for the position of the mountains. “The Weaver’s Pass cuts through the mountains of Skuldari and leads to the Krago Hills, though none save the Skuldari have passed that road in many years. Armalast is located at the foot of the mountains halfway through the pass. Five or six days’ journey for men on foot, and maybe eight or nine days for an army moving with discipline.” 

Talchar grunted again. “I suppose the Pass offers many locations for an ambush?”

“Innumerable,” said Romaria. “But we have excellent scouts, and the Tervingi skythains can spot any Skuldari ambushes long before they become a threat. The walls of Armalast shall be a harder target. They’re old, very old, and look as if giants built them.” 

“We can besiege them,” said Mazael, “though it will be a challenge.”

“What of dark magic?” said another knight. “The soliphages cast spells, and the Prophetess was a sorceress of power.”

“Our court wizards are with us,” said Mazael, “and after the Malrags and the runedead, they are accustomed to fighting alongside each other. Furthermore, the Guardian of the Tervingi will march with us, and the Prophetess’s spells are no match for him.”

“The Prophetess is dangerous,” said Adalar. His voice was quiet, but he held the attention of the nobles and knights nonetheless. “But she is not as dangerous as someone like Lucan Mandragon or Caraster of Mastaria. She fled from the Guardian at Greatheart Keep, and I wounded her with a crossbow before she escaped. I am a knight, not a wizard or a sorcerer of great power, and I still managed to wound her.” He shook his head. “I suppose if my aim had been a few inches better, this war would have ended then and there.” 

“You saved my life,” said Sigaldra. “The Prophetess would have slain me, had you not shot her.” 

Again he met her gaze, and again that strange pulse of disquieting emotion went through her. By the ashes of her ancestors, what was wrong with her? Perhaps the strain of the last few weeks had caught up to her. 

“We shall continue Lord Adalar’s good work. Our task will be simple enough,” said Mazael. “As soon as the rest of the host of the Grim Marches gathers, we shall march into the Weaver’s Pass. We’ll hold and secure the pass, and then make our way to Armalast and put it to siege. Along the way we will attack any villages we find, and take their cattle and provender for our own. The Skuldari have decided to make war upon the Grim Marches, so we shall make sure they feel the hard hand of war. Once we’ve reached Armalast, we will starve it out or take it by storm if an opportunity presents itself. This brigand Basracus thinks to call himself the High King of Skuldar, so let us see if he can defend Skuldar. My lords and headmen, prepare yourselves to march. I want to set off for Armalast within three days.” 

The men began filing out of the tent, and Sigaldra felt a cold, grim certainty settle over her. 

She was going to get Liane back. It didn’t matter that Liane was in the fortress walls of Armalast. Sigaldra was going to get Liane back, no matter what she had to do. 

No matter how many men had to die.

She watched the lords leave the pavilion and realized that she was willing to sacrifice every single one of them to save her sister. 

Sigaldra might not be able to live with herself afterward, but she was willing to do it.

Chapter 4: Marazadra

Mazael didn’t do anything useful for the rest of the day, but his time was occupied nonetheless. 

He walked around the camp with Adalar, Talchar, Arnulf, Molly, Riothamus, Wesson, and Sigaldra herself, speaking to the lords and knights and headmen who had assembled to fight the Skuldari. Strictly speaking, Mazael supposed it wasn’t necessary. Every man in the camp was a veteran of one or more battles, and some of them had seen every fight in the Grim Marches since Richard Mandragon had overthrown Adalon Cravenlock twenty years ago. They knew their business, and didn’t need Mazael to stand over their shoulders. 

Nonetheless, men did need to know that their lord was looking after them, that he saw their toil and approved of their work. Morale was a necessary part of any army, and Mazael had seen a larger host of wavering men break and flee before the charge of bold knights. Of course, morale was not everything – an army of men with high morale could perish below fortified walls manned by dispassionate archers and competent siege engineers.

He supposed that was why war was an art, not a science. 

“That trap with the pavilions, that was clever,” said Mazael, looking at the burned patches outside of the camp.

Adalar shrugged. “I’m just glad it worked.” 

“How did you get them to go into the pavilions?” said Mazael. “I thought the valgasts would have realized they were empty.” 

“The braziers,” said Adalar. “It was Sigaldra’s idea.”

Mazael glanced at the holdmistress of Greatheart Keep. 

“Vorgaric suggested it,” said Sigaldra. “In the middle lands, the valgasts often hunted in the dark. He thinks they can see heat the way that you and I see light. The heat drew them in.” 

“It was a gamble, but it worked,” said Adalar. “They’ll see through the trick the next time.”

“Then,” said Mazael, “we’ll just have to find a new trick for killing them.” 

He continued his tour of the camp, inspecting the men and their work. As the sun started to go down in the west behind the Skuldari mountains, Mazael had to settle a dispute between a lord and a headman who both wanted to camp in the same spot. Once the argument was resolved, Sigaldra, Talchar, Adalar, and Wesson went about their tasks, leaving Mazael alone with Molly and Riothamus.  

“I don’t see,” said Molly, folding her arms over her chest, “why I had to walk around in circles with you.” 

“Men need to see their lord before a battle,” said Mazael. “You can’t ask a man to fight and kill and perhaps die at your command unless you’re willing to take the risk with him.”

“Romaria didn’t have to do it,” said Molly with feigned truculence. 

“Romaria will not rule the Grim Marches one day,” said Mazael. Romaria had, in fact, wandered off soon after they had left the pavilion. Likely she was taking a look around the hills. She had spent enough time traveling through the wilderness that she often preferred to be alone, and had only so much patience to spend in the company of others. “You will.”

Molly scoffed, tossing her head. “You’ll live forever, father.” 

“That’s strange,” said Mazael. “I recall a short time ago you were very keen to make sure I wouldn’t live forever.”

“Well, I was misinformed,” said Molly. “That happens sometimes.” She stared at the mountains for a moment. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” 

“Invading Skuldar?” said Mazael. “Battle is always a risk. But the Skuldari attacked the Grim Marches first. I would have been content to ignore them if they had not attacked my lands.” 

“Of course you have to crush them,” said Molly absently. Like Mazael, she never needed an excuse to fight someone. Finding reasons to hold their Demonsouled natures in check was the harder part. “But no one from the Grim Marches has entered Skuldar in centuries.”

“Romaria did,” said Mazael. 

“That was twenty years ago,” said Molly.

“Seventeen,” said Mazael. 

Molly made a derisive sound. “A lot of things can change in twenty or seventeen years.”

“True,” said Mazael. “We’ll have scouts, both Sir Tanam’s riders and Toric’s skythains. Hard to hide an ambush from a skythain on a griffin’s back.” 

“Aye,” said Molly, still staring at the mountains. She gave an irritated shake of her head, the dark tail of her hair slapping against her neck and shoulders. “But the Prophetess and Basracus and the Mask of Marazadra and all this other nonsense…why? Why do it at all?”

“You’re wondering that, too?” said Mazael.

Molly nodded. “You can’t defeat a man…”

“Unless you understand him,” said Mazael. 

“Exactly,” said Molly. “That also applies to women. So what does the Prophetess want? To restore her goddess? She’s got a plan, and I don’t like plans. Corvad had a plan. Lucan had a plan. My grandfather had the biggest plan of them all, and look how that turned out.” She scowled. “So what is the Prophetess’s plan?”

“If we burn Armalast to ashes around her ears and take back Liane,” said Mazael, “it doesn’t matter what her plan is.”

“You don’t believe that,” said Molly. “Why does she even need a Jutai girl with the Sight, for that matter? Maybe you’re right. Or maybe we’re marching to a massive disaster.” 

“Maybe,” said Mazael. He wondered if triggering an invasion of Skuldar was somehow part of the Prophetess’s plan. Still, that seemed unlikely. Certainly the Prophetess had tried to abscond with Liane undetected, and when that failed, she had used a heart spider in an attempt to control Mazael.

A flicker of old pain went through him as he remembered cutting the damned thing out of his chest. 

“Well,” said Molly. “Plan or not, it won’t matter once she is dead.”

“Aye,” said Mazael. Once again, he thought of Lucan Mandragon. Death hadn’t stopped his plans. “What do you think, Riothamus?”

Riothamus said nothing, his eyes narrowed as he stared at the gray mountains. His face was hard, his mouth pulled into a tight line, his hand gripping the bronze-colored wood of the Guardian’s ancient staff.

“Husband?” said Molly, moving to his side at once. For an instant all the hard, cold edges seemed to drop from her face, and there was nothing but concern in her expression as she looked at him. 

“Foes?” said Mazael, drawing Talon from its scabbard at his belt. The symbols of golden fire, symbols that Riothamus had written there, flashed with sudden force, but Mazael saw no sign of any enemies. Around him passing armsmen and knights paused, seeing their liege lord with drawn sword. 

At last Riothamus took a deep breath and shook himself. 

“No,” he said at last. Molly had one hand on his forearm, the other resting upon the hilt of her slender sword. “No, no foes. At least not yet.” He shook his head, blinking his eyes. “I think…”

“It was the Sight, wasn’t it?” said Molly. “The Sight came upon you.” 

Mazael frowned. He didn’t understand how the Sight worked, save that it was a kind of vision or foretelling that came upon the Guardian from time to time. After surviving Malaric’s poison a few years ago, Romaria also possessed a degree of the Sight. Her Sight worked differently, though, remaining active constantly at a low level while Riothamus’s Sight came upon him in visions of stunning power. 

“No,” said Riothamus. “Except…I think it is going to do so, soon. It feels like a storm is about to break.”

“A good description of a war,” said Mazael. 

“A vision like this,” said Riothamus, “only comes upon me before events of grave importance. Something of dire significance is about to happen, something on the scale of the Great Rising or the day the Old Demon took the Glamdaigyr into Cythraul Urdvul.” 

Mazael remembered those days, all too well. A lot of people had died on both days, and Mazael had nearly been one of them. He remembered the Glamdaigyr ripping into his chest, the sword drinking away his life even as the gathered power of the slain Demonsouled had surged through him. 

“What are you going to do?” said Mazael at last.

“Meditate,” said Riothamus. “See if I can focus the vision. The Sight, I fear, is rather like a flooded river. I can dig channels and raise levees to guide the flow, but sometimes the torrent rages out of all control.”

Mazael frowned. “So you have to dig a levee inside your mind?”

“Something like that,” said Riothamus. He smiled. “I fear the metaphor is imprecise, but it is close enough.” 

“I’ll keep you company,” said Molly. She glanced at Mazael. “I suppose you’ll retire to your tent now?” 

“Probably,” said Mazael. 

Molly smirked. “Give my greetings to Romaria…once she catches her breath, anyway.”

“And what does that mean?” said Mazael. 

Molly laughed. “I wasn’t born yesterday, father. I’m sure you two will read poetry to each other, have a cup of tea, and then retire early. And do nothing else whatsoever.” 

“Molly,” said Riothamus. He looked a little embarrassed. 

“Appalling,” said Mazael. “My own daughter would speak to me that way.” 

Molly laughed. “Don’t be so surprised. I am you, father, only prettier and with better poise.” 

“You are a patient man, Guardian,” said Mazael. “If you learn anything…”

“I will tell you at once,” said Riothamus. 

Mazael nodded, and his daughter and her husband walked into the camp. He wasn’t sure he should let Molly talk to him that way, but he had a hard time refusing her. The guilt of his early failures with her always gnawed at him. For that matter, she would rule the Grim Marches once he was dead, and the woman who would rule that unruly collection of proud lords and fierce headmen needed a steel spine and a sharp tongue. Molly had both, though the gods knew her tongue seemed to get sharper with every passing day. 

He shook his head and walked to his own tent, which the squires had raised in the center of the camp. 

Just as Molly had expected, Romaria waited within, sitting upon a camp chair as she tended to a quiver of arrows. 

“Find anything interesting?” said Mazael. 

“Nothing in particular,” said Romaria. She propped the quiver against the side of the chair and stood up. “A lot of tracks. Skuldari scouts on their spiders have been watching the camp from the foothills. Numerous valgast prints. But after Adalar’s trick with the pavilions, they seem content to watch the camp rather than raid it.” 

“Good,” said Mazael. 

“They’ll know when we march, though,” said Romaria.