Mask of Dragons (18 page)

Given their intended destination, Sigaldra thought it seemed appropriate. 

Basjun led them by the back trails to Armalast, through the rocky foothills of the mountains. He said they would be less likely to encounter priests or Skuldari warbands than upon the main road, and Mazael agreed with him. 

“Young Basjun,” Earnachar announced. For some reason he had decided to address Basjun as “Young Basjun”, though he wasn’t that much younger than Sigaldra or Adalar. 

She tried to glare at Earnachar, but couldn’t work up to it. Ever since the soliphage’s cave, she had found it harder to hate him. Last night, as they slept in Danel’s barn, she hadn’t even thought about killing Earnachar in his sleep.

“Aye?” said Basjun. For his part, Basjun never seemed to mind anything. He walked along with the same placid expression, that ugly dog of his loping at his side. 

“Why did the Skuldari build their chief city in such an inhospitable location?” said Earnachar. “We are high enough that no crops will grow.” 

“Defensibility,” said Basjun. “The city’s location is all but impregnable. A great host could take the city, but it would cost many lives.” He scratched at his thick black beard. “The priests of the goddess say that the Skuldari built the city in ancient days. That way, if the enemies of the goddess came for the Skuldari, we could shelter inside Armalast until the besiegers starved to death.” 

“That is the proper use of a fortress,” said Earnachar. “Though it is difficult to maintain provision.”

Basjun shrugged. “I know little of grand strategy. There are granaries in the city. In the event of a siege, I expect Basracus to expel anyone who cannot fight and let them starve upon the mountainside. It is the sort of thing he would do.” 

They continued through the winding paths of the foothills. Twice they were attacked by lone spiders the size of horses. Basjun proved his worth with the bow, shooting both the spiders, once even before Romaria did. The lone spiders were a danger in the foothills, Basjun claimed, where they preferred to prey upon the herds of truculent mountain goats wandering the slopes. 

After the day’s march ended, they stopped in a narrow ravine sheltered between two hills. Both Romaria and Basjun announced that it would make a suitable campsite. After the campfire started, Sigaldra sat alone at the edge of the camp, staring into the shadows of the flames.

She had almost died alone and terrified and helpless in the darkness, a long way from the remnants of her people and anyone who loved her. Adalar and the others had saved her, but it had been close, so close, and the fact of it seemed to sink into her blood like a poison. 

Maybe Earnachar was right. Maybe the Jutai deserved to die, to pass away from history and be pushed aside by the Tervingi. Maybe the strong deserved to rule and the weak deserved to die. She had always thought of herself as strong…

But she hadn’t been able to save herself from the soliphage’s cave, had she? 

She sat alone, listening as Earnachar and Basjun traded hunting stories. A wave of resentment went through her. Earnachar, too, had been taken by dark magic. The heart spider had controlled and dominated him, just as the soliphage had imprisoned her, yet Earnachar seemed to have shaken off the experience. 

Maybe he was stronger. Maybe he deserved to survive, and she did not. She had failed her people, her sister, the memory of her family…

Maybe she was just losing her mind. 

Sigaldra closed her eyes, pressing her hands against her forehead, her ragged hair brushing her fingers. 

She heard the faint rasp as someone sat down next to her, and opened her eyes to see Adalar. 

“You should come eat something,” he said, the firelight glinting in his brown eyes. 

“Later,” said Sigaldra. “I’m not hungry. Tomorrow, maybe, before we set out.” 

“It will keep your strength up,” said Adalar, “for when we rescue Liane.”

“Maybe,” said Sigaldra. “If I live long enough.”

“You will,” said Adalar.

“I heard some of the things Earnachar was saying,” said Sigaldra. “When you were riding together.”

“I don’t agree with him,” said Adalar.

“Why not?” said Sigaldra. “He’s right.”

“What?” said Adalar. 

“I thought he hated the Jutai,” said Sigaldra. “He’s not fond of us, true…but he doesn’t hate us. He just loves his own people. I understand that now. He loves his people, and wants them to thrive. The Jutai are dying, Adalar. He could see that. I could not. I couldn’t save the Jutai. I couldn’t save myself. I should have died in that cave.”

“No,” said Adalar.  

“I just want to save Liane,” said Sigaldra. “And my people. I cannot do both. Maybe I cannot do either. Maybe…”

“You are in a dark mood,” said Adalar. “I understand.” 

“Do you?” said Sigaldra, her voice harsher than she intended. 

“I’ve seen death,” said Adalar. “I saw all of Mastaria wiped out by the runedead. It…stays with you, a sight like that. Sinks into your blood like poison. Or salt sown into the furrows of a field.”

“Yes,” whispered Sigaldra. “I have seen too much poison, and it has changed me.” 

“We will get your sister back, I promise,” said Adalar. He hesitated, and then took her hand. His hand felt warm, almost shockingly so against the cold wind of the mountains, his fingers heavy with calluses from the use of sword and shield and lance. “And we will find a way to help the Jutai, to make them safe.”

Sigaldra stared at him. A dozen possibilities warred in her mind. If she let him, it was possible that he was going to kiss her. Or she might kiss him first. None of the others, occupied with their meal, seemed to have noticed what was happening. She wanted to lean closer. She wanted to kiss him.

Instead, very slowly, she slid her hand from his.

“Adalar.” Her voice was a faint rasp. “You should forget about me.”

“What?” he said. 

“When this is over, you should go home and find a wife from among your own people,” said Sigaldra. “You should forget about the Jutai. We are dying. Go home, leave us to our death, and forget about me.”

Adalar stared at her for a while.

He rose without a sound and went to sit by Timothy and Mazael. 

A fresh wave of pain went through Sigaldra, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

It was for the best.

###

Three days after leaving Volmaya, the walls of Armalast came into sight. 

“Gods,” muttered Mazael, staring at the grim city. 

“A mighty fortress,” said Timothy. 

“I would not want to besiege this place,” said Earnachar, “even if I commanded every Malrag and Ograg in the middle lands and every valgast from the underworld.” 

Mazael agreed with that assessment. 

It was just as well that Riothamus had seen his vision. The host of the Grim Marches, Mazael judged, with the combined might of the lords and the Tervingi, could have taken Armalast by storm, especially with the aid of the Guardian’s spells and the magic of the wizards. But the cost would have been appallingly high. 

Catastrophically high, even. 

Armalast reminded him a little of Deepforest Keep, the city of the Elderborn where Romaria been born. It sat on an outthrust spur of the mountain, large enough to hold tens of thousands. Walls of grim gray stone encircled the spur, rising thirty feet high, built of massive blocks of rough-hewn stone. Within the walls, Mazael glimpsed towers of blocky stone thrusting skyward. 

“Those are the towers of the citadel,” said Basjun, pointing. “The high king’s citadel now, I suppose.”

Mazael nodded. The road led alongside the spur, following the line of the walls to rise to the city’s only gate in its northern wall. Any attackers would have to climb the road under the ramparts of the wall, allowing the defenders to rain missile fire down upon their heads. He supposed the best approach would be to construct ladders, allowing the attackers to assault the southern wall while siege engines bombarded the ramparts and another force assailed the gate. Yet such an assault would inflict hideous casualties upon the attackers. 

Riothamus’s vision had foretold catastrophe if Mazael’s army had marched to Armalast. It seemed that vision had been well-founded. 

He glanced at the others. Romaria and Adalar walked behind him, followed by Earnachar and Basjun, Crouch trotting at his master’s side. Timothy followed, from time to time urging the row of donkeys along. At Mazael’s suggestion, he had painted a blue spider upon his face. He reasoned that a priest and two priestesses of Marazadra where much less likely to be questioned, especially if Timothy backed up their authority with a display of magical prowess. 

Sigaldra followed Timothy, one hand guiding a donkey, her blue eyes staring at nothing. She had been subdued since the soliphage’s cave. Both she and Adalar had sunk into grim, depressed moods, and only spoke when necessary. Sigaldra, in particular, seemed to have been shaken by her ordeal. Mazael hoped she still had the will to fight.

They would find themselves fighting for their lives soon enough.

“I suggest, sir,” said Basjun, “that you let me do the talking.”

Mazael nodded. “You know the city best.”

“Our story should be,” said Basjun, “that we are the attendants of two priestesses and one priest, and that we have come at the call of the Prophetess to hear her words. Many priests of the goddess have come to Armalast, both to hear her and at the high king’s call. Three more should pass unnoticed.” 

Mazael nodded. “Then we’ll proceed to Hirune’s inn.”

“It’s called the Guesthouse,” said Basjun. “Also, sir, two points you must remember. High priests and priestesses wear robes with red borders, and all must bow their heads and make way as they pass, even other priests. Additionally, the messengers of the goddess come and go freely in Armalast, and dwell in the caverns below the city. If you see a soliphage, you must also bow your head and wait for her to pass. The soliphages may claim anyone they wish…”

“No,” said Sigaldra, her voice sharp. “No. I won’t go with a soliphage, not again. I will fight to the death first.” 

“Then,” said Basjun, “I suggest we avoid drawing the notice of the soliphages at all costs.”

“Sound counsel,” said Mazael. “First the Guesthouse, and then we’ll decide how to proceed.” 

They climbed the road the rest of the way to the gate, the walls rising like cliffs on their left. The road looped around the corner of the wall, and then the gate yawned before them. Twin towers of rough-hewn stone rose on either side of the gate, and Mazael marveled at them for a moment. The dark blocks were so large it looked as if some long-dead race of giants had built Armalast for themselves, and the Skuldari had simply claimed the city after their passing. 

Maybe they had. Many strange things had lived in these lands before the coming of mankind. 

Mazael had fought some of those creatures. 

Four Skuldari warriors in chain mail stood before the gate, their faces painted blue, scowls upon their features. The scowls vanished once they saw the blue spiders painted upon the faces of Romaria and Sigaldra and Timothy. 

“Aye, then,” said one of the guards, his tone respectful. “State your business.”

“The servants of the goddess,” said Basjun, gesturing at the others, “come to hear the words of the great Prophetess of the goddess.” He held forth the stone seal they had taken from the soliphage’s cave, and that seemed to convince the guards.

“Then the goddess has smiled upon you,” said the guard. “The Prophetess arrived yesterday.”

Mazael saw Sigaldra stiffen, her eyes widening with excitement. Hopefully the guards would interpret that as religious fervor. 

“So soon?” said Basjun. “Forgive me, sirs, but my mistresses and master have been in remote parts of Skuldar, and we are starved for news.”

The guard shrugged. “The Prophetess and the Champion arrived yesterday, attended by a dozen messengers of the goddess. A peculiar outlander girl with golden hair was with them.” Sigaldra’s lips pressed into a thin line. “They went at once to the citadel to confer with the high king, and have remained there ever since. The Prophetess will address the people tomorrow, before the high king prepares his final march to bring the world under the sway of the goddess.” 

“Thank you, sirs,” said Basjun. “Is there still room at the Guesthouse? My mistresses and master have stayed there before.”

“Of course,” said the guard. “The host of Skuldar gathers in the Vale below for war. The city is half-empty. You shall have your pick of rooms.” 

“Thank you,” said Basjun again, and the guards stepped aside to let them enter. Mazael and the others led the donkeys through the dark tunnel of the gate, and they stepped into a large market square. 

Mazael had visited numerous towns and cities in his travels – Sword Town, Barellion, Knightport, Tumblestone, and others, but he had never seen a market square quite like this one. 

Huge buildings of massive gray stone blocks fronted the square, looking as if they had indeed been built by the hands of giants. Between the stone structures stood smaller houses and shops built of pine planks, as were most of the stalls in the market. For the first time Mazael saw Skuldari women. They wore high-collared dresses of gray and blue that left the arms bare, woolen mantles hanging from their shoulders, their hair piled high and their ears and necks adorned with jewelry of amber and polished stones. All the men wore armor and carried weapons, both of finer quality than most of the Skuldari warriors Mazael had seen, and trophy skulls hung from their belts. Likely these were Basracus’s own followers. Several of them had dogs of the same breed as Crouch, though none quite so ugly. 

The advantages of disguising Romaria and Sigaldra as priestesses and Timothy as a priest became apparent. The crowd in the market didn’t quite disperse at the sight of them, but they kept out of the way. Basjun led them across the square, and Mazael looked around as they walked, staring into the surrounding streets. For all the crowds, the streets leading deeper into the city seemed largely deserted. It appeared that much of the population had departed to make war upon the Grim Marches. For that matter, the city was so large that Mazael suspected it was half-deserted anyway in peacetime.