Mask of Swords (2 page)

A melee raged in the square before the hall. A dozen of Mazael’s armsmen stood back to back, shields on their arms and swords in hand. A towering knight in chain mail and a black surcoat adorned with the three crossed swords of the House of Cravenlock led them, bellowing commands as he wielded a war hammer, his face flushed with fury behind his black beard. Sir Hagen Bridgebane was Castle Cravenlock’s armsmaster. Now he had taken command of the armsmen who had accompanied Mazael to Gray Pillar, directing them to stand fast and fight. 

Close to thirty of the creatures swirled around the armsmen, stabbing and jabbing with their bone daggers. A half-dozen armsmen lay stunned on the ground, foam bubbling from their lips, and even as Mazael watched, another armsman fell. Dead creatures dotted the square. Sir Hagen and his men had put up a fierce fight, but they would not last much longer. 

They needed help.

The two creatures he had driven from the hall started shrieking, and Mazael killed one and forced the other back. It ran to join the others, and the ring of creatures around Hagen and the others wavered. Mazael did not slow, but slammed into the creatures, smashing the nearest one with his shield and cutting down a second with Talon’s keen edge. Hagen shouted and crushed another with a mighty blow of his hammer, and the armsmen rallied. Two more armsmen fell, stunned by the creatures’ drugged darts, and Mazael took another hit on his leg from a bone dagger. Yet his Demonsouled blood gave him resistance to whatever drug the creatures used, and he struck down the one that had struck him. 

They had killed maybe half of the creatures before the rest broke and fled to the east. Mazael turned, Demonsouled rage thundering through him, demanding that he hunt them down and kill them all, but he restrained himself. Mazael had been in too many battles to charge rashly after an enemy, given how easy it would be for their foes to set an ambush.

It was a trick he had used himself several times. 

“The gods’ be praised, my lord,” said Hagen, wiping sweat from his brow. “I thought those shrieking devils had knifed you in your sleep.” 

“They seem to be after live meat, not corpses,” said Mazael. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” said Hagen. “I went to sleep in the great hall, and awoke when one of the bondswomen started screaming. Found those creatures swarming over everything. Grabbed my hammer and armor and fought my way clear, gathering up whatever men I could find.” He shook his head. “Have you ever seen these things before, my lord?”

“No,” said Mazael. “They speak Dark Elderborn. Romaria might know what they are, or perhaps the Guardian.” He pointed with Talon to the east, the dark shapes of the Great Mountains blotting out the stars overhead. “We can bring them a corpse to identify.” 

Hagen’s teeth flashed in his beard. “Aye, my lord.” He gave one of the creatures’ corpses a rough kick, the bone plates of its armor rattling. “I heard one of the Tervingi call the creatures ‘valgasts’.”

“Valgasts,” muttered Mazael. “Where’s Toric? Have you seen him?” 

“Briefly,” said Hagen. “He led a group of swordthains around the back of the hall, toward the ruined church. Some of his men thought the valgasts had a wizard with them.”

“Damnation,” said Mazael. The valgasts were dangerous enough without the aid of a wizard’s magic. “Toric will need our help.” He pointed with Talon. “Head around the north wall of the great hall. Find the wizard and kill him. Anyone have a crossbow?” Two of the armsmen did. “Load them. If you get the chance, shoot the wizard. Easiest way to deal with a wizard is to shoot him from a distance.” 

The two men loaded their crossbows, and Mazael led the way around the northern side of Toric’s hall. The sounds of fighting grew louder, and they came to a square on the eastern side of the hall, facing the foothills of the Great Mountain. On the other side of the square stood a domed church built in the style of Old Dracaryl. It had been destroyed during the Malrag invasion, and since the Tervingi worshipped a combination of their ancestors and the gods of the Elderborn tribes, no one had yet rebuilt it. Next to the church stood the pens where Toric and his skythains kept their griffins. The griffins growled and roared, raking at their pens, their wings flapping and their claws slashing at the air.

A furious melee swirled below the ruined church, Tervingi spearthains and swordthains battling a mob of valgasts. These valgasts seemed larger and better armored than the ones Mazael had killed outside the hall, and some of them even bore weapons of steel instead of bone. Both Tervingi men and valgasts lay dead upon the ground. Mazael spotted Toric leading his men in to battle. Toric was lean and weathered from years spent in a griffin’s saddle. He had once been a skythain of the Tervingi hrould Athanaric, and had later become a headman in his own right. 

A glowing shape darted through the melee, a creature that looked like a wolf with a mane of razor-edged tentacles. Shimmering mist wreathed its form, and the creature looked vaguely translucent, almost ghostly. Yet the blows it dealt were real enough, and even as Mazael looked the wolf attacked a Tervingi spearthain, the warrior ducking behind his shield as he stumbled backwards. 

Mazael had seen such creatures before. It was beast of the spirit world, summoned by a wizard to attack his foes.

“Sir Hagen!” said Mazael. “Aid Toric. Find the wizard if you can. I will deal with his creatures.”

“Take them!” shouted Hagen, raising his hammer, and the armsmen charged into the fray. The Tervingi fought with renewed vigor at the sight of allies. Mazael cut down a surprised valgast and sprang at the wolf. The creature turned away from the wounded spearthain and snapped at Mazael, its tentacles lashing like whips. Mazael slashed with Talon, severing the tentacles, and the spirit creature reared back in pain. He drove his curved blade down, slicing through the wolf’s body, and it dissolved into gray mist, disappearing back into the spirit world. 

The wounded spearthain staggered to his feet, and Mazael waded into the battle. A blow from his shield snapped back a valgast’s head, and two spears pierced the creature’s chest. Talon ripped across a valgast’s throat, greenish-black slime spattering across the blade, and the creature joined the others upon the ground. A second spirit beast bounded through the fight, and Mazael took its head off with a powerful blow, both head and body dissolving into mist. The valgasts were quick and deadly, but Mazael’s armsmen and the Tervingi thains were better armored. The fight was turning their way, unless the valgasts’ wizard did something…

A bolt of flame erupted from the darkness of the ruined church and struck the ground with a roar. The blast killed one Tervingi spearthain, the man’s charred husk tumbling to the ground, and threw a half-dozen more men from their feet. The valgasts closed around them for the kill, and Mazael hewed his way through the creatures. A bone dagger shattered against his armor, and Mazael killed the valgast that had struck him.

He cut down one more creature, and then he was through, running for the yawning, empty door to the ruined church. Half of the dome had fallen in, filling the empty space with rubble. Mazael’s eyes scanned the darkness, seeking for a wizard.

Firelight flared in the gloom.

A valgast stood atop the rubble in the center of the church, fire playing about its clawed hands. Compared to the others, this valgast was enormous, standing nearly five and a half feet tall. The others were various shades of venomous yellow or sickly green, but this valgast was bone white, its huge black eyes like bottomless pits. Elaborate scars had been cut into its pale hide, various magical sigils shimmering and glowing with sullen flame. 

“Ah, I see,” said the valgast wizard in the Dark Elderborn language, “the tainted one. One of the last tainted ones, it seems.”

“Who are you and what do you want?” said Mazael.

“I am merely a priest and a servant,” said the wizard. “I wish to harvest your people for my cattle. Great days are upon us. The ancient bonds have been dissolved, and the valgasts require strength for the conquests to come.” He pointed, the flames around his right hand brightening. “You, however, shall not be here to see it.”

Mazael cast aside his shield and ran at the wizard. The creature let out a sneering, rasping laugh and gestured, a bolt of flames bursting from its claws. Mazael twisted at the last moment, and the blast slammed into his chest with terrific force, the flames washing over him. He bellowed in pain and fury, but his armor absorbed the worst of it.

The scales of the great dragon he had slain at Arylkrad had endured far stronger fires. 

The wizard just had time to flinch in surprise, and then Talon plunged into his chest. Mazael ripped the blade free, and the wizard tumbled down the pile of rubble, greenish-black slime leaking from the wound in his chest. 

Mazael turned and ran back into the fray. 

###

A few hours later, the last of the valgasts had been slain or driven off, and Mazael stood with Toric and Sir Hagen before the ruined church.

The loss of the wizard had demoralized the valgasts, and the creatures had fled into the darkness to the east. Mazael had commanded Toric and Hagen not to pursue, and neither the headman nor the knight argued. Many of their men had taken wounds, and all were exhausted from the fighting. Men moved from house to house, checking for the wounded and for any valgasts that might have lingered to cause mayhem later. 

“You’ve encountered these creatures before?” said Mazael.

“Aye, hrould,” said Toric. “A long time ago. A lifetime ago, in truth.”

“Tell me what you know about them,” said Mazael. 

“We called them the valgasts,” said Toric, rubbing his face. “I don’t know what they call themselves. They lived in the caverns of the underworld, and rarely came to the surface. When the Tervingi nation still dwelled upon the banks of the Iron River in the middle lands, some of the holds near the Endless Forest sometimes had trouble with valgast raids. They came in the dark of the night and to steal women and children and cattle and vanish with them into their caverns.”

“The Endless Forest of the east?” said Mazael. “The Tervingi nation almost migrated that way, did it not? During the great moot?”

“Aye,” said Toric. He shrugged. “I suggested it, for there were many Malrags to the south, and the journey to the west seemed too perilous. The moot did not approve of the idea, for the Endless Forest is infested with the soliphages, spider-devils, and we would lose many men pushing through their webs. Then Ragnachar spoke before the moot, persuaded us to come here…and you know the rest, hrould.”

“Indeed,” said Mazael. “But we wander afield from the matter at hand. What else can you tell me about these valgasts?” 

“Little enough, I fear,” said Toric. “So bold a raid as this is unusual. They are cowardly creatures, and prefer to attack from the darkness and the shadows. The time is wrong, too.” 

“The time?” said Mazael. “Do they not prefer to attack at night?”

“The time of the year,” said Toric. “In the middle lands, the valgasts only launched raids upon the days of midsummer and midwinter. Only those days, and no others.” 

“It’s barely spring,” said Mazael.

Toric shrugged. “I can offer no explanation. Perhaps these valgasts are of a different nation than the ones living in the underworld below the middle lands, and therefore follow different customs, just as we Tervingi follow different customs from the folk of the Grim Marches or the Jutai.” 

“Logical enough,” said Mazael, though the answer did not satisfy him. The valgast he had killed in the hall had spoken of his father, which meant that the valgast had known he was Demonsouled. The wizard in the ruined church had said the old world was dead, that new conquests were coming. Did that mean an army of valgasts was about to descend upon the Grim Marches, just as Ultorin had led a horde of Malrags from the Great Mountains? 

The valgasts had known that he was Demonsouled, but they had been surprised to see him. Why?

Boots slapped against the ground, and Mazael saw Rudolph Larsar hurrying towards him. The boy was a bit pale, but otherwise none the worse for wear. Most of those struck by the darts had recovered, with the younger men and women awakening sooner than the older. A few of the older men and women had not awakened at all, their hearts stopped by the drug. 

“The bondsmen have finished counting, my lord,” said Rudolph. “Five men and three women dead. They never woke up from the drugged darts.”

“Seventeen dead in the fighting,” said Toric. “It could have been worse.”

“Aye,” said Mazael with a scowl. It could have been worse, true, but it should have been better. 

“I don’t think the valgasts expected to find us here,” said Sir Hagen. “They weren’t prepared for us to put up a fight.”

“We shall be more vigilant in the future,” said Toric. “The valgasts do not seem to like bright light, so I fear we shall need to keep bonfires going at night. I suspect…”

A rasp of stone against stone within the ruined church caught Mazael’s attention.

He turned just as the valgast wizard staggered out of the church, fire crackling around its claws. Mazael snarled and yanked Talon from its scabbard, the symbols upon the curved blade pulsing with golden light, but the wizard let out a watery groan. The wound Mazael had carved into its chest still pulsed with black slime, and the wizard fell to its knees. 

Mazael, Toric, Hagen, and Rudolph all stared at the wizard, their weapons in hand.

“I thought,” said Mazael at last, “that I had already killed you.” 

“You have, tainted one,” snarled the wizard. “My magic was…not enough to heal me. Soon I shall perish.” The valgast glared at him with unblinking black eyes. “But it matters not. My death will not save you from what is to come.” 

“And what is to come, hmm?” said Mazael. “A tide of valgasts sweeping across the land like a storm?”

The wizard croaked a ghastly laugh. “Hardly. We are the masters of the deep places. What would we want with the surface? Gah! The sun is too bright and the air too cold. No, we shall merely come when we wish to harvest you as cattle. For that is all you are. Cattle, even if you knew it not.” The wizard snarled, baring its fangs. “Even the tainted ones. The Old Demon harvested for centuries, and the fools never knew it.”