Mask of Swords (25 page)

“Are you all right?” said Adalar again.

“No,” said Sigaldra. “I just…need to sit down for a few moments. And to have some water. Would you,” she swallowed, “you would mind bringing me a cup? I know it is appallingly rude, but I do not want to fall over.”

A stone jar next to the hearth held water, and Adalar filled a wooden cup and brought it to her. Sigaldra downed it one gulp, and Adalar rebuked himself as a fool. He had been on enough forced marches to see the signs of dehydration, and he should have noticed them in Sigaldra sooner. He refilled the cup twice and watched as Sigaldra drank.

“Thank you,” she said. 

“That was why you came in here,” said Adalar. “You knew there was water.”

“No,” said Sigaldra. “I thought I might fall over, and I didn’t want any of my people to see. I am their holdmistress, and since we have no headman, I must act in his stead to defend the Jutai. They cannot see me show weakness.”

“Ah,” said Adalar. “But you can show weakness in front of me, is that it?”

Her smile was cold, but did have a bit of humor to it. “Your lands are far from Greatheart Keep, Lord Adalar of Castle Dominus. I don’t have to care what you think.” She looked away. “Though…I am grateful for your help. We shall need every sword.” 

“Perhaps Lord Mazael is not dead,” said Adalar. The man had seemed invincible, had come through so many battles to crushing victories that it seemed astonishing that he could have fallen to the treachery of someone like Earnachar. 

But all things ended, did they not? Once the Grim Marches had been under the firm hand of Richard Mandragon. Now the entire house of Mandragon was extinguished, and half the Grim Marches had been wiped out by the runedead and the Malrags. Once Greatheart Keep had been Adalar’s home and his father’s fief, but the village had been destroyed and a foreign nation lived here. Mastaria had once been a thriving land, even if its people had been ruled by the heavy hand of the Dominiar Order, but Caraster and the runedead had turned Mastaria into a desolate graveyard. 

Even Mazael Cravenlock would not live forever. 

“Perhaps,” said Sigaldra. “Not even the greatest hrould and strongest warrior can see the hour of his doom, can he? Yet if Lord Mazael is not coming to defend us, then we must defend ourselves.”

“Aye,” said Adalar. He refilled the cup. “You should drink more water.”

“I am no longer thirsty.” 

“Drink it anyway,” said Adalar.

She arched an eyebrow at him, but took up the cup and drained half of it in one swallow.

“Did you know Lord Mazael well?” said Sigaldra. 

“Yes,” said Adalar. “Somewhat, anyway. I was his squire.”

“He trained you in the arts of war, then,” said Sigaldra. 

“He did,” said Adalar. “We even fought together in the great battle below the walls of Tumblestone.”

“Tumblestone?” said Sigaldra. “I have not heard of that battle.”

“A son of the Old Demon named Amalric Galbraith had taken command of the Dominiar Order,” said Adalar. “He was as brutal and cruel as a Malrag. Mazael attacked him as the Dominiars laid siege to Tumblestone, and dueled Amalric below the city’s walls. Amalric would have won, but I struck him, and Mazael was able to land a killing blow.” It had been years ago, but he still shuddered at the memory of the howling sword of crimson fire that Amalric had carried. 

“That must have been a fearsome battle,” said Sigaldra.

“I thought so at the time,” said Adalar. “But after the runedead and the Northwater, it seems the merest skirmish.” 

“Did you know his wife?” said Sigaldra.

“Lady Romaria?” said Adalar. “Not as well. She was killed soon after I became Mazael’s squire.”

“For a dead woman, she looked most hale,” said Sigaldra. 

“She is half-Elderborn,” said Adalar. “Her heritage gives her supernatural powers, I think.” He hoped she had not been killed in the ambush. “She was a woman of great valor.” He snorted. “Before I met her, I never thought to see a woman in battle. If Mazael is alive, Earnachar had better pray that Romaria lives. Otherwise Mazael will kill him and his followers and wipe every trace of them from the earth.”

“Is his wrath so terrible?” said Sigaldra. 

“The usurper Prince Malaric of Barellion once poisoned Romaria,” said Adalar, “so Mazael slew him, destroyed his army, and put Malaric’s half-brother on Barellion’s throne instead.” 

“Good,” said Sigaldra, a chill light in her eyes.

“You truly do hate Earnachar?” said Adalar. “Even before his treachery…”

She scowled. “He is venal and brutal. The Jutai are no threat to anyone. You have seen us. We are a nation of old men, widows, and the maimed. We wish only to be left in peace. Yet Earnachar wants our land, and he will not leave us alone. He will not rest until either the Jutai are driven from Greatheart Keep or he has wed my sister against her will.”

“Your sister?” said Adalar, astonished. “Why would he not court you instead? Is the fool blind? I…”

She stared at him with her cold blue eyes, and Adalar felt a flicker of embarrassment. She was beautiful and strong, but there was a terrible coldness about her. He could not blame her for that. Not after what the Jutai had endured. Yet if she thought she could save her people by killing him in cold blood, he was fairly certain she would do it. 

At last she smiled a little. “You are very kind, but Earnachar hates me, and I hate him. He would rather marry my sister to spite me and claim our lands. To kill two birds with one stone, as it were.” She sighed. “Perhaps it is futile. Perhaps we shall all perish, regardless of what we do, and Earnachar will triumph and the Jutai shall be forgotten.” 

“All men die,” said Adalar. “All things end in death.”

“Yes,” said Sigaldra. “You understand.”

“Better than I might like,” said Adalar. 

“It is…refreshing to be candid with someone,” said Sigaldra. “We can despair, you and I, but we can never show it to those that follow us.”

“No,” said Adalar. Had he truly despaired? Despair, he had always been taught, was a sin, the false belief that the future was known beyond all hope of change. Perhaps Earnachar would indeed overrun Greatheart Keep, but Adalar did not intend to wait passively for his fate. If he was going to die, it was going to be with his sword in hand. “But if we are to die, then let us first leave a ring of our foes at our feet.”

Teeth flashed in Sigaldra’s mirthless smile. “Well spoken.” She stood. “We should return to the walls. They will have need of us soon.”

“Aye,” said Adalar, “and I would not want to start talk among your folk.”

“Talk?” said Sigaldra. “What talk?”

Adalar hesitated. “You are unmarried.”

“So?” 

Adalar sighed. “It is not proper for a man to be alone with an unmarried woman, and I would not want to reduce your standing among your people.”

He expected a scornful laugh, but she only smiled. “That is kind of you to consider, but the Jutai would not care, and both the Tervingi and the lords of the Grim Marches hold the Jutai in little regard. The ancestors only know what I could do to lower their regard of the Jutai further.” 

Adalar nodded. A small part of his mind pointed out that they were in fact alone. Before he could follow that line of thought to its conclusion, the door swung open and a young woman stepped into the house. She was about fifteen or sixteen, and wore a simple green dress with a leather belt. She looked a great deal like Sigaldra – the same blond hair, the same blue eyes, the same sharp face, though her expression lacked the hard edge and coldness of Sigaldra’s face. Her blue eyes seemed hazy, almost out of focus, as if she was only half-awake. 

“Liane,” said Sigaldra, rising from the bench. “You should not be out of bed.”

For the first time Adalar saw something gentle upon Sigaldra's expression. 

“I am rested,” said Liane. “You might need me. The spiders and the Prophetess are coming for us, sister. You might need my visions.”

“Visions,” said Adalar. 

“Yes,” said Liane, her eerie eyes turning towards him. “I saw you.”

Sigaldra scowled. “You should not have told him.”

“Told me what?” said Adalar.

Sigaldra closed her eyes and sighed. “Here is something to prove that you are truly worthy of trust, Adalar of Castle Dominus. My sister Liane has visions, a form of the Sight. Her visions always come true. I have kept it a secret, lest the men of the Grim Marches try to use her or kill her.” 

“I see,” said Adalar. Magic made him uneasy, even more so after living through the Great Rising, but Liane seemed harmless enough. “It is not my secret to give, so keep it I shall.” 

Sigaldra nodded, her mouth a hard line. “Thank you.”

“The rusted knight,” said Liane.

“Rusted?” said Adalar, looking at his armor. “I should hope not. I take very good care of my weapons and armor. A man’s life depends on them in battle.”

“Not your armor,” whispered Liane. “You. You have seen too much blood and too much pain and too much death, and it has rusted you. Just as my sister has seen too much death and too much loss and her blood has turned to ice. Neither ice nor rust are strong, and you must be strong for what is to come.”

“What?” said Adalar. “What is to come?”

“I…” Liane shook her head. “I am sorry, Lord Adalar. Sometimes I see things, and I do not understand them. That was…that was one of them.”

Adalar shrugged. “I did not understand what you said anyway, so do not trouble yourself over it.”

To his surprise, she giggled. It made her look even younger. “That is a very honest answer.” 

“A knight must be honest, if he is to be true to his vows,” said Adalar.

“I like him,” said Liane. “He’s honest. A man of rust might lie to himself, but he will not lie to others.” 

“Lady Sigaldra,” said Adalar. “If your sister has the power of prophecy…might I ask her some questions?”

Sigaldra hesitated. “The effort of her visions often exhausts her.” 

“That is not important,” said Liane. “Sister, you will exhaust yourself leading the people, and the knight of rust will exhaust himself wielding his greatsword. I cannot lead the Jutai or fight with a bow as you do, and I cannot swing a sword. But am no less Jutai than you are.” For an instant Adalar glimpsed a hint of Sigaldra’s steel in Liane’s face. Their mother and father must have been formidable. “Let me aid in our defense.”

“Very well,” said Sigaldra. “Ask what you will, Lord Adalar.”

“Your visions,” said Adalar. “Do they tell you if Lord Mazael is dead?”

“He yet lives,” said Liane. “You do not understand what he is. He is the slayer of the Old Demon, the bane of the serpents, the sword of wrath to bring terror to all those who threaten mortal kind.” She hesitated. “Yet he is in grave peril. He wrestles with a spider, and it may yet devour him. His fate is in his hands, as it ever has been. The lady of the wolves will aid him, if she can.”

“The lady of the wolves?” said Sigaldra. “That must be Lady Romaria.”

“Can you see where they are?” said Adalar. They were alive, which was good news, but Adalar would not leave them to the mercies of Earnachar and his soliphage allies. “If you do, perhaps we can rescue them.”

“You cannot,” said Liane. 

“You cannot see where they are?” said Adalar.  

“They are some miles north of here,” said Liane. “But you cannot leave. The storm comes for Greatheart Keep, this very day. The woman of shadows and lies and dark magic.”

“Earnachar’s pet Prophetess,” spat Sigaldra. 

“The other way around seems more likely,” said Adalar.

“She is coming with her slaves and servants and dupes,” said Liane. “She is coming for us. I cannot…I cannot see what will happen. Too many powers are in competition. We may be defeated. We may be victorious. We may all die.”

“All men die,” said Adalar, and Sigaldra nodded.

Liane let out a little laugh. “Little wonder your path has crossed my sister’s, knight of rust. You share the same dark vision. All men die…but it need not be today.”

“Come,” said Adalar. “I suggest that we return to the walls, Lady Sigaldra. If your sister’s visions are true…”

“They are,” said Sigaldra.

“Then the foe will arrive this day, and we must be ready,” said Adalar. 

“Your counsel is sound,” said Sigaldra, and she led the way from the house, and Adalar and Liane followed her. Liane gave him a small smile and went to her sister’s side. Adalar was not entirely sure what to make of her. He had heard tales of prophetesses and seers whose visions had driven them insane, but Liane seemed more…scattered than mad, in truth, and pleasant enough.

He hoped she was right about Mazael and Romaria.

They turned a corner as one of the Jutai spearthains ran into sight, breathing hard. 

“What is it?” said Sigaldra. “Has the foe come?”

“Not yet, holdmistress,” said the spearthain, “but soon. You must come.”

Sigaldra nodded and started running, and Adalar and Liane followed her.

###

Talchar One-Eye, Vorgaric, Sir Wesson, the swordthain Arnulf, and the wizard Timothy awaited Sigaldra over the gate. 

The enemy awaited outside the wall. 

“Quite a lot of them,” said Vorgaric in a quiet voice.

“Bah,” said Talchar, and he spat over the rampart. “There were more Malrags in the middle lands.”

“And more runedead on the day of the Great Rising,” said Wesson. 

“Aye, there were,” said Sigaldra. But the Malrags had almost destroyed the Jutai in the middle lands, and during the Great Rising the Jutai had been with Mazael Cravenlock’s host below the walls of Swordgrim. 

Today they were alone. 

Close to a thousand men marched towards the walls of Greatheart Keep. Most of them looked Skuldari, with blue-painted faces, wild hair, and armor of leather and hide. Dozens of giant spiders walked alongside the host, Skuldari warriors with lances and swords riding them. Sigaldra had ordered the spikes and the ditch added to the wall in hopes of keeping out valgasts, but looking at the giant spiders, she was grateful that they had added the spikes and the stake-lined ditch. Horsemen in mail and leather flanked the mass of Skuldari warriors.