Mask of Swords (8 page)

She recognized the masked man with sudden shock, and then turned her attention to Earnachar. 

For a moment they stared at each other, waiting for the other to speak first. 

An idea occurred to Sigaldra.

“That man,” she said into the tense silence, pointed at the sword-masked figure. “Why have you brought him here?”

“I am a headman of the Tervingi nation,” said Earnachar. She even detested the sound of his voice. “I have the right to bring my thains with me.”

“That isn’t a thain, but one of Ragnachar’s orcragars,” said Sigaldra, remembering the fierce, cruel, mad warriors that had served the cold hrould. “His name is Rigoric. I remember him from the fighting in the middle lands. He’s a worshipper of the Urdmoloch, bound to demons in a pact of dark magic.” That pact made the orcragars faster and stronger and more ferocious than normal men. With a flicker of unease, Sigaldra realized that Rigoric could likely kill her and half her men before he was taken down. “The hrould has banished the surviving orcragars from the Grim Marches and forbidden the worship of the Urdmoloch. Are you so bold, Earnachar son of Balnachar, that you would defy the hrould’s commands?”

Earnachar laughed, and his lackeys followed suit. Both Rigoric and the hooded women remained silent. “And are you so timid, holdmistress of the Jutai? The presence of one warrior unmans you so?”

“Given that I am a woman, I fail to see how I can be unmanned,” said Sigaldra. Her spearthains laughed at that, and Earnachar’s eyes narrowed. “But how I feel is unimportant. The orcragars are forbidden from the Grim Marches, and you have brought one back…”

“He is not an orcragar any longer,” said Earnachar. “True, the hrould has forbidden the worship of the Urdmoloch. But do not all men say the Urdmoloch perished at Knightcastle on the day the runedead were defeated? How, then, could Rigoric be a worshipper of the Urdmoloch?” 

“Men believe all manner of foolish things,” said Sigaldra.

Earnachar scowled at her for a moment. “Is that any way to greet a guest, Sigaldra of the Jutai? Are all the holdmistresses of the Jutai so miserly and cold to guests?” He laughed. “Apparently they are, since I am talking to the only holdmistress of the Jutai.”

“What do you want, Earnachar?” said Sigaldra. 

“Simply to call upon my neighbors and wish them well,” said Earnachar. 

“Well, you’ve done so,” said Sigaldra. 

“Such a short discussion,” said Earnachar with a mournful shake of his head. Again his men laughed. “Truly, the famed courtesy of the Jutai knows no bounds.”

“Likes the courtesy of the Tervingi?” said Sigaldra. “Like your men driving off our cattle and moving our fences? Like your men opening our barns and terrorizing my herdsmen?”

“You think to lay these misdeeds upon my sworn thains and bondsmen?” said Earnachar. His smirk sent a wave of hatred rolling through her. “It is not my fault if you are too weak to protect your lands and people, holdmistress. Perhaps if the Jutai had a proper headman instead of a woman to defend them, the Jutai might sleep safer in their beds.”  

“Perhaps if our neighbors were not deceitful rogues,” said Sigaldra, “we would have less need of protection.”

“Even if you had different neighbors,” said Earnachar, “you would still need someone to protect you. It is a dangerous world, holdmistress. The Grim Marches are not as dangerous as the middle lands, true, but they are dangerous nonetheless. Someone must defend the Jutai people.” His smirk widened. “Someone must defend your fair sister. Where is she, by the by? I should like to greet her.”

“Within the village,” said Sigaldra. “She does not issue forth to greet every passing brigand.” 

“Nevertheless, bring her out to me,” said Earnachar. “I wish to speak with her. She should meet the prominent men of the land.”

“Should one appear, I will summon her,” said Sigaldra. “Until then, you may be on your way.”

Earnachar walked his horse a step closer to her, and the spearthains bristled. “I must insist.” 

“And I must be blunt,” said Sigaldra. “I know what you want, Earnachar son of Balnachar. You want our lands. You want to make the Jutai into your slaves.”

His smirk did not waver. “So perceptive for one so young.”

“You will never marry either me or my sister,” said Sigaldra.

Earnachar threw back his head and roared with laughter. 

“Truly?” said Earnachar. “You think I wish to wed you, Sigaldra of the Jutai? I would not even take you as a concubine. A man wants strong sons from his women, and you are a withered, skinny thing. One pregnancy would rip you open like a dry husk.” 

It should not have hurt her, but the words stung nonetheless.

“You’ll watch your tongue, Tervingi,” said Talchar, his voice cold and flat. 

“Your sister, though,” said Earnachar, “is pretty enough, and young enough to be pliable. Quite insane, of course, but a woman needs good hips and a strong back, not wits. After a few beatings she will learn her place.” 

“I doubt that,” said Sigaldra, glaring up at him. “Given how old and fat you are, Earnachar son of Balnachar, I expect your heart shall give out on the wedding night.”

“As if a termagant like you would know of such things,” said Earnachar. “I could ride and fight all day, and still have the strength to take your sister and then you.” He looked her up and down and laughed. “Assuming I was desperate enough, of course.”

Vorgaric started to lift his hammer, and the spearthains their weapons, and it might have gone further, but a calm voice stopped them.

“This is a waste of time.” 

It was a woman’s voice, soft and gentle. Sigaldra turned as one of the three robed women rode forward. The rider reached up and drew back her black cowl, revealing a face of remarkable beauty. She had pale, clear skin, large green eyes, and red hair that hung about her face and neck, swaying in the breeze blowing across the plains. Sigaldra could not guess her age. One moment she seemed old, and the next she looked younger than Liane. Certainly she was attractive. Earnachar and most of the other men were staring at her. 

“Who are you?” said Sigaldra. 

“I am merely the messenger,” said the red-haired woman, and the other two robed women shifted. “I am the herald. I am the preparer of the way for the new age to come.”

Sigaldra felt her eyes narrow. “You are the woman they call the Prophetess.” 

“Some give me that title,” said the woman, “and it serves. I cannot see the future, not the way your sister can. I simply know what the future shall bring.”

Sigaldra frowned. “What do you know about my sister?” 

“I know that she is special,” said the Prophetess. “I know that she has the potential within her for greatness.” The pale woman held out a hand. “You should join with us voluntarily, Sigaldra, last holdmistress of the Jutai.”

Sigaldra let out a scornful laugh. “And just why should I do that?”

Unlike Earnachar, the Prophetess’s calm did not waver beneath Sigaldra’s mockery. “Because the headman is correct about one thing. The Urdmoloch did indeed perish at Knightcastle, overthrown in the very moment of his ultimate triumph. With his death, a great evil was defeated at last…but he held many lesser evils in check, lest they challenge him. Now that the Urdmoloch is dead, those lesser evils are free to do as they please, for they believe there is no one left strong enough to defeat them.” Her soft voice grew urgent. “The Jutai will perish in the coming storm. But join with me, and I can protect you.”

“Your goddess, you mean,” said Sigaldra. “I have heard the rumors. This strange goddess you serve…you have converted Earnachar to her worship, and you wish to do the same with me?”

“Yes,” said the Prophetess. “Why should this surprise you? Do not all priests proselytize? Have not the priests of the church of the Grim Marches come among you, seeking to harvest your souls for the Amathavian gods? Their gods are dusty and faded legends. My goddess has power. Join with me, and she shall protect you.”

“Your goddess,” said Sigaldra. “What is her name?”

“That is known only to the initiated,” said the Prophetess. “Follow me, and you shall learn all that and more.”

“No,” said Sigaldra. 

She met the other woman’s green eyes for a long moment. They did not have Earnachar’s malicious glee, but they held no emotion whatsoever. With a chill, Sigaldra realized that the Prophetess’s eyes would likely show no emotion as she killed.

“Very well,” said the red-haired woman, drawing her cowl back up. She turned her horse and rode back to the others. Rigoric moved to her side, and Sigaldra suspected that the masked orcragar served her, not Earnachar. 

“Bah,” said Earnachar. “We have given you more of a chance than you deserve, you and your band of widows and cripples and fools.”

“Not all of us are cripples, headman,” said Vorgaric, the massive hammer steady in his hands.

“Think on what we have said,” growled Earnachar, turning his horse. “Someday you will remember this day and curse that you were not wise enough to listen.”

He rode away, his men flanking the Prophetess and the other two robed women. 

Sigaldra and her men stood in silence for a moment.

“I don’t like him,” said Talchar at last, spitting into the dust. “Talks too much.” 

“That could have gone better,” said Sigaldra. 

“It could have gone worse,” grunted Vorgaric. 

“How?”

“We are not dead,” said Vorgaric. 

Sigaldra could not argue with that. “I…”

A scream rang over the walls.

Liane.

Sigaldra raced through the postern gate and up the stairs to the rampart. Liane sagged against the battlements, her pale blue eyes wide as she stared at the departing horsemen.

“I see them,” she whispered. “I see them, I see them, I see them…”

“You see what?” said Sigaldra, talking Liane’s shoulders. “The horsemen? They will not attack, and if they do, we shall send for the hrould…”

“No,” said Liane. “The spiders.”

“Spiders?” said Sigaldra, looking around. Liane had never been frightened of spiders before.

“The spiders riding the horses beneath the black cloaks,” said Liane.

“Those weren’t spiders,” said Sigaldra. 

“They had the souls of spiders,” said Liane. “I saw them…sister, we should not be frightened of Earnachar. We should be frightened of the priestess, for she owns his soul now.”

“The Prophetess, you mean?” said Sigaldra. “She is just a woman with silly ideas.” 

“No,” said Liane. “She has a soul full of darkness, full of dark magic, and she has marked us. She is coming for us, Sigaldra. She is coming for us.”

She fell into Sigaldra’s arms, weeping.

Chapter 5: Old Friends

Castle Cravenlock hummed with activity. 

Mazael walked through the courtyard, the golden scales of his armor flashing in the sun, his black cloak streaming behind him. Around him servants and squires and pages went about their business, loading armor and weapons into carts while knights shouted instructions. Mazael climbed the stairs to the rampart, looking down at Cravenlock Town and the plains below. The tournament field outside the town’s new walls had been cleared, and already the pavilions of knights and the tents of Tervingi thains rose. 

A traditional tournament would have been too expensive, and most of the Tervingi preferred to fight on foot, Earnachar’s new horsethains notwithstanding. The spring melee allowed the Tervingi thains and the knights to mingle, which would hopefully prevent violent misunderstandings once inevitable conflicts over land and pasture began. It was also a fine way to celebrate the end of winter and the start of spring.

And though Mazael had not planned it that way, it was also an excellent opportunity to warn the knights and the headmen about the valgast raiders. 

“You see someone?” 

Mazael turned and saw Romaria standing near him. She was wearing a blue gown with black trim, her hair tied back in an intricate braid. She rarely wore gowns, and followed the social conventions of the Grim Marches’ noblewomen whenever it happened to suit her, but she did make the dress look good. A dagger and a quiver of arrows rested at her belt, and she carried her unstrung Elderborn bow in her right hand like a staff. In other lands, that would have been peculiar, but no one went unarmed in the Grim Marches.

“You’re the one with the eyes of the Elderborn,” said Mazael. “You tell me.” 

Romaria laughed and lifted her hand to her eyes. “It’s Arnulf and his swordthains.”

“No sign of Riothamus or Molly?” said Mazael.

“Not that I can see,” said Romaria. 

Mazael had hoped that Riothamus would have returned from Sword Town by now. Likely the Guardian knew more about the valgasts and their mysterious Marazadra. Still, the valgast raids had been little more than nuisances. They had taken a few villages unawares, but once word had spread, the people had been more vigilant, and the valgasts had not wreaked any major harm. Perhaps they would be an ongoing nuisance, like bandits from the Stormvales, but would not become a serious threat. 

Or perhaps Mazael was simply fooling himself. 

“Well,” said Mazael, “let us go greet Arnulf.” 

“We could greet him formally in the great hall,” said Romaria. 

“For Arnulf?” said Mazael. “He would sleep through it. He’s here to fight and gamble. Shall we?”

She smiled, and they descended from the wall and headed out the castle gate. Of course, Mazael was the liege lord of the Grim Marches, so he couldn’t go anywhere alone, not any longer. Romaria came with him, as did Timothy. Rudolph Larsar followed, dutifully carrying Mazael’s shield in case he needed it, and a dozen armsmen fell in around him. Mazael shook his head. Twenty years ago, he had left the Grim Marches with nothing but a sword, a horse, and the armor upon his back, intending never to return. Now he was the liege lord of the Grim Marches, and the burden of defending the land and its people fell to him. 

“What are you thinking, husband?” said Romaria. 

“I am thinking,” said Mazael, “that I would like to get drunk and hit someone.” 

Rudolph edged back a step.

Romaria laughed. “He doesn’t mean you.”