Mask of Dragons (20 page)

Some of it, he supposed, was simple tension. Tomorrow he would be going into battle alongside Romaria and the others. There was every chance, he knew, that they would prevail against the Prophetess and the Champion, especially if they took her and Rigoric off guard. 

Yet chance and fortune ruled battles as much as skill and courage, and he knew it was just as likely that the fight might turn sour. 

Still, he judged it worth the risk. Assaulting Armalast with the army of the Grim Marches would prove catastrophic, and if he did invade Skuldar, the Prophetess and Basracus would almost certainly withdraw all their forces behind the city’s wall. 

No. Better to strike here, and to cut the head from the serpent. 

Or the head from the spider, he supposed. 

Still, he could not sleep. He had made all the preparations he could, hiding the greater part of their supplies outside the walls in case they needed to escape quickly, scouting the layout of the city, and observing as much of the citadel as he could. Danel's donkeys had been secured in Hirune's stables, to be returned to the merchant if Mazael was slain. There was nothing to do but wait until the moment came to act. 

He rose from the bedroll he shared with Romaria, the stone floor cold beneath his feet. Hirune had given them his finest suite of rooms, as he would have for a real priestess of Marazadra. Romaria sighed and curled up in the blankets, and Mazael donned his clothes and armor, buckling his sword belt around his waist, and slipped into the hallway.

He knew it was a risk going to the common room, but it wasn’t much of a risk. With his unremarkable chain mail and clothing, he looked like any other Skuldari fighting man. The Prophetess knew that he would come for her, but she assumed he would come at the head of an army. He doubted she would expect him to come with a small band of infiltrators. 

Certainly the idea would not have occurred to him without Riothamus’s vision. 

Besides, perhaps he could learn something useful. 

He descended the stone stairs to the cavernous, gloomy common room, the hearths casting flickering firelight across the walls. Perhaps two dozen men still sat at the tables, some singly, some in groups. Mazael strode to the bar, purchased a mug of Skuldari beer from one of Hirune’s scowling workers, and considered the room. He had been in countless rooms like this, during his travels across the realm, taverns and inns and wine shops. He took a sip of the beer, blinking in surprise. It was quite good. Better than much of the beer produced in the Grim Marches, in truth. The Tervingi brewed their own beer, but by the gods the stuff was foul. This, though…he saw possibilities for trade there, if the Prophetess was defeated and Skuldar opened to the outside world, free of the baneful influence of Marazadra’s priestesses…

The thought amused him. Once he would have thought of nothing more than drinking the excellent beer until the room spun and he passed out. Now he was thinking of trade for his lands. It seemed that he was getting old after all…

“Buy me a drink, will you?” 

Mazael looked up, stirred out of his wandering thoughts. 

A Skuldari woman leaned against the bar, smiling at him. She was about twenty-five, with pale eyes, slicked-back black hair, and white teeth. She wore the sleeveless, high-collared dress of the Skuldari women, but hers was tighter than those he had seen earlier, and to good effect. It was made of finer material, and jewels glinted on her fingers and her ears. She was remarkably beautiful…and that made Mazael realize that something was amiss.

Beautiful women did not come alone to places like this at night. For that matter, they did not approach men like him. The Lord of the Grim Marches, to be sure…but for all this woman knew, Mazael was just another swordsman at loose ends. 

There was no good reason for her to approach him. 

“That’s very kind,” said Mazael, “but I’m married.”

He glanced around the room. None of the other men had noticed her, and since she was the only woman in the room, that seemed unlikely. That meant either they were ignoring her, or that they knew who she was and wished to avoid drawing her attention…

Or they could not see her.

Either possibility did not bode well.

“Oh, I know,” said the woman. “I like your wife, Mazael Cravenlock. She is good for you. And there is no one else like her. Not even I have ever met someone like her, and I have met a very great many people.”

“Who are you?” said Mazael. 

“Truly?” said the woman. “Surely you have figured it out by now.” 

His first impulse was to say that she was the Prophetess. Yet that seemed wrong. When he had spoken to the Prophetess, she had been full of righteous, unyielding zeal. And this woman looked familiar. Like the daughter of someone he had already met…

It clicked.

“Mother Volaria,” said Mazael.

She inclined her head, earrings glittering. 

“Now, then,” said Volaria, “won’t you buy a drink for a tired old woman? Children used to be more respectful of their elders.”

Mazael placed a coin on the bar without looking away from her, and received another mug from the worker. He could not tell if the man saw Volaria or not. 

“You clean up well,” he said.

“How very kind of you,” said Volaria. She lifted the mug and took a sip, a rather unladylike sigh of satisfaction coming from her. “The Skuldari have good beer, don’t they? You wouldn’t expect it of them. Still, I suppose they need some relief. Living with the soliphages must be simply dreadful.” 

“Are you Skuldari?” said Mazael.

“Certainly not,” said Volaria, sipping at her beer again. “I am no more Skuldari than the soliphages are. I simply happen to live here. Near here, anyway.” 

“Then who are you?” said Mazael. 

“You may call me Mother Volaria,” said the woman. She took another drink. “Most of the Skuldari do.”

“You ought to pay Hirune a visit, then,” said Mazael. “You would astonish him.” 

“I remember him,” said Volaria. “The little boy with the broken leg. I liked his answer.” 

“You would have let him starve?” said Mazael.

She shrugged, the cloth of her dress sliding against her slim shoulders. “If he had lied to me, yes. The world has so many false people. It shall not miss one.” 

“Do you like my answers?” said Mazael.

Volaria grinned at him. “I wanted to meet you. Romaria is unique, but so are you, or very nearly so. The last of the children of the Old Demon.” A cold chill went through Mazael. “But the first of the Old Demon’s children to outlive him. One of the few, in truth.”

“Who are you really?” said Mazael. His hand itched to hold Talon’s hilt.

“Have you figured it out yet?” said Volaria, stirring her beer with a finger. “It will be a challenge, I admit, but you might be able get there.”

“You’re Demonsouled,” said Mazael.

“Oh, no,” said Volaria with a frown. “No, no, no. Not at all. I knew your father, though.” She smiled. “You remind me of him.”

“Don’t say that,” said Mazael. “He was a monster, and…”

“You’re not,” said Volaria. “Not yet. Maybe not ever. But do you know what your father’s secret was? I already told it to you.” 

“He didn’t play the game,” said Mazael, remembering their conversation at Volmaya. “He designed the game and let others play. He arranged things so that no matter what happened, he would accrue some advantage.” 

“He spend three thousand years doing that,” said Volaria. “Gathering power, a little bit at a time. Siring Demonsouled progeny and then slaying them, storing up their power in Cythraul Urdvul. He was so careful for so long…and then he underestimated you and you killed him.” She let out a little laugh. “It was fitting.”

“You’re a Guardian, then,” said Mazael, another idea coming to him.

“Oh?” said Volaria, her smile widening. “Do explain.”

“The Guardian of the Tervingi was not always part of the Tervingi nation,” said Mazael. “It was an older office, one established by the High Elderborn to fight the Dark Elderborn and the Demonsouled. I always thought there was more than one. You must be one of them.” 

“Closer,” said Volaria. “I knew several of the Guardians. But, no. Disappointing. If you don’t get better at this game, Mazael Cravenlock, you’re going to lose.”

“And what game is that?” said Mazael, his patience wearing thin.

“Why, the same game your father played,” said Volaria. “One of the games he designed. The game of gods. The game of dark powers. He won it, of course…but he’s dead now, and many of his opponents were very, very sore losers.” 

“Like Marazadra,” said Mazael.

“The spider is one,” said Volaria. “There are others, of course, but you need concern yourself with the spider now. She’s almost awake, and her little puppet will awaken her the rest of the way soon.”

“The Prophetess,” said Mazael.

“Your plan is a good one,” said Volaria, taking another sip of the beer, “and it may succeed. But something may go wrong. Something will go wrong.” 

“You will make something go wrong?” said Mazael. 

Volaria gave him a scornful look. “Come, now. How many battles have you been in?”

“Something always goes wrong in a battle,” said Mazael. “Something you did not anticipate.”

“Exactly,” said Volaria. “I suggest, prodigal child of the Old Demon, that you arrange your game so that you gain some advantage no matter what happens. Because if you lose, now, so close to the end of the spider’s game…the price of that loss will be more than you can bear.”

She vanished.

Mazael blinked and looked around. There was no trace of Mother Volaria, whether in her older or younger guises. For that matter, it seemed as if none of the patrons or any of the workers managing the bar had noticed anything at all. 

“Gods,” muttered Mazael. 

He finished his beer and climbed back to his room, leaving Volaria’s half-finished mug upon the bar. 

Romaria stirred as he lay down next to her. “Anything interesting happen?” 

“I had another visit from Mother Volaria,” said Mazael.

She stiffened. “What did she want?”

“I don’t know,” said Mazael. 

###

The next morning Sigaldra followed Adalar and Mazael and the others from the Guesthouse, joining the crowds making their way to the high king’s citadel. 

She did not like towns very much. In the middle lands, the Jutai and the Tervingi and the other nations had lived scattered across the hills and the valleys, mostly dwelling in small villages. It had been rare to see a town with more than a few thousand people. After coming to the Grim Marches, she had visited Cravenlock Town, which housed eight thousand people, and Sword Town, which had ten thousand. Both had been unbearably crowded to her, and it seemed shocking that there were larger cities upon the coast of the sea to the west. 

Sigaldra had no particular urge to see those towns. It was so easy for enemies to hide in the crowds, to lurk in the alleys, to lie in wait upon the rooftops. Armalast, with its grim buildings of gray stone and ramshackle houses of pine planks, seemed like a maze that could hide an army.

Of course, given that most of the people in Armalast would kill her if they knew who she really was, perhaps her fear was justified.

She walked between Romaria and Timothy, their faces painted with the sigil of the blue spider. Sigaldra did her best to keep her face cold and haughty, watching the Skuldari around her with disdain. It reminded her of when she had parleyed for the lives of the Jutai with Ragnachar, knowing that the slightest show of weakness might provoke him to wipe out her people. Mazael, Earnachar, and Adalar walked in the front, clearing the way for the priest and priestesses of Marazadra. Earnachar, in particularly, did a good impression of a strutting bully, likely because that was his true character. Basjun brought up the back, Crouch padding at his side in silence. 

Sigaldra’s eyes strayed to Adalar. Since she had pushed him away, he had not been rude to her. He hadn’t even been cold. He had simply been…distant. That was for the best. He had been under no obligation to help her and the Jutai, yet he had anyway. 

That thought in turn sent a wave of guilt through her, and she pushed it aside. 

Today. Today was her best chance to rescue Liane, and she dared not hesitate.

No matter what it might cost her. She had to save Liane. Sigaldra’s own fate was of no consequence. 

Soon the citadel of Armalast came into sight. 

“Gods,” muttered Mazael, “it’s as bad as the city itself.”

Sigaldra had seen enough sieges to agree with his assessment. The citadel of Armalast occupied the full southern third of the city, sealed off from the streets with a towering wall of rough stone blocks. A single gate pierced the wall, and a steady stream of people moved through it under the watchful eye of Basracus’s warriors. With the wall stood the citadel itself, four massive towers joined by their own wall. If Sigaldra gauged the distance right, practically the entire city could take refuge within the citadel’s vast courtyard. An army that seized Armalast would have to fight another battle to break into the citadel proper. 

“Just as well we didn’t have to put this place to siege,” said Mazael. 

Adalar shook his head. “To take it by storm, we would need the armies of every liege lord of the realm. I wondered why the runedead had not wiped out Skuldar as they did Mastaria. This place could have held off the runedead, especially if the walls had been warded to keep them out.”

“They were, my lord,” said Timothy. “Likely the priestesses or the soliphages themselves cast the spells.” 

“It’s not our concern how the Skuldari survived the Great Rising,” said Mazael, “and if we’re successful, what they do next shall not be our concern. Best to keep quiet now. If anyone challenges us, let Basjun do the talking.”

They walked in silence the rest of the way to the citadel’s cliff-like wall. The guards at the gate let them pass, and they strode into the vast courtyard. Enormous basalt flagstones paved the ground, and the towers of the citadel itself rose like hills. Wooden buildings stood at the base of the outer wall, stables and forges and barracks and kitchens. A large crowd had gathered at the foot of the citadel’s towers, but still only managed to fill about a third of the courtyard.