Mask of Dragons (21 page)

“Stay near the edges,” muttered Mazael, “in case we need to retreat in a hurry.”

Sigaldra nodded, and they stopped near the edges of the crowd. Given the fear in which common Skuldari held the priests of Marazadra, it was not hard to keep their distance. She spotted dozens of priests and priestesses in the crowd, and a cold finger of fear brushed her spine. If they were discovered, Sigaldra and the others could not overcome the combined magical power of so many wizards, to say nothing of all the Skuldari warriors. Unconsciously she found herself moving closer to Adalar, and rebuked herself for it. She had asked too much of him, had…

A hush fell over the crowd, and Sigaldra followed their gaze.

A bolt of molten hatred shot through her, her fear and guilt and doubt forgotten.

Her enemy was at hand.

A balcony jutted from the wall halfway up one of the citadel towers, perhaps forty feet above the courtyard. Two figures stepped upon the balcony, a man and a woman. The man was tall, clad in armor of black steel plate, the hilt of a greatsword rising over his shoulder, the plates of his armor adorned with reliefs of spiders. A strange mask that looked as if it had been fashioned from miniature sword blades covered his face, gleaming in the morning sunlight. The woman was shorter and slender, clad in a hooded black robe that concealed her features and figure, but Sigaldra would know her anywhere. She would know both of them anywhere. 

The Prophetess and Rigoric. 

Sigaldra still had her bow, a quiver of arrows hanging at her belt. Thankfully, it was not out of character for a priestess of Marazadra to go about armed. The balcony was not all that far away, and perhaps she could make the shot. One arrow through the Prophetess’s lying, scheming throat, and…

“Don’t,” whispered Romaria. “She’s warded against arrows. You’d waste your life.”

Sigaldra trialed to dial back her rage. Even if she shot the Prophetess dead, she would not live long enough to rescue Liane. The crowd would tear her apart, and she and Adalar and all the others would die for nothing.

No. Better to wait. Her hand curled into a fist so tight that her knuckles creaked.

“Hear me!” said the Prophetess, her voice rolling over the courtyard with the aid of a spell. “Men and women of Skuldar, hear my words, and hearken to my counsel, for I am the messenger of the goddess! I am her Prophetess, sent to prepare the way for her return and make smooth the paths for her conquest!” 

Utter silence answered her. The crowd stared at her, rapt. Like Timothy, she had a strong Travian accent, though hers was sharper and more precise. 

“Already it has begun,” said the Prophetess. “The armies of your high king have won victories against the faithless lords of the Grim Marches. Soon Basracus will lay the Grim Marches at your feet, and the men of Skuldar and the servants of the goddess shall conquer the entire world.”

Still silence ruled in the courtyard.

“Perhaps you think this unlikely,” said the Prophetess. “Perhaps you think the goddess has withdrawn her protecting hand from you. Fools to think such nonsense!” She gestured at the mountains rising away to the north. “Soon I shall take the Horn of Doom and Fate and the Mask of Marazadra! I shall bear them with me to the Heart of the Goddess, and there I shall call Marazadra back to this world once more!” 

Sigaldra saw Mazael stiffen at the mention of the Heart of the Goddess. He had heard about it before, she was sure. What was it? A place? A relic of some kind, like this Mask of Marazadra or the Horn of Doom and Fate? Perhaps that was why the Prophetess needed Liane. Liane had the Sight, and maybe the Sight could show the way to the Mask. 

“For you shall be the chosen instruments of the goddess,” said the Prophetess. “I have seen the world outside of the borders of Skuldar, and it is a wicked and vile one. The lords loot and plunder as they please, growing fat on the labors of the peasants. The swinish commoners themselves are no better, for they are lazy and insolent. The clergy of the Amathavian church are hypocrites and fornicators. The merchants are cheats and scoundrels. The knights are craven thugs. None of them are worthy! None of them are virtuous! All of them have abandoned the path of the upright to wallow in their own wickedness like a pig rolling in its filth.”

“She doesn’t like anyone,” whispered Romaria to Mazael. The comment was so unexpected that Sigaldra almost laughed. She stopped herself. Laughing in this bleak fortress would have been the best way to draw attention to herself.

No one else was laughing. 

“But we cannot blame them for their iniquities,” said the Prophetess. “It is the nature of man to be evil, and so to evil they have turned. What makes men virtuous? Is it love? Is it the law? No. All these things are illusions. The only thing that makes men virtuous is fear. Fear is the only justice. Fear is the great teacher of virtue. The Skuldari are the most virtuous nation upon the earth, for you live in fear of the messengers of the goddess.” She stepped forward, raising her hands. “Soon, the goddess herself shall walk the world, housed in flesh once more. And when she does, all nations and all kingdoms shall know the terror of the goddess! All people shall fear her and tremble at the sight of her. When the world is gathered under her sway and lives in terror of her shadow, then at last shall all men know the path of virtue!” 

It was a mad, fiery speech, yet the Skuldari priests and priestesses scattered throughout the crowd nodded in agreement. The Prophetess sounded so noble, but Sigaldra knew better. In their final confrontation in Greatheart Keep, a mask had fallen from her. The Prophetess projected cool serenity and certainty, but in that moment, Sigaldra had seen that beneath the serenity was an arrogant, cruel young woman who had paused to gloat over Sigaldra’s defeat. In fact, if the Prophetess had not stopped to gloat over Sigaldra’s impending demise, she could have escaped without a trace. Adalar would not have shot her with the crossbow, and the Prophetess would have killed Sigaldra and vanished with Liane. 

Perhaps the Prophetess was the kind of woman who claimed to hurt people for their own good, but simply enjoyed their suffering. 

“Already the host of Skuldar gathers,” said the Prophetess, and she beckoned into the shadows behind her.

A tall man stepped to her side, with a thin, proud face and thick black hair going gray at the temples. Like Rigoric, he wore plate armor of the finest craftsmanship, the plates adorned with images of spiders. He carried a helmet under one arm, and a jeweled sword rested at his belt. 

“Behold Basracus, High King of Skuldar!” said the Prophetess, and the warriors cheered, thrusting their fists into the air. 

Basracus gazed at them, his face impassive, and then he raised an armored hand. The cheering subsided.

“Let every man attend to his weapons,” he boomed, “and take up armor and shield. Soon we shall march to bring all lands beneath the sway of our goddess. Already the campaign in the Grim Marches is underway, and our men have won victory after victory. Soon all of the Grim Marches shall fall under our sway, then the Krago Hills and the High Plain and Knightreach and all the other lands of the liege lords. When the Prophetess raises the goddess to walk among us, our armies shall be invincible!” 

Again the warriors cheered. 

“Let every man be ready to march,” said Basracus. “When the Prophetess returns with the goddess at her side, we shall descend upon the world and bring it beneath the shadow of the goddess!” 

The Prophetess faded back into the darkness of the balcony while Basracus spoke, Rigoric trailing her like a silent shadow. The High King of Skuldar basked in the cheers for a moment, and then followed the Prophetess into the citadel proper. The crowd below the balcony started to break up, heading back towards the gate. Sigaldra followed Mazael and the others as they broke away from the crowd, joining the general drift towards the gate. 

Though, of course, they were not going to the gate at all. 

“She’s going to summon Marazadra?” muttered Mazael. “Skaloban thought to do the same at Deepforest Keep, but he was tricked. And what the devil does she need Liane for? If she’s going to summon a goddess, one girl with the Sight will not make a difference.”

“Perhaps the Horn of Doom and Fate is to call to the goddess,” said Earnachar. She scowled at him, and then realized he wasn’t joking. For all she knew, she was right. What did she know of dreadful magic like this? She had already lived through the Great Rising, and she feared the Prophetess might use Liane to unleash another magical catastrophe. 

“Maybe,” said Mazael. “How should I know? I’m a knight, not a wizard. I wish Riothamus had come with us. He might have known the truth…”

“I think I know her,” said Timothy, blinking at the balcony.

For a moment they looked at him in surprise.

“The…Prophetess?” said Sigaldra, confused. “You’ve met her? You must have seen her at Greatheart Keep…”

“I did, but only from a distance,” said Timothy. “I did not hear her speak. But her voice…I’m sure I’ve heard it before, but I cannot seem to recall where.” 

“Your accents are the same,” said Earnachar. “Perhaps that is it.”

“Their accents aren’t quite the same,” said Romaria.

They were not, come to think of it. Timothy’s was rougher, harsher, but the Prophetess’s voice had been more lyrical and refined.

“They are not, my lady,” said Timothy. “I am a commoner of Travia, but the Prophetess speaks like a Travian noblewoman.”

“Did you know many Travian noblewomen?” said Adalar.

“Some, my lord,” said Timothy. “Some came to the college of the wizards’ brotherhood when they manifested magical ability. Others came there for refuge. Travia suffers from many civil wars, and it is common for entire noble houses to be extinguished in such wars. Sometimes the noblewomen have to flee for their lives and go into exile, or take refuge where they can.” He shrugged. “Apparently a wizards’ college is a better refuge than a convent.” 

“So how does a Travian noblewoman with magical ability become the Prophetess of Marazadra?” said Mazael.

Timothy shrugged again. “I fear I do not know. I cannot recall where I have seen the Prophetess before…but I have heard her speak, I am sure of it. I will think on it…”

“We need to move,” said Romaria. “If we wait too much longer, we’ll be the only ones standing in the citadel courtyard.” 

“Agreed,” said Mazael. “Follow me.”

Sigaldra fell in behind Mazael as the others followed him across the courtyard. A large crowd had formed around the bottleneck at the gate, and no one was looking in their direction. Mazael ducked into a ramshackle forge built of stone and pine planks. The fire was dark, the forge deserted, the anvil looming like a tombstone before the cold forge. The back wall was the base of the citadel’s outer wall itself, gray and weathered from the centuries. A row of soliphage glyphs had been carved into the stone. 

She watched as Mazael crossed to the wall, following the directions Hirune had given him. He reached for a specific glyph, pressed his fingers into it, and pushed hard. For a moment nothing happened, and then a faint click came from the basalt flagstones beneath Sigaldra’s boots. 

In perfect silence, a portion of the wall swung aside, revealing a set of stairs that sank into the darkness below the citadel.

Just like the cave of the soliphage. 

Sigaldra even smelled the same musty odor of old webbing drifting up from the darkness. All at once it was like she was there again, hanging helpless and terrified as the soliphage came to devour her…

She shivered, closing her eyes, forcing herself to keep from fleeing. Gods and ancestors, she was Sigaldra daughter of Theodoric, the last holdmistress of the Jutai nation. She had survived Malrags and Ragnachar and the Great Rising. She would not flee like some cringing girl. She would not! 

If getting Liane back meant marching into that gloomy darkness, then she would march into it.

But, gods, she was terrified.

She opened her eyes and saw Adalar standing next to her.

“I’ll walk with you,” he said in a quiet voice, “if you wish it.”

Something within her seemed to crack.

“Thank you,” whispered Sigaldra. 

Adalar nodded, and she had the sudden impulse to take his hand, just as he had taken hers at the camp. 

But this was not the time for such things. 

“Let’s go,” said Mazael, “before anyone notices. Timothy, some light, please.” 

Chapter 11: The Horn Of Doom And Fate

Silence ruled in the darkness below Armalast. 

They all carried torches, of course, but Timothy conjured a spinning little ball of blue-white light. Still, if the wizard was incapacitated, they would lose the light, and Adalar did not want to wander in the darkness down here. 

Especially not with the old webs clinging to the walls and ceilings of the catacombs. 

The catacombs themselves were spacious. If some long-dead race of giants had indeed built Armalast, they had constructed the catacombs to similar size. The passages were tall and wide, rising overhead in round arches. Niches in the walls held crumbling skeletons lying in eternal rest. 

“What do the Skuldari do with their dead, Basjun?” said Adalar, holding his greatsword ready. 

“Traditionally, they are left for the soliphages to consume,” said Basjun. “As you can imagine, this caused something of a problem during the Great Rising.”

Mazael snorted. “Don’t remind me.” 

“Those of us who belong the secret church know that our souls reside in the mercy of the gods after we die, if we are repentant,” said Basjun, “so we burn our dead in secret to deny them to the soliphages. Sometimes, though, it is necessary to follow the old rites, lest we arouse suspicion. But since the soul resides in the hands of the gods, the fate of the body is of little concern.” 

“The Jutai burn our dead as well,” said Sigaldra. “Their ashes are interred in the ancestral urn of the family.” Adalar remembered the rows of urns of stone and clay and bronze standing in the chapel of Greatheart Keep, the ashes of the Jutai dead carried out of the middle lands by their living descendants. “The ancestors watch over the Jutai. Those of us who are left, anyway.”