Mask of Dragons (30 page)

“That’s the point of the lava and the salamanders and the ice, then?” said Mazael. “To start the game?”

“To weed out the weak,” said Volaria. “When the Prophetess stands before Azurvaltoria, she can issue a challenge to the dragon. Azurvaltoria will present her with a game, a deadly and dangerous game. If the Prophetess loses, she and the Champion will perish in fire. But if she wins…” 

“She can leave with the Mask,” said Mazael. 

“And she can then proceed to the Heart of the Spider, and Marazadra shall be reborn,” said Volaria. 

Mazael considered this for a moment, listening to the crack of axe and mace upon the wall behind him. 

“Well?” said Volaria, raising a black eyebrow. “Nothing to say, child of the Old Demon?”

“Thank you,” said Mazael. 

She blinked, and he had the distinct satisfaction of seeing her caught off-balance.

“Gratitude from a Demonsouled?” murmured Volaria. “I never thought I would see the day.” 

“It was my father’s world for a long time,” said Mazael. “He’s dead now. Perhaps it’s time for a new way of doing things.”

“Many share your thoughts,” said Volaria. “The followers of Marazadra among them.”

“Why, though?” said Mazael. “Why help me?” Another thought occurred to him. “Is this a rule of the game? Something that you and the dragon planned between you? I suppose the rules require you to give the same kind of ominous hints to the Prophetess.”

“Not at all,” said Volaria. “I have not yet spoken with her. I’ve only been talking to you.” 

“Why?” said Mazael. 

Volaria shrugged again. “Because I knew your father, and the Prophetess is an arrogant child with pretensions of power. Because, as I told you, I would prefer a world of chaos rather than a world ruled by the order of Marazadra.” She grinned, her teeth whiter than the snow around them. “And because I like you, Mazael Cravenlock. You’re charming, albeit in a thuggish short of way.”

“I told you,” said Mazael, “I’m married.” 

“A pity I didn’t meet you ten years ago,” said Volaria. “Of course, I expect you were immensely stupider ten years ago. Certainly you would not have survived this long. Then again,” she glanced over her shoulder, “I might be wrong. Do be careful, child of the Old Demon. I expect we shall see each other again very soon.” 

She vanished between heartbeats once again. 

“Hell,” muttered Mazael, his cold fingers grasping Talon’s hilt. Help or not, he still didn’t like riddles. 

And he was certain Volaria had been warning him about a more immediate danger. 

There was a cracking sound, and the wall of ice shattered into millions of snowflakes once more, swirling across the floor. Romaria was the first one through the swirling snow, bow in hand, and relief went over her face when she saw Mazael. 

“You’re all right?” she said. 

“Aye,” said Mazael. “And I had another little chat with Mother Volaria.”

The others emerged from the snow, kicking it aside.

“The sorceress?” said Sigaldra, scowling as she brushed the snow from her trouser legs. “What did she want this time?”

“For that matter,” said Adalar, “how did she even get in here?” 

“It seems that the Old Demon bound the dragon to watch over the Mask of Marazadra,” said Mazael. “As part of the binding, the Prophetess can challenge to dragon to a game of some kind. If she wins, she takes the Mask and departs. If she loses, the dragon burns her to ash.”

“And Liane with her,” said Sigaldra.

“Maybe,” said Mazael. “Probably. If we kill the Prophetess first, it doesn’t matter. The game’s over before we can stop playing, and the damned Mask can sit here in the mountain until the sun goes out.”

“Is Volaria…working with the dragon?” said Sigaldra. “Allied with her?”

“Perhaps,” said Mazael. “But if she is, then all to our advantage. She’s given us our shot at this game. Let’s go win it. Stay watchful. I’m sure both the dragon and the Prophetess have some more tricks to throw at us.”

“Ice salamanders, perhaps,” said Earnachar, staring at one of the clumps of glittering crystals. 

“Ice salamanders?” said Sigaldra.

“Well, we have seen burning salamanders,” said Earnachar. “Why not freezing salamanders?”

Sigaldra opened her mouth, closed it again, and finally shrugged. “I can think of no good reason. Certainly we have seen many strange things in here.”

Mazael led the way, the snow and ice crunching beneath his boots. The Prophetess and Rigoric had left a clear trail in the snow, and Mazael had no difficult following it. After a hundred yards, they came to the far wall, and Mazael saw a flicker of yellow-golden light. Torchlight, perhaps? It was coming from a small archway in the wall, and the tracks led to it.

He stepped through the archway and into a square chamber of worked stone. The walls were covered in more of the strange symbols he had seen scattered throughout the caverns. On the far wall was another archway, this one sealed by a massive stone door. In the center of the room stood a stone plinth, supporting a polished bronze bowl about three feet across. The bowl was half-filled with a clear fluid that looked like water, but gave off a peculiar chemical stench. 

“There are powerful spells over everything in here,” said Romaria, looking around. Timothy nodded and started casting spells of his own. Mazael crossed the room, ignoring the plinth, and considered the door. It was a massive slab of solid stone, with no locks, handles, or cracks that he could see. 

“Romaria?” said Mazael. 

“They came in here,” said Romaria, frowning at the dusty floor. “Then they went through that door. It looks like they…dropped something heavy for a while. No. Look at the scratches upon the floor. Rigoric fell here, lay down for a while, and then got up.”

“There is a powerful spell upon that door, my lord,” said Timothy, pointing at the stone slab. “I believe it is linked to the plinth, specifically to the potion upon the plinth.”

“The potion?” said Adalar. “You mean that strange-smelling water?” 

“That is not water, my lord,” said Timothy. “I suspect that it is a highly lethal poison.” 

“Poison?” said Mazael. “Linked to the door? That makes no sense. Unless…”

Another idea started to stir in his mind, and then Azurvaltoria’s voice thundered from overhead. 

“The final lock,” said the dragon’s voice. “Only the strong may enter my inner chamber. Behold the basin. Drink of the poison within, and the door shall open. The antidote lies beyond, if you are strong enough to drink of it.”

“Really?” said Mazael. “A poisoned lock? Isn’t that overly dramatic?”

“Choose quickly,” said Azurvaltoria. 

Every single one of the symbols upon the wall started to glow at once, shining with harsh yellow-orange light. A wave of heat rolled from the symbols, and Mazael took a cautious step back as the crashing roar of stone upon stone grated through the chamber. 

“The door!” said Basjun, Crouch barking. 

The door to the ice cavern slammed shut, sealing Mazael and the others within the chamber.

“An oven,” said Adalar, looking at the glowing symbols. “It’s a damned oven, and we’re locked inside it.”

“Not for long,” said Mazael, sheathing Talon.

He suspected he was about to be in a lot of pain, and he didn’t want to land on his sword by accident. After everything he had survived, tripping and impaling himself upon his own sword would have been a ridiculous way to meet his end.

“Mazael,” said Romaria, her voice tight with sudden dread. 

“I don’t know how long the door will be open,” said Mazael, “so when it opens, run.” 

“My lord,” said Timothy, “what…”

“Why you?” said Romaria. 

They both knew why it was had to be him. If something didn’t kill Mazael immediately, his Demonsouled blood could heal him. Of course, the poison might kill him dead on the spot. But none of the others had his healing abilities, and he was the one with the best chance to survive. 

“Because I wager there is a basin full of antidote in the next room,” said Mazael, “and if we stay in here much longer, we’ll all be cooked alive. And I am the Lord of the Grim Marches. I cannot ask any of my vassals to do something that I would not be willing to do myself.” 

Sigaldra said nothing, her lips pressed into a tight line. Mazael knew she was perfectly willing to sacrifice every one of them if it meant getting her sister back. At least, he suspected Sigaldra had told herself that. Likely seeing the reality of it before her eyes was rather harder than she had expected.

“Get ready,” said Mazael. 

Before anyone could stop him, he cupped his hands, scooped up some of the clear liquid from the basin, and swallowed it. Despite the unpleasant smell, it had no taste. It tingled on his lips and burned going down, rather like an expensive brandy from the distilleries of Greycoast or Knightreach. 

For a moment nothing happened.

Then the pain exploded through him like a fire.

Mazael would have screamed, but every muscle in his body clenched at once, and the best he could manage was a strangled grunt. He staggered, grabbed the edge of the plinth, and managed to stay upright. The symbols upon the walls and floor and ceiling shone brighter and hotter, and for a terrible instant Mazael was sure that he had made a mistake, that the entire room had been a trick and they would now cook to death.

Then the door in the far wall slid open.

“Go!” barked Earnachar, sprinting for the archway. The others followed him. Mazael shoved away from the plinth and staggered forward, Romaria grabbing his arm and pulling him along as his legs started to buckle. He stumbled into the next room, identical to the first, save that the walls and the ceilings had no symbols upon them. Another plinth rose in the center, holding a bronze basin of blue liquid, while the archway in the far wall revealed yet another vast cavern. 

His insides burning and clenching, Mazael slammed into the plinth, shoved his hands into the basin, and got a shaking handful of the liquid into his mouth. It poured down his throat, and the pain inside him exploded, his head spinning and reeling. 

His legs collapsed beneath him, and blackness swallowed him. 

A short time later his eyes blinked open. He was lying on his back, and the familiar crawling tingle of his Demonsouled blood’s healing power filled him, along with a gentle burning sensation. Likely the healing effect of the antidote, he suspected. Arguing voices filled his ears, and he realized that Basjun and Earnachar and Adalar were trying to decide what to do next.

“He’s not dead,” said Romaria.

“He is,” said Earnachar. “We must decide what to do next. If…”

“I,” said Mazael, his voice rasping, “am not dead.” 

He sat up with a grunt, Romaria kneeling next to him. 

“How do you feel?” said Romaria. 

“Like hell, but better,” said Mazael. “Sorry that I frightened you.” 

Romaria snorted, once, but said nothing. 

“You are still alive?” said Earnachar, astonished. 

“Obviously,” said Mazael, getting to his feet. “I do hope you’re not too disappointed.” 

Earnachar scoffed. “Given that Sigaldra would likely shoot me in the back if you were dead, I rejoice in your recovery.” 

“Splendid,” said Mazael, rolling his shoulders. He felt almost normal again, and he suspected that the potion from the basin had done most of the healing. “The dragon claimed this was the final lock. If so, let’s see what’s beyond it.”

Chapter 16: Wealth of Kings

Sigaldra followed Mazael and the others down the narrow tunnel, her bow ready in her hand. 

Excitement and fear warred for control of her.

The end had come at last.

The Prophetess had to be in the next cavern, and Liane would be with her. At long last, Sigaldra would get her sister back, and she could avenge herself upon the enemy who had done so much harm to the Jutai nation. 

Or they would all die when the Prophetess and her magic killed them.

One way or another, Sigaldra would settle this. 

Mazael had Talon out, the sword’s dark blade flickering with golden light from time to time. Romaria held her Elderborn bow ready, an arrow resting at the string. Adalar has his greatsword in hand, and Earnachar his mace and Basjun his axe. Crouch padded next to his master in silence, his ears pressed flat to his head, his fur bristling. The clever beast seemed to recognize the danger. Timothy brought up the back, light shimmering around his left hand, one of those explosive copper tubes in his right. Sigaldra shuddered at the thought of the damage that fiery spell could do in an enclosed space. 

Perhaps they would have the chance to use it against the Prophetess. 

The Prophetess and Rigoric were but two, and Mazael and Sigaldra and the others were seven. The numbers favored them…but they had no counter for the Prophetess’s powerful magic, and the Prophetess could call those damned Crimson Hunters to her side. 

They had to kill the Prophetess quickly, before she could bring her spells to bear. 

Sigaldra did not know how they could take her unawares, though.The Prophetess had escaped Greatheart Keep, and had fought them off at Armalast. Perhaps the woman was invincible…

No. Adalar had almost killed her at Greatheart Keep. They had escaped the Prophetess’s grasp at Armalast. The woman had made mistakes. Beneath the power of her magic, the Prophetess was still flesh and blood. She could die as easily as any other woman. 

Sigaldra vowed it. 

“That light,” said Adalar. “What is it?”

Ahead, the tunnel started to widen, and it in Sigaldra glimpsed a pale golden glow.

“I don’t know,” said Mazael. 

“It looks like firelight reflecting off a golden coin,” said Earnachar.

“Of course you would know that,” said Sigaldra. “I imagine you’ve spent many nights in front of your hearth, gloating over your hoard of golden coins.”

“Gold is only a tool,” said Earnachar without hesitation. “True wealth lies in the number of your children and the extent of your lands.” 

Sigaldra started to point out that his greed for land had gotten them all into this mess, but bit off the remark. It would have been useless. And as much as she detested the man, he had kept his word, risking his life alongside her during this mad pursuit.