Mask of Dragons (2 page)

The horsemen began to rearrange themselves, the knights and armsmen moving to the center, the lighter Tervingi horsethains to the wings. The horse archers came forward, grim-faced militiamen holding their bows at the ready. They centered themselves around Romaria, adjusting bowstrings and readying their arrows. 

“We’ll wait for you here,” said Mazael.

Romaria grinned, the smile and her cold blue eyes making her look wild and fierce. “I’ll bring you some spiders to kill for me, my love.” 

Then she put her spurs to the horse, dropping the reins to steer with her knees as she took her bow in both hands. The other horse archers followed, galloping forward to meet the advancing Skuldari. Mazael waited in his saddle, his face impassive even though unease and rage warred inside of him. He did not like watching Romaria go into danger. Of course, she could take care of herself better than any of the horse archers. If one of the archers was unhorsed, the man would die. If Romaria was unhorsed, she would use the power of her Elderborn blood to take the form of a great black wolf, and kill even more Skuldari. 

Both the Tervingi and the Marcher folk called Romaria the “she-wolf of Castle Cravenlock”, though never when they thought Mazael could overhear. Still, for all her skill and supernatural power, she was still mortal. She could be hurt or killed.

If she was…

Mazael shifted in his saddle, adjusting the weight of his armor.

If she was, Mazael could envision a world without the Skuldari.

And unlike most men, he had the power to make it happen. 

The horse archers disappeared into plumes of dust. A man could see a long way over the rolling plains of the Grim Marches, but Mazael did not have the eyes of the Elderborn, and soon the archers disappeared from sight. He did, however, soon see small dark shapes darting back and forth just before the horizon. 

The battle was underway. 

The dark shapes grew larger. The horse archers were coming back, and they were bringing the Skuldari spider riders after them.

“Are you ready?” said Mazael.

In answer, Molly only grinned, drawing her sword and the dragon’s tooth dagger that Mazael had given her after their duel in Arylkrad. 

“I thought you didn’t like fighting from horseback,” said Mazael.

“Well,” drawled Molly. She rolled her shoulders, loosening the muscles. “It’s easier than walking. Or traveling through the shadows.” 

Mazael nodded. “Sir Hagen?”

“We are ready, my lord,” said Hagen.

“Riothamus?” said Mazael. 

“If they show themselves, I will be ready,” said Riothamus, holding the staff of the Guardian across his saddle. 

“Good,” said Mazael, watching the horse archers. The archers scattered into two groups, heading for the sides of the mass of horsemen. 

Which gave Mazael a straight route to the advancing spider riders. 

“Sir Aulus!” said Mazael, drawing Talon, the symbols of golden fire flashing upon the dark dragon claw of the blade. “Now!” 

Sir Aulus lifted his war horn and blew a wailing blast, lifting high the lance with the Cravenlock standard. Behind him the knights and armsmen and horsethains cheered, brandishing their swords and spears. Mazael put his spurs to his horse, and the big destrier let out an irritated snort and surged forward. Around him the horsemen advanced, dropping their lances and spears to form a bristling wall of steel points. 

The horse archers passed them on the left and the right, and Mazael had a clear look at the Skuldari spider riders. 

The Skuldari raiders wore ragged armor of leather and fur, their long black hair bound into braids, their faces painted dark blue. Many of them had human skulls hanging from their belts, or wore skulls upon their shoulders. Romaria claimed that the Skuldari kept the skulls as trophies, that a Skuldari clan might pass the skull of particularly famous foes from generation to generation as a treasured heirloom. The riders carried axes and spears and swords, shouting and brandishing their weapons.

The Skuldari warriors were fierce, but their spider mounts looked far more formidable. 

The damned things had bodies the size of ponies, black with red stripes upon their abdomens and sides. Their legs looked like bundles of steel wire, and glistening mandibles jutted from their eight-eyed heads. Fortunately, their mandibles were not poisoned, though one bite in the right place could cripple or kill a man. The spiders were more maneuverable than a horse, though not as swift.

Mazael planned to exploit that weakness. 

“Aulus!” he shouted. “The charge!”

Sir Aulus blew another blast upon his war horn, and the knights, armsmen, and horses shouted. Mazael kicked his mount to a gallop, and the destrier whinnied and surged forward, eager for battle. His heart thundered in his ears like a drum, and he felt the fury come upon him, the Demonsouled rage demanding that he kill and kill until his arm ran red with blood. Long and often bitter experience let him keep the rage at bay, sealed behind the dam of his will. 

And now, at last, he had a release for that rage. 

The horsemen thundered forward to meet the Skuldari, and the horses and spiders crashed together. 

One of the Skuldari riders came at Mazael, the spider rearing up to bite at his horse’s neck. Mazael caught the Skuldari raider’s spear upon his shield, the shock of it going through his arm, and thrust with Talon. The curved blade of dragon claw ripped through the spider’s head with a ghastly puncturing sound, yellow slime spurting from the wound. The momentum of Mazael’s charge ripped the blade free from the spider, and the creature fell upon its side as it died. The Skuldari rider scrambled to his feet, only for Sir Hagen’s lance to punch through his chest and erupt out his back. 

“For Basracus!” roared a hulking Skuldari warrior, wielding a huge axe with both hands as his spider danced and skittered around a knight. “For Basracus the High King and Marazadra!” The axe hammered down with enough force to pierce chain mail, killing one of Mazael’s armsmen. The armsman fell limp from his saddle, his horse panicking and galloping away. 

Mazael spun his horse and charged, and the Skuldari warrior turned to meet him, his blue-painted face twisted with battle rage, his eyes wide, his braided black hair bouncing around his head. The Skuldari raider rose in his short stirrups, lifting the axe over his head for a single massive blow. Mazael’s horse surged forward and he swung Talon, catching the axe just below the head as it started to fall. The weapons crashed together, splinters flying from the haft, and the spider danced around Mazael’s horse as he wrenched Talon free.

“For Marazadra!” screamed the Skuldari, raising his weapon. Mazael swung Talon again, and this time the curved blade sheared through the huge warrior’s right wrist. The axe fell along with the warrior’s right hand, the heavy blade crunching into the spider’s gleaming black abdomen. The warrior howled, and Mazael finished him with a quick slash across the throat. 

A half-dozen of Mazael’s men had fallen, but the heavier horsemen crashed through the spiders. The Skuldari had been overconfident. They regarded spiders as sacred messengers of their goddess, so perhaps they had put too much trust in them. Or they had spent so much time in their gloomy mountains that they didn’t realize the power of a charge of heavy horsemen. 

Regardless of the reason, the horsemen of the Grim Marches broke through the spider riders. The spiders turned to flee, urged by their riders, but it was too late. The faster horses overtook them, the knights and men-at-arms and horsethains striking with sword and spear and axe. A few moments later the final spider rider had been struck down, the spider’s furred black legs twitching and clawing at the air, and Mazael rose up in his stirrups and waved Talon’s glowing blade over his head. 

“Reform!” he shouted. “Return to the line! Aulus!” 

Aulus Hirtan had stayed close behind Mazael through the charge, and the standardbearer raised his horn and sounded the call to reform. The scattered horsemen slowed, returning to the black Cravenlock standard. The horse archers returned as well, dividing themselves into two groups. In the distance Mazael saw the mass of the Skuldari footmen advancing. The Skuldari footmen were hideously vulnerable without their spider riders. Likely they would form into a shield wall to defend themselves against the heavy horsemen. The answer to that was to send the horse archers to circle around them, loosing shaft after shaft until the Skuldari finally broke or tried to pursue the mounted archers. 

Then Mazael would sweep them away and continue to the Weaver’s Pass to join Sigaldra and Adalar and the rest of the lords of the Grim Marches. 

Though the Skuldari footmen continued their advance, which was odd. Why were they doing that? They would get slaughtered when the horsemen ran them down.

Then Mazael saw three figures in ragged black cloaks striding at the head of the Skuldari warriors. They were taller and thinner than the Skuldari, and as they hurried forward, the black cloaks billowed back to reveal the creatures beneath them. They looked female, their bodies encased in overlapping plates of form-fitting, blood-colored chitin. Jagged claws rose from their crimson fingers, and four more legs rose from their sides, knobbed and armored, longer than they were tall. Their faces were eerily, inhumanly beautiful, with eight white-glowing eyes.

The creatures were soliphages, the soul-drinking spider-devils the Tervingi had fought in the Endless Forest. They could take the form of human women to lure their victims to their death, leaving only a desiccated husk behind. They also could cast spells, and already Mazael saw their clawed hands gesturing, greenish-blue light flashing around their fingers. 

“Riothamus!” he shouted, kicking his horse to a gallop. 

The soliphages thrust out their hands, and a thunderclap rang out. Invisible force exploded among the charging horsemen, and a half-dozen riders tumbled through the air, ripped from their saddles by the magic. Mazael snarled a curse and urged his horse faster. 

Golden fire flashed in the corner of his eye, and he saw Riothamus gallop forward, the staff of the Guardian raised. The Guardian of the Tervingi could not harm or injure humans, but the soliphages were alien creatures of dark magic. He gestured, and a pillar of white mist swirled a half-dozen feet over the heads of the soliphages. The soliphages started to dodge, but it was too late. The mist hardened into a jagged shard of ice the size of a coffin, and it plunged down, crushing one of the soliphages beneath it with a horrid crunching noise. The remaining two soliphages cast spells at Riothamus, bolts of purple fire bursting from their claws, but Riothamus swept his staff before him. A shimmering dome of golden light enclosed both the Guardian and his horse, and the bolts shattered against it.

Mazael crashed into the soliphages, Talon in his fist. The nearest soliphage leapt at him, raking with her claws. Mazael twisted and caught the claws upon his shield, the crimson chitin rasping against the steel-banded wood. The soliphage retracted her claws, cat-quick, but the Demonsouled rage was upon Mazael now, and he attacked before she could recover. Talon’s curved blade bit into the soliphage’s side, black slime bubbling from the wound, and the soliphage reared back with a scream. Mazael ripped Talon free, and the soliphage attacked again, two of her giant spider-legs whipping for Mazael’s face like barbed clubs. 

He swept Talon before him, severing the legs. They struck his chest and bounced off the armor of golden dragon scales he wore, and the soliphage screamed again, stumbling as she lost her balance. Mazael seized the opening and swung Talon again, the blade crunching through her skull and sinking halfway into her head. The glow in her eyes sputtered and went out, and Mazael ripped his blade free and turned to face the final soliphage. 

The creature raced towards him, claws raised to tear out his throat, and then a slender pillar of darkness swirled behind her. The darkness hardened into Molly Cravenlock, her face wild with the same battle madness Mazael felt, her slender sword and dragon’s tooth dagger flashing in her hands. The soliphage staggered as Molly’s blades punched into her back, and Mazael finished off the creature with a final stab of Talon. 

The last soliphage slumped to the ground, and Mazael turned, seeking new foes.

But there were none to be had. 

With the soliphages slain, the horsemen charged into the Skuldari raiders. On foot, the Skuldari were overpowered and outnumbered, and the men of the Grim Marches rode through them like a storm. The battle turned into a rout and then a slaughter. None of the Skuldari would escape to fight again.

Mazael felt no regret about that.

If the Skuldari had wanted to live, then they should not have tried to make war upon his people and his lands. 

He let out a long breath, forcing back the Demonsouled rage, and looked down to see Molly still standing next to the dead soliphage. 

“You lost your horse,” said Mazael. 

“I didn’t lose him,” said Molly, rolling her shoulders again. “I know exactly where he is. He was just getting in the way.” She watched the horsemen ride down the Skuldari. “Looks like we’ve won.”

“This battle,” said Mazael. “There will be more.” 

An hour later it was over. Riothamus healed the wounded, and Romaria rejoined Mazael. Sir Tanam’s scouts began screening the way forward, seeking for more Skuldari warbands or sign of valgast raiders. The horsemen rode west to Weaver’s Pass, where the armies of the Grim Marches gathered for war. 

From there, they would march into Skuldar itself.

The Prophetess had started this war by suborning Earnachar of the Tervingi and rousing the Skuldari and the valgasts to march against the Grim Marches.

Mazael intended to end it. 

Chapter 2: Scavengers 

“How does a young man learn so much of war?” said Talchar One-Eye. 

For a moment Adalar Greatheart did not answer. 

Memories burned through his mind, dark and heavy with spilled blood. He had first learned the arts of the knight, swordplay and horsemanship and the lance, from his father. Then he had become the squire of Mazael Cravenlock, and he had seen war after war. Lord Mitor’s doomed rebellion against Richard Mandragon, ending with Mazael becoming the new Lord of Castle Cravenlock. The war against the Dominiars, and the great battle at Tumblestone that ended with the destruction of the Dominiar Order. Then a war greater than all the others, the war against the runedead of Lucan Mandragon. Countless towns and villages had been destroyed in the Great Rising, their people slain to rise as runedead. Once the hills of Mastaria had been well-populated, but now there were places where a man could ride for days without seeing another living soul.