Mask of Dragons (25 page)

He could not count on the injury slowing her down for long. 

Mazael half-ran, half-limped into the gallery of the catacombs, the light from Basjun’s torch flickering ahead. Both Basjun and Earnachar stood with weapons ready, while Crouch bared his teeth, his ears flattened against his head. 

“The battle has gone amiss?” said Earnachar. 

“Yes,” said Mazael. “Through the arch, all of you. Quickly!” 

“You had better not,” said Romaria, “be thinking of making some kind of useless last stand while we escape…”

“Of course not,” said Mazael. “I have something better. Go!” 

The others hurried through the arch and into the natural cavern. The cold wind from the darkness felt good against Mazael’s throbbing leg. He hobbled to the burial niche with the lever, returning Talon to its sheath as he did so. The lever glinted from the light of Basjun’s torch, and Mazael reached out and grasped it with both hands.

He took a few deep breaths, letting the Demonsouled rage blaze brighter as he did so, fighting the urge to rush up the stairs and charge howling into his enemies. 

Then he pulled the lever, the floor shivering beneath him as the ancient mechanism stirred to life once more. A rasping noise came from the arch overhead, and as it did, Mazael kept pulling the lever, his muscles straining with all his strength. 

The sound of tearing metal came to his ears, and the lever ripped free from its housing.

Mazael did not hesitate, but threw himself forward, hitting the ground and rolling. An instant later the portcullis slammed down behind him, so close that he felt the edge of one of the iron bars brush his forehead. Yet he had gotten on the other side of the portcullis, and hands closed about his arms as Romaria and Adalar pulled him back to his feet. 

“That,” said Romaria, “was risky.”

“Clever, though,” said Earnachar. “If we are pursued by foes, they will be unable to pass the barrier for some time.” He paused. “I assume we are being pursued by foes?”

“Yes,” said Mazael. “Let’s…” 

Light flickered in the gallery, and Rigoric came into sight.

He was still on fire. 

Flames flickered beneath his armor, and what Mazael could see of his flesh was charred and blackened. Yet the Mask of the Champion was intact, and the eyes visible beneath the mask were filled with rage. Rigoric looked at the portcullis and whirled towards the burial niche, reaching for the hidden lever with his left hand, his right hand still grasping the hilt of his greatsword. 

He froze when he found the lever missing. 

Mazael cleared his throat and raised the lever. Rigoric’s head snapped around to stare at him, and Mazael grinned and tossed the lever into the abyss to his right.

He didn’t hear it hit the bottom. 

Rigoric stepped forward and seized the bars of the portcullis, his arms straining. For a moment Mazael thought he would have the strength to lift the portcullis or bend the bars, but at last Rigoric stepped back, breathing hard.

“Tell the Prophetess,” said Mazael, “that we’ll be seeing her very soon.”

Rigoric glared at him.

Mazael gave the Champion a jaunty wave and headed down the narrow path into the vast cavern, the others following.

###

They did not stop fleeing until dawn.

Sigaldra followed Mazael and Basjun until the cavern opened onto a steep hillside north of Armalast, the mountains rising over them like storm clouds. The night was a blur of running and climbing and scrambling over rocky paths in the darkness. Once they recovered their packs and their supplies, they headed north. Romaria and Basjun scouted the path constantly, Romaria often taking the form of the great black wolf, which startled Basjun and terrified poor Crouch to no end. Yet it was necessary. If Basracus or the Prophetess had sent pursuers, Romaria and Basjun could find them. 

But no one seemed to be pursuing them.

At last, as a hazy, dim dawn rose to the east, Mazael called for a halt. They had reached a rocky hilltop with a good view in all directions, and to the south Sigaldra saw the distant bleak shapes of Armalast’s walls and towers. She sat down upon the ground, utterly exhausted, her legs aching. She had not been this tired since the Tervingi and the Jutai had made the dangerous passage over the Great Mountains to reach the Grim Marches. 

“Romaria?” said Mazael. He, at least, seemed tireless. Even that wound in his leg didn’t seem to trouble him. It must have been less serious than she had thought. 

Romaria shook her head. “As far as I can tell, no one has followed us.”

“Then no one is following us,” said Mazael.

Romaria frowned. “The soliphages and the Crimson Hunters are able to disguise themselves from me.”

“A dozen of them at once?” said Mazael. “No. They’re not pursuing us.” 

“Why not?” said Earnachar. 

“Perhaps we wounded the Prophetess, between Sigaldra’s arrow and Timothy’s fire,” said Adalar, “and it will take her time to recover.”

“Perhaps,” said Mazael, “but I doubt it will take her much time. No. She is not pursuing us because she doesn’t consider it as important as her ultimate goal, which appears to be summoning Marazadra to our world. She will leave with Liane at once.”

“How did you know?” said Sigaldra, her voice hoarse. 

“Know what?” said Mazael. 

“That this would go bad,” said Sigaldra. 

For a moment he looked almost…haunted, perhaps. Or disquieted. 

“It was something my father said, a long time ago,” said Mazael. Sigaldra found that surprising. From what she had heard, Mazael’s father had been a weak and ineffectual lord, nothing like his sole surviving son. “Anyway, a wise commander always leaves open an avenue for retreat. You can never tell when something will go wrong. Like today.” He shook his head. “The error is mine. It takes a great deal of magical power to summon one of those Crimson Hunters…”

“It does,” said Timothy. 

“I didn’t think the Prophetess would have strength enough to set one to guard her for hours at end,” said Mazael.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Sigaldra. “We’ve failed. The Prophetess will take Liane, and we shall never find either of them again.” 

“We’ve had a defeat, yes,” said Mazael, “but this isn’t finished yet.”

Sigaldra blinked. “Why not?”

“Because,” said Mazael, “we still know where the Prophetess is going.” 

Chapter 13: The Dragon’s Gate

Mazael looked at the others, gauging their mood. 

He had been in a lot of fights alongside a lot of men, and he knew how men (and women) reacted to battle. Most men did not respond to battle as Mazael did, filled with rage and anticipation and the insane desire for killing brought about by his Demonsouled blood. Romaria seemed unfazed by their fight in the citadel, perhaps even excited by it. Of course, like Mazael, she was not entirely human. 

Adalar and Sigaldra both looked tired. Adalar always did, but Sigaldra had pinned all her hopes on rescuing Liane from the citadel of Armalast. Timothy remained stoic as ever, but Earnachar and Basjun simply looked puzzled. 

“How do we know where the Prophetess is going?” said Sigaldra.

“You heard her talking with Basracus,” said Mazael. “She is going to the Dragon’s Gate and the Veiled Mountain.”

“Wherever that is,” said Sigaldra.

Basjun flinched. It was perhaps the most intense reaction Mazael had ever seen from the somber young man.

“The Veiled Mountain, sir?” said Basjun. “Are you certain the Prophetess said she was traveling to the Veiled Mountain?”

“Entirely,” said Mazael. “She and Basracus had a long argument about it, before she persuaded him to hand over the Horn of Doom and Fate.”

“The Prophetess will take the Horn of Doom and Fate to the Veiled Mountain?” said Basjun, still astonished. 

“So it would seem,” said Mazael. “Just what is the Veiled Mountain?”

“A mountain some miles north of here,” said Basjun.

“I gathered that, yes,” said Romaria. 

“The mountain…has an evil reputation,” said Basjun. Mazael wondered if the mountain contained the Heart of the Spider, the altar that Marazadra had shown him in the strange dream. “A very evil reputation. Anyone who goes there never returns. It is…”

“Sacred to the worshippers of Marazadra?” said Mazael, hazarding a guess.

“Not at all,” said Basjun. “They declare it to be cursed.”

Mazael hadn’t expected that. “Why?”

“According to the ancient tales, a dragon of great age and power resides in the caverns of the mountain,” said Basjun.

“Dragons!” said Sigaldra. “There are no such creatures.”

“There are,” said Earnachar. “In ancient days, the high lords of Old Dracaryl commanded dragons with their black magic.” Mazael knew firsthand the truth of that. “And in my youth, a dragon attacked some of the villages in the homeland of the Tervingi. Ragnachar drove off the beast. He slew it not, but he did wound it sorely and force the creature to flee. I, Earnachar son of Balnachar, saw this with my own eyes, and in the ancient sagas of mighty Tervingar, he slew many dragons that…”

“Dragons,” scoffed Sigaldra.

“He’s right for once,” said Mazael, before Sigaldra could share her precise opinion of Tervingar and start another quarrel. “I killed a dragon in the Red Valley of the Great Mountains, outside the walls of Arylkrad.”

“I was there, if you do not believe him,” said Romaria.

“Lord Richard Mandragon slew two dragons as a young man when they came out of the mountains to attack the Grim Marches,” said Mazael. “The armor I wore in the Grim Marches was made from the scales of the dragon I killed in the Great Mountains.” He tapped Talon’s hilt. “So was this sword.” He rolled his shoulders, wincing at the remaining pain in his leg. “I wish I had that armor with me. It would have helped soak up some of the heat in the citadel.” 

“Very well,” said Sigaldra, though her expression remained dubious. 

“This dragon,” said Mazael. “What do the tales say about it?”

Basjun shrugged. “Contradictory things, as such tales do. They say the dragon is thousands of years old, and has dwelled in the mountain since before Skuldari settled here. The dragon loves treasures and baubles, and keeps a great hoard of rare jewels and relics in his caverns. Anyone who enters the dragon’s caves is killed, or the dragon might let them go if the intruders answer a riddle. I do not know whether any of that is true. I do know that the mountain is much warmer than the rest of Skuldar. No snow crowns its cap, and it is forever wreathed in mist and steam.” 

“Because the dragon’s fire?” said Adalar, blinking.

“Perhaps,” said Basjun.

“Or it is a mountain of fire, like the ones we saw in Red Valley,” said Romaria. “One that vomits forth lava.” 

“Whatever the reason,” said Basjun, “from time to time bold men venture into the caverns in search of the dragon’s treasure. They never return.”

“The dragon eats them?” said Sigaldra, half-dubious.

“Maybe,” said Basjun. “Or the salamanders burn them.”

“Salamanders?” said Mazael. The term stirred a half-forgotten memory of some old Tervingi song or another, something that…

“Mighty Tervingar,” said Earnachar at once, “in the depths of time, faced and overcame salamanders. They are great lizards the size of horses, armored in black scales and covered in blotches the color of gold. They set themselves on fire, and use that fire to slay their foes.”

“There are salamanders near the Veiled Mountain, and sometimes they venture into the Dragon’s Gate,” said Basjun. 

“Just what is the Dragon’s Gate?” said Mazael. “I’ve been assuming it is a mountain pass.”

“It is, albeit one both narrow and treacherous,” said Basjun. “Only travelers in need of great haste use it, and even the priestesses and priests of Marazadra will only use it under the direst circumstances.”

“It seems,” said Romaria, “the salamanders do not respect the sanctity of Marazadra’s servants.”

Basjun missed the joke. “They do not.” 

Mazael grunted. “So the caverns beneath the Veiled Mountain apparently hold the gathered treasure of an ancient dragon. Exactly the sort of place one might expect to find an ancient relic like the Mask of Marazadra.” 

“Did the Prophetess say what this Mask was?” said Earnachar.

“Unfortunately not,” said Mazael. “It has to be a magical relic of some power. Else she would not undertake such risks to claim it. Her journey to the Grim Marches was to claim something of power – Sigaldra’s sister.”

And some of Mazael’s blood, secured within the blade of a Dark Elderborn maethweisyr, but none of the others except for Romaria knew that. 

“She went to Armalast to claim the Horn of Doom and Fate,” said Adalar. “Perhaps she will take it to the Veiled Mountain and summon the dead to fight for her.”

“There cannot be that many dead treasure hunters within the Veiled Mountain,” said Mazael. “If she truly wanted to raise an army of the undead, she ought to visit one of the battlefields in the Grim Marches. Or the field outside of Tumblestone. And even then, that will be as a child’s effort compared to the Great Rising. No, she must need the Horn for something else, for the same reason she needs Liane and the Mask of Marazadra. She seems to think she is summoning Marazadra back to this world, and she needs the Mask to do it.” 

“Is that even possible?” said Romaria. “Skaloban thought he was summoning Sepharivaim at Mount Tynagis, but he was only Malavost’s tool. Perhaps someone else is using the Prophetess.”

“Maybe,” said Mazael. “Or maybe the Prophetess is simply mad.”

“She is,” said Sigaldra. “You heard that speech she gave to Basracus. I do not think that was a lie. She really believed what she was saying. She really thinks she will lead mankind to a new era of virtue.”

“Grand Master Caldarus thought that, once,” said Adalar, “and it did not end well for him.” 

“No,” said Mazael. “The world is what it is, and so is mankind. Trying to remake either leads only to disaster…and we wander afield. We must decide what we are going to do next.” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Sigaldra. “We can’t take the Prophetess by ourselves. We…we have to go back to the Grim Marches and get help. The Guardian, surely, and perhaps Lady Molly and the others. Perhaps then we can overcome the Prophetess.”