Mask of Dragons (8 page)

Mazael shrugged. “They would have known anyway. It’s hard to hide twenty thousand men, especially when there’s only one way to move that many men into Skuldar. They’ll know we are coming, but they’ll be hard-pressed to hide themselves from us.” 

“Griffins are useful that way,” said Romaria with a dry note in her voice. “The trap with the pavilions was clever of Adalar.”

“It was,” said Mazael, wondering where she was going with that line of conversation. 

“Sigaldra certainly seemed to think so,” said Romaria, “though Adalar might not have realized it, given how Sigaldra followed you around like a puppy waiting for a treat.” 

Ah. That was it. 

There was mockery in her tone, but he knew her well enough to see the fear there. Romaria was not a jealous woman, but her fear wasn’t completely unfounded, was it? Mazael had been with a lot of women before Romaria. Given how many women had let him know, subtly or not so subtly, that they would have been pleased to be the mistress of the liege lord of the Grim Marches, it wouldn’t have even taken that much effort on his part. 

But he couldn’t do that to Romaria. They had been through too much together. They had suffered too much for each other. 

“Sigaldra,” said Mazael, “is not the sort of puppy a sensible man would pet. He’s liable to get bitten.” 

“Mmm.” She stepped closer to him, her eyes flashing. “Unless a man enjoys getting bitten.” 

“Well,” said Mazael, his hands sliding down her sides, “what does a man need with a puppy when he has a wolf?” 

“A wolf?” said Romaria, her voice soft. “What would you do with a wolf, my lord Mazael?” 

In answer he pulled off her coat of leather armor and the padded tunic she wore beneath it, leaving her naked above the waist.

“What do you think?” said Mazael, reaching for her belt. 

“You would rather have a wolf?” said Romaria. Her voice had gone soft, her breath coming faster. “Prove it.” 

He had gotten her trousers to the middle of her thighs when she surged forward, her arms coiling around him, her mouth pressed hard against his. A moment later they had discarded the last of their clothing, and were on the ground together. Vaguely Mazael tried to remember if he had closed the tent’s flap all the way, and then decided that he didn’t care. 

More important matters were at hand. His Demonsouled blood gave him a lust for blood and violence, but it gave him other appetites as well. Romaria understood, perhaps in a way no other woman could. He wasn’t entirely human…but neither was she. She had told him once that she liked strong men, that she was drawn to men capable of violence and battle. It came from the power in the Elderborn half of her soul, the same power that had once threatened to consume her. 

It was just as well that they were married. 

Then Mazael did not think about anything at all for quite some time. 

Much later Mazael lay upon his back, catching his breath. Romaria lay curled against him, her head pillowed upon his chest, one leg thrown over him. 

“They regret,” murmured Romaria.

“What?” said Mazael, surprised.

Romaria laughed. “No, no. My head’s still spinning. What I meant to say is that most lords leave their wives behind when they go to war. How they must regret it.”

“They do it to protect their wives,” said Mazael. “Most women cannot fight as you do, or use the Sight…or turn into giant wolves to savage their foes.” 

“No, I suppose not,” said Romaria. She pressed tighter against him. “I love you, Mazael.” 

“I love you, Romaria,” said Mazael. “And I would have no other.”

He felt her smile against his chest. “Truly? Not even blond little Sigaldra?” 

“Not even Sigaldra,” said Mazael, “though it might be worth it just to watch Earnachar sputter.” 

He wasn’t sure if she would take offense at that or not, but she laughed long and loud. “It would be amusing. But it’s just as well. I think she’s going to fall for Adalar.” 

“Adalar?” said Mazael. 

“Haven’t you noticed?” said Romaria. “I thought it was obvious.” 

“I suppose it’s what young men and young women do when you put them together,” said Mazael. 

“They both lost everything,” said Romaria. “So they understand each other in a way that most people do not. Just like you and me.” She yawned, stretched, and then settled against him. “Just watch.” 

“If they don’t get themselves killed,” said Mazael, closing his eyes.

“What do you mean?” said Romaria.

“Adalar and Sigaldra remind me of you when we first met,” said Mazael. 

He felt her lift her head in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“They’re looking for death, both of them,” said Mazael. 

“I wasn’t looking for death,” said Romaria. “I wanted to see as much as the world as I could before…the transformation became final. Then I met you, and…”

Mazael remembered the flare of fire in the Old Demon’s hand, Romaria falling dead to the floor of Castle Cravenlock’s chapel. 

“Aye,” he said at last. 

“So maybe I was looking for death,” said Romaria. “It’s damnably annoying when you’re right.” 

“I’ve made so many mistakes that I ought to enjoy being right when it does happen,” said Mazael. “But I fear I’m right about this. Liane’s the only family Sigaldra has left, and she’ll rip apart the world to get her back. Adalar’s seen too much war and death, and he doesn’t care if he lives or dies. I’ve seen it before.”

“Well, then,” said Romaria. “We’ll just have to make sure they both live.” 

If they could. If Mazael could unravel the Prophetess’s plan in time.

He drifted off to sleep.

###

The dream exploded through Mazael’s mind like a thunderbolt. 

He had suffered through such dreams before. The Old Demon had tried to corrupt him through dreams. When Romaria had been caught between life and death, locked in the form of the wolf, she had also appeared in his dreams. A creature claiming to be the goddess Marazadra had appeared in Mazael’s feverish dreams while he fought off the influence of the Prophetess’s heart spider. Mazael had come to suspect that such dreams, dark visions where creatures sometimes spoke in his thoughts, were simply another part of the curse of his Demonsouled blood. 

So he was not caught off guard when another such dream unfolded in his mind. 

The sky overhead boiled and churned, bands of black cloud swirling, bolts of crimson lightning jumping from bank to bank. Mazael turned, gritty stone rasping beneath his boot heels. He was standing atop a mountain, the air cold and dry and harsh, a bitter wind blowing past him and tugging at his clothes. In all directions he saw a range of grim gray mountains, a wide valley opening up far below.

He turned again, and saw the ruined temple rising over him.

The temple filled the mountain’s top, a structure unlike any Mazael had ever seen. He had seen a great many different kinds of ruins – the ruined High Elderborn temple atop Mount Tynagis, graceful and elegant despite the passage of time, or Arylkrad looming over the Red Valley in the Great Mountains, stern and cold and threatening, or any number of deserted keeps and villages that had fallen prey to the endless wars of the last ten years.

This place, though, was different from all of them. 

The stones were massive and rough-hewn, and looked for all the world as if they had been carved and piled by the hands of giants. Mazael strode into what had once been a vast nave. The roof had collapsed long ago, piles of broken stone standing here and there, but the megalithic pillars still rose up, as did the thick walls. Crimson lightning flashed across the writhing sky, and in that light Mazael saw that carvings and reliefs covered the pillars and the walls, the same image over and over again. 

Spiders, endless spiders. 

Some of the spiders had the head of a woman, while others had the body of a human woman with a giant spider for a head. One of the carvings showed the spider-headed woman devouring human victims, while others showed humans bowing and offering sacrifices up to the giant spider. He had seen similar scenes in the hidden temples of the San-keth, though of course those carvings had shown the serpent people conquering the world. 

He wondered if the soliphages and the San-keth had warred in the distant ages of the world.

Mazael kept walking. He looked down and saw Talon in his hand, the curved blade flickering with golden light. Having the sword in hand seemed like a good idea, so he raised the blade to guard position and kept walking, watching the looming ruins for any sign of enemies.

Yet they remained silent, and nothing moved save for the clouds and the lightning overhead. 

The nave of stone ended, and Mazael stepped into a vast circular courtyard. It had to be at least a mile across, and a wall of massive stone blocks encircled the entire thing. In the center of the courtyard rose a hill, its sides dotted with more spider-carved menhirs. Stone ramps circled the hill, making their way to its crest. Atop the hill rested a massive altar of rough stone, and above the altar there was…

Mazael frowned. 

He couldn’t quite make out the flickering thing atop the altar. 

At first he thought it was similar to the mistgates that Corvad’s Malrag warlocks had conjured before the Great Rising. Yet it looked too violent for that. It was like a curtain of gray mist ripped and torn by flickering fingers of violent lightning, snapping and ripping. It should have made a tremendous noise, but it was silent, utterly silent. 

Mazael had no idea what it was.

He turned in a slow circle, examining the rest of the vast courtyard. Looking at the flickering rift atop the altar made his head hurt. He saw the entrances to other naves opening off in the massive wall, maybe five or six of them…

No. Eight naves opened into the courtyard. Like the legs of a colossal stone spider. 

Which would make the thing atop the altar…

“The Heart of the Goddess,” said a woman’s voice, quiet and confident.  

Mazael whirled, Talon coming up to strike.

A woman in a black robe stood a dozen paces away, its folds stirring a little in the wind coming from the rift atop the mound. She reached up to draw back her cowl, revealing a pale face with wide green eyes and red hair that hung lose around her temples and neck. It was a remarkably lovely face, but there was an alien cast to the expression, as if something was wearing the face the way that Rigoric had worn his mask of swords. 

The harsh red glare glimmering in the depths of those green eyes only reinforced that impression. 

“Or the Heart of the Spider,” said the creature wearing the guise of the Prophetess, tilting her head to one side as she regarded him. “It depends upon whom you ask, of course, as it so often does.” 

“You’re not the Prophetess,” said Mazael. 

She smiled a lovely red smile that made Mazael think of hungry predators. “What a bright young man you are. You remind me of your father. Which is, of course, both a compliment and an insult.” 

“Marazadra,” said Mazael. 

“Ah,” said Marazadra. “You should be careful with that name. Some of my servants would cut you down for blasphemy should you dare to utter it.” She spoke as the Prophetess did, with a lyrical Travian accent, her voice musical. 

“If they try it,” said Mazael, “you shall soon have fewer servants.”

Marazadra laughed. “Yes. Very much like your father.” She considered Mazael for a moment. “Do you understand what is happening?”

“This is a dream,” said Mazael. 

“Obvious, but true enough,” said Marazadra. 

“Though I wonder why you are bothering,” said Mazael. “You know I won’t agree to serve you or side with you.”

She smiled. “Anyone can be persuaded, if given enough time.”

“The Old Demon himself spent most of my life trying to persuade me, and he failed,” said Mazael. “What makes you think you will have any greater success?” 

Marazadra’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the Old Demon, and for a moment the silent rift atop the altar seemed to flash and writhe with greater violence. “Because the Old Demon is dead,” hissed Marazadra, “and I am not.” 

“Given that I killed him,” said Mazael, “perhaps you should not make threats lightly.” 

Marazadra seemed to collect herself, her face settling back into its cool mask. “Who said this is a threat, child of the Old Demon?” 

“If this isn’t a persuasion, and it isn’t a threat,” said Mazael, “then what is this? If you’re trying to seduce me, you should know that I’m married…”

“An accident,” said Marazadra. 

“An accident?” said Mazael. That had happened once before, when the gathered power in Cythraul Urdvul had drawn Mazael’s dreaming mind there. The Old Demon had been annoyed by the intrusion, but otherwise indifferent to it. His father had been so certain of success that he hadn’t viewed Mazael as a threat any longer. 

Perhaps Marazadra would make a similar mistake. 

“My herald attempted to give you my gift,” said Marazadra. “Unfortunately, you proved more resistant than even I anticipated. You rejected my gift and silenced my voice.”

“I cut the heart spider out of my chest,” said Mazael.

“I expect it made quite the mess,” said Marazadra. “But the blessing of my venom remains in your blood. Consequently, you can hear my voice, even if you would rather not.”

“And you get another chance to persuade me,” said Mazael. 

“Precisely,” said Marazadra. “You will see the wisdom of following me soon enough, Mazael Cravenlock. Or else you shall die.”

Mazael stared at her, the flashes of purple light from the altar throwing crazed shadows across the courtyard. His first impulse was to threaten her, or to tell her just what she could do with her offer of persuasion. As a younger man he would have done exactly that. 

Yet he knew that she was his ultimate enemy. The Prophetess and Rigoric, the Skuldari and the valgasts, the soliphages and Basracus…they were just her tools, just as Lucan and Corvad and Ragnachar and the others had been the Old Demon’s tools. If Mazael was to defeat her, he needed to know what she planned to do. 

“All right,” said Mazael, meeting those red-lit eyes. “Persuade me. Why should I follow you?”