Date: 2016-10-09 07:00:00+00:00
Description: Mazael Cravenlock is the last of the Demonsouled, and defeated a great dark power to save the world. But with that dark power dead, a new one rushes to takes its place, led by the sinister Prophetess of Marazadra. And unless Mazael stops her, the Prophetess will use the Mask of Marazadra to summon her wicked goddess, plunging the world into darkness...
Publisher: Createspace

MASK OF SPELLS

Jonathan Moeller

Description

Mazael Cravenlock is the last of the Demonsouled, and defeated a great dark power to save the world.

But with that dark power dead, a new one rushes to takes its place, led by the sinister Prophetess of Marazadra.

And unless Mazael stops her, the Prophetess will use the Mask of Marazadra to summon her wicked goddess, plunging the world into darkness...

Mask of Spells

Copyright 2016 by Jonathan Moeller.

Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.

Ebook edition published October 2016.

All Rights Reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

Author's Note

MASK OF SPELLS has many characters and locations. At the request of numerous readers, I have added a Glossary of Characters and a Glossary of Locations to the end of the book, providing a short, spoiler-free description of all the characters (living and dead) and locations mentioned in the book. Both Glossaries will appear in the Table of Contents, and should you need to consult them, you can use your ereader's Table of Contents function to quickly check one of the Glossaries and then return to your previous place in the book.

A map of the book's setting is available on the author's website at this link.

Chapter 1: Needle Teeth

Mazael Cravenlock strode north on the mountain path, his sword in his right hand and battle on his mind.

He suspected he would find battle soon enough.

“Yes,” murmured his wife. “Yes, I can smell them.”

Romaria Greenshield Cravenlock stood a few yards behind Mazael, her Elderborn bow in hand, her green cloak stirring in the cold wind coming down from the mountains, her eyes a little too blue and her face a little too angular to be completely human.

After Romaria came the others in Mazael’s little band. Earnachar son of Balnachar, a headman of the Tervingi nation, scowled at everything in sight, sweat gleaming on his bald head. Adalar Greatheart followed him, young and rangy and grim in his chain mail, the hilt of his Dark Elderborn sword rising over his shoulder. Sigaldra, as ever, remained close to him, her ragged blond hair stirring in the wind. Then came black-bearded Basjun, sober and stoic, and his ugly hound Crouch, the dog’s fangs bared as he sniffed the wind. Last of all came Timothy, a sheathed Dark Elderborn dagger in his hand as his long black wizard’s coat blew around him.

That dagger was the key.

So long as they had that Dark Elderborn maethweisyr, the woman who called herself the Prophetess could run, but she could never hide. Celina du Almaine could run to the ends of the earth, to the isles of the Aegonar in the western sea or the distant realms of the eastern princes beyond the middle lands, but so long as Mazael had that dagger marked with her blood, she would never, ever escape him.

Timothy thought that they were barely a day behind the Prophetess and her Champion. The Prophetess was taking Liane to the Heart of the Goddess, wherever that was. The Prophetess was alone, save for the Champion and her captive, and if Mazael and the others hastened, they might be able to overtake her.

Unless, of course, something killed Mazael and his followers first.

“What can you smell, my lady?” said Adalar.

“Us, most likely,” said Earnachar. “There has not been time for a bath since Armalast, and I sweated quite a lot in the caverns of the Veiled Mountain.”

“Did not mighty Tervingar do without baths during his daring deeds?” said Sigaldra. Her voice held some of its usual asperity, but not as much as before. Surviving the soliphages and Armalast and the Veiled Mountain had drained away some of her disdain for Earnachar, though Mazael doubted she would ever be friendly with the man.

Just as he had come to doubt that the Jutai would ever be friendly with the Tervingi.

“Mighty Tervingar in days of old ignored both hardship and want,” said Earnachar with his customary bombast, “and overcame the lords of the Dark Elderborn to lead the Tervingi nation to…”

“Quiet, both of you,” said Mazael. “Romaria.”

“Valgasts,” said Romaria, closing her eyes and lifting her face to the wind again. “Lots and lots of valgasts.”

Mazael smelled nothing. That didn’t matter. His Demonsouled blood, the blood of the Old Demon, made him stronger and faster and tougher than most men at the cost of an insane rage he struggled to control. Romaria’s mother had been of the Elderborn tribes of the Great Southern Forest, and that gave his wife powers of scent and sight and hearing far sharper than normal.

Even when she was in her human form.

“How many?” said Mazael.

“I’m not sure,” said Romaria. She wrinkled her nose and gave a sharp shake of her head. “A lot of them. Gods of the Elderborn! The damned things stink.”

“Of old the valgasts raided upon the surface on the days of midsummer and midwinter,” said Earnachar.

“We know that,” said Sigaldra. “It does not matter. The valgasts are no longer bound by their old laws. They can come to the surface as they please.”

“My point,” said Earnachar, “is that the valgasts came to the surface in search of slaves and human flesh to consume. Likely they are doing the same now. We would do well to avoid them.”

“Can we fight our way through them?” said Mazael.

“I doubt it,” said Romaria. “I think there are at least a couple hundred. And there’s something else…a fire, I think? Something burned nearby recently.”

“Burned?” said Mazael. “What is here to burn?”

Their path had led them through narrow mountain valleys over rocky passes, across cold and desolate lands where little grew. Basjun had a good knowledge of the paths and trails thanks to his father’s lucrative business as a smuggler, but his knowledge grew patchier as they headed farther north. Most of the people of Skuldar lived in the valleys and pastures of the southern mountains. The northern mountains were the haunts of soliphages and other creatures.

“I don’t know,” said Romaria. “I better have a look around.” She smelled the air again. “Keep moving along the path. I will catch up to you in a few moments.”

“Should we not wait for you to return, Lady Romaria?” said Timothy.

“No,” said Mazael. “She can find us. And we don’t want to stay here if there are valgasts nearby.” He looked at Romaria. “Go and learn what you can.”

She nodded, stepped forward, and changed. Her body seemed to melt and reform itself, her limbs lengthening, her torso thickening, and she dropped to all fours. When the transformation finished, Romaria had become a great black wolf with eyes the color of blue ice. She loped forward with terrific speed, her paws making no sound against the rocky path, and vanished around a boulder.

“No matter how many times I see that,” said Earnachar, “I shall never get used to it.”

“Oh, I’ve seen scarier things than that,” said Mazael. He grinned at Earnachar. “Let’s find some more, shall we?”

Earnachar scowled, and Sigaldra laughed, and Mazael led the way forward.

The path wound its way along the edge of a boulder-strewn valley, stubby little pine trees jutting from the rocky soil here and there. A white-foaming stream rushed through the valley. Mazael supposed they were far enough west that the stream flowed towards the Krago Hills rather than the Grim Marches. The valley was an inhospitable place, and if Mazael looked south, he still saw the broken shape of the Veiled Mountain jutting through the gloom of the clouds.

He supposed the valley was inhospitable because the dragon Azurvaltoria had dwelt within the Veiled Mountain for centuries. Likely she was dead now, killed by the Prophetess’s magic during the confrontation in her treasure vault. The dragon had played a game with Mazael and the Prophetess, bringing them together for a duel in the caverns below the mountain…but the Prophetess had proven stronger than the dragon had expected.

Mazael had underestimated her once before, too. But he would not make that mistake once more. She had brought war to his lands, and plotted to unleash an ancient horror upon the world.

The next time he caught up with her, she would not escape.

Mazael kept walking, his sword Talon ready in his right hand.

###

Sigaldra followed Mazael and the others, her fingers tight against the curve of her short bow. The path was steep, and her legs ached from the effort of so much walking over the last few weeks, but she did not care. Instead, she felt…

Sigaldra, the last holdmistress of the Jutai and the daughter of Theodoric, the last hrould of the Jutai, was not sure how she felt.

For a long time, she had fought to defend her people against overwhelming odds, first against the Malrags, and then against Ragnachar, followed soon after by Lucan Mandragon and his hordes of runedead. When the Prophetess had taken Liane, Sigaldra had pursued, but along the way, she had fallen into utter despair. She had fought without hope for a long, long time, and at last, it had overwhelmed her.

And now…

A strange emotion burned within her, and it had been so long since she had experienced it that it took some time to identify.

Hope. It was hope.

It was strange that she should feel it within the spider-haunted mountains of Skuldar, but she did nonetheless. After they had escaped from the dragon’s treasure vault, Mazael had produced that Dark Elderborn dagger wet with the Prophetess’s blood, and Timothy announced they could follow the Prophetess anywhere…and Sigaldra knew hope hotter and fiercer than any she had experienced for years. For a moment she dared to dream of what would happen if they were victorious, if they defeated the Prophetess and reclaimed Liane.

As she dreamed, her eyes strayed to Adalar.

He had saved her life in the depths of the Veiled Mountain, drinking the poisoned elixir of Azurvaltoria’s traps. He had followed her from the Grim Marches to rescue Liane. At the time, Sigaldra had been grateful, but her mind had been too filled with rage and grief to consider what a risk Adalar had taken. Now, after they had escaped from the soliphages and dared the dangers of the Veiled Mountain, she understood far better.

He had risked so much to help her and asked for nothing in return.

In turn, she had saved him inside the Veiled Mountain, drinking the healing elixir, holding it in her mouth, and forcing it past his lips before the poison killed him. As she had done that, her mouth had lingered upon his for a moment, and now she found herself wondering what that would feel like in less desperate circumstances.

Gods and ancestors! She was the last holdmistress of the Jutai, and she found herself daydreaming like a girl.

Yet she didn’t care in the least.

Ridiculous. She smiled nonetheless.

“You’re smiling,” said Adalar.

His voice was quiet. He almost always spoke quietly, save to shout commands or challenges in battle.

“I suppose I am,” said Sigaldra.

“Is everything all right?” said Adalar. He hesitated. “Aside from the obvious, anyway.”

“I do not smile that infrequently,” said Sigaldra.

“No,” said Earnachar from where he walked behind Mazael.

“No,” said Adalar.

“No,” said Basjun, Crouch trotting at his side.

Timothy hesitated. “It’s not my place to say, my lady.”

“You do have cause to be grave,” said Adalar.

“We’re going to do this,” said Sigaldra. “We’re going to find Liane and stop the Prophetess.”

Earnachar glanced back at her, a puzzled frown on his blunt features. “What?”

“She can’t escape us,” said Sigaldra. “Not now. Not with the dagger. She won’t escape with Liane, and she won’t escape for her crimes against the Jutai nation.” A sudden surge of generous impulse went through her. “Or for her crimes against you.”

Earnachar blinked six times before he spoke again.

“Witcher,” he said to Timothy. “You should cast a spell of discerning at her. Clearly, she has been replaced by some sort of fell creature that has taken her shape and seeks to lure us to our destruction with honeyed words.”

“I assure you, lord headman,” said Timothy, “she is quite human.”

“We escaped from the dragon’s lair, and now our foe cannot escape us,” said Sigaldra. “If that is not cause for hope, then nothing is.”

She was going to find Liane again. She knew it in her bones.

“Did you take a blow to the head?” said Earnachar, puzzled. “This optimism is…surprising.”

“We’re still alive, aren’t we?” said Sigaldra.

Earnachar started to answer, and then Mazael glanced back at them.

“For gods’ sake, all of you, shut up,” said Mazael. “You can quarrel when we’re not surrounded by murderous valgasts.”

Earnachar scowled, and Sigaldra gave him a sunny smile. “That is sound counsel, lord hrould.”

“Mmm,” said Mazael. He gave an irritated shake of his bearded head, gray eyes glinting like sword blades. “We’ll stop here for a moment. Adalar, Timothy, with me. I want to try something.”

###

Adalar stepped to Lord Mazael’s side, rolling his shoulders as he did.

He missed the familiar weight of his greatsword in its sheath against his back. The fight against Azurvaltoria’s pet salamanders had weakened the weapon, and it had finally shattered against the razor-edged legs of a Crimson Hunter. In desperation, he had snatched up a Dark Elderborn sword from the dragon’s treasure hoard. The balance and weight of the weapon were different than his old sword, but he had used weapons like it before, and the blade possessed magical power. Neither Timothy with his spells nor Romaria with her Sight had been able to work out just what the sword’s powers could do, save that they would not harm Adalar. Timothy had guessed that the sword absorbed the power of any magical creature it touched, redirecting that power against the bearer’s enemies.

The sword was light and sharp. That was all that Adalar cared about in a sword.

He glanced in Sigaldra’s direction for a moment. Her blond hair was still short and ragged from when it had been caught in the soliphage’s web, and it stirred a little in the cold breeze coming down from the mountains. Her eyes were cold and blue and large in her pale, sharp-featured face, and a frown creased her features as she watched the boulder-strewn valley for enemies.

She was beautiful.

Adalar had always thought that, from the moment they had met in the chapel of Greatheart Keep. At the time, he had thought it a brittle, frozen beauty, like a flower wrapped in killing frost. The losses and the hardships Sigaldra had suffered had made her grim and joyless, and that had intensified after the madwoman calling herself the Prophetess had taken Liane.

Now it was like the frost around her had cracked.

Or maybe it was Adalar himself who had changed.

He had seen too much death during the Great Rising, and it had sunk into his bones like salt into the earth. He had come back to the Grim Marches intending to bury his father before returning to Castle Dominus in its ruined, near-empty lands.

Instead, he had promised to help Sigaldra, and here they were.

He had not forgotten the terrible things he had seen, and they mattered no less to him…but now he found himself thinking about Sigaldra and the Jutai more than the horrors he had seen.

Adalar had allowed himself to hope once more.

Of course, all the hope in the world wouldn’t stop them from being eaten by valgasts, so he shoved all the emotion out of his mind and followed Mazael and Timothy.

They stopped at the edge of the path, looking into the valley. It widened here, and Adalar saw patches of scrubby pine forest here and there among the boulders.

“She went this way, my lord,” said Timothy. “I am utterly certain of it.”

“Your spell to sense the presence of foes,” said Mazael. “Can you cast it there?” He pointed further down the path. It dipped into the valley proper, winding past one of those patches of pine forest.

Adalar had been in enough battles to realize that was a perfect spot for an ambush.

“Of course,” said Timothy, tucking the sheathed maethweisyr into his coat. He drew out a piece of quartz crystal wrapped in copper wire and cast a spell, gesturing with it as his eyelids fluttered.

Then his eyes opened wide.

“There are a dozen valgasts concealed within those trees, my lord,” said Timothy. “Maybe more.”

“Think they can see us?” said Mazael.

“Not from here,” said Adalar, considering the angles.

“No,” said Mazael. “More likely they can smell us. Romaria said they can smell blood a mile off.”

“The Tervingi said similar things,” said Adalar. “No doubt if we asked Earnachar, he would recite a Tervingi hymn about how mighty Tervingar faced the valgasts in days of old.”

Mazael glanced at him in surprise. Adalar supposed that he did not make jokes very often.

“Truly,” said Earnachar. “Once we camp, I can tell you how mighty Tervingar and his companions faced a dozen warlords of the valgasts in…"

“But if we continue along this path,” said Adalar before Earnachar could get going, “they will see us.”

Mazael nodded, still staring at the trees. “I’ve seen you use fire spells often, Timothy. Can you work something smaller?”

Timothy shrugged. “I can. My control over fire magic is not…precise, let us say. I can either conjure a lot of fire slowly or several smaller flames more quickly.”

“Excellent,” said Mazael, turning from the path. “Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?” said Adalar.

“We,” said Mazael, “are going to flush out some valgasts.”

###

Mazael moved from boulder to boulder, keeping low, his hand resting on Talon’s hilt. He wanted to draw the sword, but the occasional flicker of golden fire from the dark blade might draw unwelcome attention. The others followed him, weapons in hand – Sigaldra with her bow, Basjun with his axe and his ugly dog, Earnachar with his mace, Adalar with his Dark Elderborn sword, and Timothy with his spells.

Romaria still hadn’t returned. Mazael wasn’t worried about her, not exactly. Of everyone in the group, she was probably the single most dangerous one save for himself, and if a group of valgasts found her it would not go well for them.

Still, he was afraid for her. He always was afraid for her. He had seen her die once before, and he had no wish to repeat the experience.

Fortunately, there were foes at hand upon whom he could take out his fears.

He lifted his hand, and the others stopped.

“The western side of the trees,” said Mazael, pointing at the pines. “Timothy. Start the fire there. The wind should be right for what I want.”

Timothy nodded, took a deep breath, and cast a spell. Fire crackled around his fingers as he gestured. Earnachar gave the wizard an uneasy look and stepped back. Timothy shaped the fire into a wobbling sphere the size of Mazael’s fist, and then flung it.

The sphere soared through the air and landed on the ground amidst the pine trees. It erupted in a wash of flame two or three yards across, leaving burning pine needles in its wake. The fire spread up the trunk of the nearest pine tree, the sap catching flame. Timothy flung another sphere of fire, and another, his face tight with concentration. By the third sphere, a good-sized blaze was burning in the trees. By the sixth sphere, the entire thicket was in danger of going up in flames.

“That should be good enough,” said Mazael. “We need only…”

Right then the first valgast erupted from the trees, sprinting from the flames.

The creature stood only four feet tall, its limbs spindly, its ribs visible beneath its mottled green-and-yellow hide. Its ears were enormous, as large as Mazael’s hands, and its eyes were huge and black and unblinking. Needle-like teeth rose from its jutting jaw. It wore a peculiar armored shirt fashioned from plates of bone, and in its left hand, it carried a short sword fashioned from the same kind of strange bone. The creature’s nostrils flared as it ran, and it was coughing, trying to expel the smoke from its lungs.

A half-dozen more valgasts stumbled from the burning trees, all of them carrying short swords and blowguns.

“Now!” shouted Mazael, drawing Talon and running forward.

The others charged while Sigaldra stepped back, setting an arrow to her bowstring. The valgasts recovered from their shock and turned to defend themselves, letting out their rasping, gurgling battle cries. One of the valgasts lifted a blowgun to its fanged mouth and blew, and Mazael ducked. The dart clipped his shoulder and tumbled to the ground, the poisoned tip deflected by his armor. One of Sigaldra’s arrows pierced the valgast’s left forearm, and the creature stumbled. Before it recovered, Mazael attacked. Talon’s dark blade swept through the valgast’s skinny neck, and the creature collapsed in a heap to the ground.

He turned, cutting down another valgast. Adalar’s Dark Elderborn sword seemed to flicker in his hand as he swung and slashed. Earnachar brought his mace down onto a valgast’s head with a loud crunch. Basjun buried his axe blade in a valgast’s neck, and next to him Crouch snarled and snapped. The valgasts were frightened of the big dog and shied away from his approach. A valgast turned on Mazael, and he heard Timothy shout a spell. The valgast stumbled as invisible force struck it, and Mazael seized the moment of distraction to cut down the creature.

More valgasts stumbled from the burning woods, only to run right into the battle. Sigaldra loosed another arrow, and a valgast stumbled as the shaft pierced its stomach. Mazael killed down the valgast before it could recover. The Demonsouled rage thrummed through him, making him faster and stronger than he ought to have been, demanding that he kill until his sword ran red with blood and his arms and shoulders ached from the effort of it. Mazael had spent much of his life fighting against that rage, struggling to control it, but now he could release it.

Left unchecked, it would destroy him and everything he cared about.

Used and channeled, though, it could destroy his foes, the enemies who threatened to destroy the Grim Marches, and Mazael used that fury now, cutting down valgast after valgast without mercy.

If the creatures had wanted to live, they should not have threatened his lands and his people.

Mazael slew another valgast, ripping Talon’s blade free, and looked around for more enemies.

But there were none.

All the valgasts had been slain. Unable to retreat back into the burning woods, they had come to fight, and they had been slaughtered. Mazael turned to face the others, the Demonsouled rage burning through him, and for a wild moment, he wanted to attack his friends, to keep killing and killing until no one was left alive in the valley save for him.

He was ready for the impulse, and he crushed with a practiced effort. Not even the Old Demon himself had been able to induce Mazael to succumb to his demon-charged blood, and a fight with a ragged valgast band wouldn’t do it.

“Anyone hurt?” said Mazael.

The others shook their heads. Sigaldra was watching him a little warily, as if she feared he would grow fangs and attack them. She didn’t know that he was Demonsouled, but if she had, that would not have been an unreasonable fear.

“Timothy,” said Mazael. He cleaned off the valgast blood from Talon’s blade and sheathed the sword, which seemed to calm Sigaldra a little. “Any other valgasts nearby?”

Timothy wiped sweat from his forehead and drew out his crystal, working his sensing spell once more. “None, my lord. At least not within a few hundred yards.”

“Perhaps we should keep moving,” said Earnachar. “That fire generated a lot of smoke.” The harsh smell of burned pine wood filled Mazael’s nostrils. If he could smell it, the valgasts could, and the plume of smoke would be visible from a long distance off. “Someone will come to investigate the…”

He fell silent and flinched as a great black wolf loped past him, stopping before Mazael. The wolf melted and reformed back into Romaria, who looked at the burning trees with wide, alarmed eyes.

“Who did that?” she said. “Did you see who started the trees on fire?”

“I did, my lady,” said Timothy.

Romaria looked at him, and then back at Mazael.

“Valgasts in the trees,” Mazael said, puzzled at her reaction. “I needed to flush them out.”

“Oh,” said Romaria. “Good.”

“Why did you think,” said Mazael, “that something else had set the fire?”

Romaria frowned. “I found something that you should see.”

Chapter 2: The Prisoner

Mazael and the others followed Romaria as she led the way from the burning trees. Timothy said that his spell sensed the presenceof no other nearby valgasts, and Romaria thought that most of the valgasts had gone to the north, heading in the same direction as the Prophetess.

Nonetheless, Mazael did not lower his guard. Why were the valgasts swarming through the mountains during the daylight hours? Even after the Old Demon’s restrictions upon their raids had been broken, the valgasts still preferred to attack at night, launching ambushes from the shadows and retreating to the caverns of the underworld before the sun rose again.

So why come out of their caverns and into the Skuldari mountains in such numbers? It didn’t make sense. Perhaps the Prophetess had summoned the valgasts, but if she had, why would the valgasts come to the surface here? Why not travel through the caverns of the underworld to the Heart of the Spider itself?

Unless something had drawn them out. Had the Prophetess commanded the valgasts to hunt down Mazael and his companions? If so, they had done a bad job of it so far.

“I don’t think,” said Romaria, “that those valgasts were waiting to ambush us.”

“So what were they doing there?” said Mazael. “Passing the time?”

“I think,” said Romaria, “they were hiding from something.”

“From what?” said Mazael.

She led them away from the path and towards a ring of rough boulders.

“From whatever did this,” said Romaria.

Mazael came to a startled halt, the stench of burned meat filling his nostrils.

###

Sigaldra looked around the ring of boulders with surprise, her hand itching to draw an arrow.

Not that she needed it. The valgasts here were already dead.

A dozen valgasts lay scattered across the scorched ground, or at least the charred husks of what had once been valgasts. Since the Prophetess had begun her plot, Sigaldra had seen a lot of dead valgasts.

She had not, however, ever seen a valgast burned to a blackened husk.

Come to think of it, she had never seen anyone burned to a blackened husk.

“Perhaps the valgasts burned their dead,” said Timothy.

“No,” said Sigaldra. “They take their dead with them when they can. They probably eat them.”

“They do,” said Romaria. “It is their custom. A funeral feast of the deceased.”

Sigaldra shuddered at the thought.

“Then they ran afoul of a powerful wizard,” said Earnachar. “Perhaps the valgasts have turned against the Prophetess.”

“We should be so fortunate,” said Mazael, “but I doubt it. The valgasts revere Marazadra as their goddess, and the Prophetess is going to bring back their goddess.”

“So who did this?” said Adalar.

“I don’t know,” said Romaria.

“It had to be a wizard,” said Sigaldra. “The Jutai burn our dead, so I know how much fuel it takes to burn a corpse to ashes. There is nothing nearby to burn, just barren stone and rock. If something else burned the valgasts, it would have left behind a great pile of ashes.”

“The salamanders,” said Adalar. “Azurvaltoria’s pet salamanders. Some of the creatures must have fled the caverns when her treasure vault collapsed. Maybe the valgasts tried to fight the salamanders and regretted it.”

Though given how thoroughly the valgasts had been burned, Sigaldra suspected they had not regretted it for long.

“A good thought, Lord Adalar,” said Romaria, “but you saw those dead soliphages outside the Veiled Mountain. They were burned the on parts of their bodies that touched the salamanders.” She nudged a dead valgast with the toe of her boot. The smell of burned meat flooded the air. “These ones…look at them. They looked as if they were cooked from the inside out.”

“A dragon’s fire could do it,” said Mazael, “but the Prophetess killed Azurvaltoria, and dragon fire would have turned the ground around us to slag.”

“Magic, then,” said Earnachar. “A witcher did this.”

“It would be a spell of great power and control,” said Timothy. “I couldn’t manage it. Someone like Lucan Mandragon or Malavost could have done so, but I could not.”

Sigaldra grimaced at the thought. Lucan Mandragon, the Dragon’s Shadow, had raised countless hordes of undead at his command. Generations from now, the men of the Grim Marches and the Tervingi and the Jutai would still speak of him as a figure of horror and dread. The thought of a wizard with Lucan Mandragon’s power stalking the Skuldari mountains was a grim one.

“The Prophetess?” she said. “Maybe this band of valgasts went rogue and tried to kill her.”

“You’ve seen the kind of spells the Prophetess uses,” said Romaria. “She summons up Crimson Hunters or uses blasts of psychokinetic force. We’ve never seen her use this kind of magical fire before.”

“She may still possess that power, my lady,” said Adalar. “A clever foe conceals her strength until it is needed, and the Prophetess has been damnably clever this entire time.”

“Maybe,” said Mazael, drawing Talon. He hooked the tip of the blade beneath one of the valgasts and flipped the creature over, leaving a greasy, charred stain upon the rock. The dead valgast’s back was just as charred as its front. “But I think Romaria is right. We pressed the dear Lady Celina hard at both Armalast and Azurvaltoria’s lair, and she never did anything like this. Unless…”

“What?” said Romaria.

“Unless the Mask of Marazadra gave her that power,” said Mazael.

“It is possible, my lord,” said Timothy.

It was a disquieting thought. The Prophetess needed the Mask to summon her goddess, and she had somehow used the Mask’s power to kill the mighty dragon Azurvaltoria. Sigaldra and the others had fought the Prophetess to a standstill twice before, but if the Mask gave the Prophetess additional powers, they might not be able to defeat her.

“If it did, sir,” said Basjun, “why would she use that power upon her own allies? If I was the Prophetess, I would send the valgasts to waylay us, and that seems to be what has happened.” Crouch waited by his master’s side, sniffing at the dead valgasts.

“We’re arguing in circles,” said Mazael, sheathing Talon. “If the Prophetess did this, well and good. It means the valgasts have turned on her. If someone else did this, that also works to our advantage. If some wizard with a grudge against valgasts is rampaging through the mountains of Skuldar, we’ll stay out of his way.”

“Perhaps this wizard would be an ally,” said Adalar.

“Maybe,” said Mazael. “But he could have his own game. Or he’s someone like Malavost, a renegade who heard of the Prophetess’s plan and wants to seize the power of a dead goddess for himself. Until we know better, we’ll mind our own affairs and let this wizard burn as many valgasts as he wishes. Timothy. The maethweisyr?”

Timothy nodded and drew the dagger from its sheath. The blade of the Dark Elderborn weapon had once been silver, but it had turned crimson with the Prophetess’s blood. Timothy cast a spell, and pale blue light flickered around the weapon.

“She is north of us still, my lord,” said Timothy, returning the dagger to his coat. “And not very far ahead of us. Maybe a day’s march. If we had been able to follow her through that cavern in the Veiled Mountain, we would have caught her by now.”

“Instead we had to circle around the mountain to the south,” said Sigaldra, shaking her head with frustration.

“Better than being buried alive,” said Adalar.

He had a point.

“Valgasts or not, let’s keep moving,” said Mazael. “Romaria, scout the path ahead. The rest of you, keep an eye out for valgasts…or for a mad wizard running around burning valgasts to death.”

They continued, following the path deeper into the maze of mountain valleys.

###

Five hours later, Adalar saw the fifth dead valgast.

This time, the dead valgast lay in the middle of the rocky path, the air heavy with the stink of its burned flesh. As with all the other dead valgasts they had seen, this one had been burned by the same magic, charred from the inside out. A short sword of bone lay next to the blackened claw of its right hand, and the creature’s bone armor had warped and cracked in the heat of the fire.

“This one was running,” said Romaria. “Look. There and there.” At first, Adalar could not see anything, but then he saw the charred spots. The valgast had managed to take three or four steps as it burned, and then it had collapsed.

“Seems like our renegade wizard is still on the rampage,” said Mazael.

Crouch moved forward, sniffed the dead valgast, and barked several times. Romaria frowned at the dog, squatted, and tapped the dead valgast with a finger.

“Mazael,” said Romaria. “It’s still warm. Hot, even.” She gave the valgast a sharp poke, and Adalar grimaced at the crackling sound it made. “I think this one was burned only a few minutes ago.”

Mazael nodded. “We’re about to walk into a battle, aren’t we?”

“I think so,” said Romaria, straightening up. “It seems…”

Her voice trailed off. Adalar looked around. Save for the dead valgast, he saw nothing amiss in their immediate surroundings. The path wound through a rocky mountain valley, little different than the ones they had already passed. Gray mountains rose around them, grim and silent, crowned with blankets of white snow. Boulders lay strewn across the valley, hidden here and there in stands of tough little pine trees.

A flicker of movement caught his eye.

A valgast came into sight around a boulder, clad in bone armor, a short sword in its clawed hand.

“The enemy comes!” shouted Adalar, reaching for his sword hilt.

Even as he spoke, a dozen valgasts boiled out from behind the boulders and charged towards them.

Romaria reacted first, raising her bow and putting an arrow into the air. The shaft plunged through the valgast’s throat, spinning it around and throwing the creature to the ground. She shot down a second valgast, and by then Adalar had drawn his Dark Elderborn sword. It was shorter than his old sword but lighter, and the double-edged blade came to a slight curve.

The sword was steady in his grip, but nonetheless, it gave off the peculiar sensation that it was vibrating.

“Take them!” said Mazael, running forward with Talon in his right hand as Romaria sent another arrow over his shoulder. Adalar ran after the Lord of Castle Cravenlock, Basjun and Earnachar joining him, while Sigaldra stepped next to Timothy, raising her own bow. Timothy began casting a spell, gesturing and whispering under his breath. Crouch bounded next to Basjun, the dog’s furious barks ringing over the valley. Crouch seemed to hate valgasts, which was just as well since the big dog terrified the valgasts.

The mob of valgasts charged, raising spears and swords of bone. The valgast nearest to Adalar raised a tube to its lips and blew, its cheeks puffing out. Adalar ducked, and the poisoned dart hit the chain mail over his shoulder and bounced off, failing to penetrate his skin. The valgast threw aside the tube and yanked a short sword of yellowed bone from its belt.

Adalar parried the valgast’s first swing. The bone the valgasts used for their armor and weapons was hard and tough, but the strange silvery metal of the Dark Elderborn sword was stronger. His sword bit into the blade of the valgast, catching the weapon in place, and the valgast snarled. Adalar shoved, sending the lighter creature stumbling back, and struck again. His sword struck the creature’s neck and bit easily through skin and muscle and bounced off the valgast’s spine. Adalar pulled the sword free, letting the valgast fall to the ground to die.

A second valgast leaped over the first one’s dying form, and Adalar twisted, getting both hands around his sword’s hilt. He parried four blows in rapid succession. The Dark Elderborn sword was shorter than his broken greatsword, and not quite as useful for parrying. Belatedly it occurred to Adalar that if he was going to use a shorter sword on a regular basis, he ought to have taken a shield from the dragon’s hoard as well.

Yet even with the shorter sword, he still had a longer reach than the spindly valgast, and he was able to riposte, opening a gash on the valgast’s sword arm. The valgast let out an enraged screech, its enormous black eyes widening, and Adalar slashed his sword across the creature’s throat.

It joined the others upon the rocky ground.

Another valgast came at Adalar, swinging a mace with a bone head, and Adalar had to retreat. For all their short stature, the valgasts were stronger than their size indicated, and if Adalar tried to block the mace he might lose his grip upon his sword. There was a hissing noise, and one of Sigaldra’s arrows sprouted from the valgast’s sword arm. The creature screeched in fury and pain, and Adalar struck, driving his sword through the valgast’s chest. He ripped the blade free and shot a quick glance at Sigaldra where she stood between Romaria and Timothy, her bow raised.

A quick nod of thanks and he threw himself back into the fray.

Crouch snarled and barked, snapping his heavy jaws at any valgast foolish enough to approach him. Few were, which Basjun used to good advantage. Even as Adalar watched, Crouch hamstrung one of the valgasts, and Basjun brought his axe onto the top of the creature’s head. Earnachar laid about with a heavy mace, bellowing out one of the battle hymns of the Tervingi. Earnachar was an appalling singer, but what he lacked in musical ability he made up in vigor, and he left a trail of slain valgasts in his wake.

Mazael left them both behind.

The Lord of Castle Cravenlock carved his way through the valgasts like a scythe through ripe grain. His curved sword seemed like an extension of his arm, and he drove the weapon back and forth, cutting down every valgast in his path. He made it look so easy, but Adalar knew that Mazael had tremendous skill backed by iron strength.

And as Mazael cut down the valgasts, Romaria and Sigaldra loosed arrow after arrow. Sigaldra was a competent archer, and most of her shafts landed home, but Romaria’s skill with a bow was almost supernatural. Every one of her arrows struck a valgast, and most of her shots were lethal, plunging into the throats of the valgasts, or somehow finding the gaps in their bone armor. Timothy cast a spell, and four valgasts were flung to the ground in the grip of his magic. Earnachar had killed two before they recovered, Basjun one, and Crouch leaped upon the final valgast, jaws snapping.

They were winning the fight.

Then a thunderclap rang out.

An unseen force seized Adalar and flung him to the ground, his sword tumbling from his hand.

###

Mazael whirled as the pale valgast limped from the boulders.

This one was taller than the ones he had killed already, standing nearly five feet tall, thicker and more muscular. Unlike the others, who had hides of mottled green and yellow, this valgast’s hide was bone white. Elaborate sigils had been tattooed onto its hide, the symbols glowing with magical power. In its right hand, the valgast carried a long black staff, longer than it was tall, the symbols on its length flaring with fiery light.

The pale valgasts were wizards. They were priests of Marazadra and possessed considerable power. One had almost killed Mazael at the village of Gray Pillar in the Grim Marches when the valgasts had first begun launching their attacks.

“Ah!” said the valgast wizard, its voice a wet rasp. “The last of the tainted ones! This explains much. Little wonder she was so discomforted.”

“You know me?” said Mazael.

“The Prophetess of the goddess had decreed your death,” said the valgast wizard. “You oppose the return of the goddess, and all who oppose the return of the goddess shall be slain! We are free, and the goddess shall rise in glory!”

“Maybe I agree with you,” said Mazael.

The valgast wizard had not anticipated that. “What?” The unblinking black eyes stared at Mazael.

“Maybe,” said Mazael. “Anything’s possible. Or maybe you’re talking too much, and you should really pay attention to what’s going on around you.”

Because while the wizard had been ranting, Romaria and Sigaldra had been circling behind him, and they were in position. Both women released their bows at once, and their arrows flew true, slamming into the valgast wizard’s chest from two different angles. The arrows shattered with flashes of blue light. The valgast had armored itself in warding spells.

The wizard snarled and began another spell, fires playing up and down the long black staff. Mazael sprinted forward, drawing back Talon to strike, and the valgast wizard thrust the black staff at him. He ducked, and a howling bolt of white-hot flame leaped from the staff and shattered against the ground, throwing out a spray of chips of hot stone. Mazael came out of his crouch and slashed, Talon raking against the valgast wizard’s chest. The pale creature stumbled, but another flash of blue light deflected Talon’s edge, keeping the curved sword of dragon claw from biting into the wizard’s flesh.

The wizard snarled again and swung the burning staff, and Mazael caught the blow on Talon. He withstood the impact of the blow, but the searing fire of the staff was hot, so hot that he had to step back. Had Mazael been wearing his armor of dragon scales, it would have protected him from the fire, but his chain mail would not.

Again he slashed, and again Talon rebounded from the valgast wizard with a burst of blue light. The light was not as bright this time, and Mazael suspected the wizard’s protective spell could only withstand so many blows. If Mazael battered it down, he could land a killing blow on the wizard.

The staff burned brighter, and Mazael ducked underneath another blast of fire. As he did, he heard Timothy shout, and blue sparks flashed around the valgast wizard. Mazael did not hesitate but swung Talon again. Timothy had dispelled the wizard’s defenses, and this time, Talon bit into the valgast’s skinny neck. Mazael swung again, and again, and on the third strike the valgast’s pale head hopped off its shoulders in a spray of dark blood, the scarred body collapsing at Mazael’s feet.

Mazael let out a long breath, the metallic scent of valgast blood filling his nostrils, and turned to find more foes. But there were no valgasts left, at least no living valgasts. Romaria turned her head back and forth, sniffing the air, but no further valgasts emerged from the boulders.

It seemed that Mazael and the others had killed them all.

A wave of disappointment went through him, and he pushed down his Demonsouled rage.

“Timothy,” said Mazael. “Good timing with that spell.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Timothy, wiping some sweat from his forehead. Spellcasting was as great a physical exertion as swordplay. “That one was more powerful than the valgast wizards we have faced previously.”

“Perhaps it was a high priest, rather than simply a priest,” said Sigaldra. Mazael looked back to see if she was joking, but her expression was solemn as ever.

“Perhaps,” said Mazael. “Anyone hurt?” The others shook their heads. “Very well. We’ll continue on for another few hours before we stop to rest. As much as we can, anyway. If these valgast bands keep swarming through the hills, we might have to…”

“Timothy,” said Romaria, stepping forward. She stared at the dead valgast wizard. “I think you should take a look at this.”

She stooped and picked up the valgast’s black staff, and the symbols on its length glowed as she did, as if responding to her grasp.

“Is that safe to touch?” said Mazael.

Romaria shrugged. “I haven’t started on fire yet.” She turned the staff to the left and the right, considering it. Likely she was using the Sight to examine the spells upon it. “I don’t think this was bound to the valgast wizard, Timothy. You could probably use it.”

“I believe you are correct, Lady Romaria,” said Timothy. He cast a quick spell, blue light flickering around his fingers. “The spells upon it control elemental flame. I should be able to employ it myself.”

“Splendid,” said Mazael. Romaria tossed Timothy the staff, and he caught it. “A fine new walking stick. I suppose if our situation becomes dire, you can always beat a valgast to death with it.” He cleaned the last of the valgast blood from Talon’s blade and sheathed the weapon. “Let’s keep moving. Romaria?”

Romaria nodded. “I’ll range ahead.”

She blurred back into the form of the great black wolf and loped away, and Mazael and the others followed her.

###

Sigaldra kept her bow in hand, her eyes sweeping the narrow defile.

The path climbed up the side of the valley, cutting through the rocks like a groove. Sigaldra winced every time her boots rasped against the loose stone littering the path. The sound carried farther than she would have liked. At least she wasn’t the only one making noise. Romaria moved in utter silence, of course, but none of the others did. From time to time Romaria blurred into the form of the great black wolf and scouted ahead, or Timothy paused to cast a spell, but no further valgasts showed themselves.

Despite their danger, Sigaldra found her mind wandering. What would they do when they intercepted the Prophetess? Their best chance was to catch the Prophetess off-guard and kill her before she could bring her magic to bear, but they had tried that before and failed. Perhaps the battle in the dragon’s cavern had weakened her. The Prophetess had used a lot of magic to kill the dragon and escape…

“Mazael.” Romaria’s voice was tight with alarm.

Sigaldra looked up, rebuking herself for inattention. Romaria had returned, resuming her natural shape, and she looked alarmed

“Trouble?” said Mazael.

“Maybe,” said Romaria. “You should see this.”

Mazael nodded and followed Romaria, Sigaldra and the others coming behind them. Her legs and feet ached from the exertions of the day, but she forced herself to keep up. She had crossed rough terrain before when the Jutai had left the middle lands for the Grim Marches. By comparison, the mountains of Skuldar were like a springtime jaunt through a sunlit meadow, or so Sigaldra kept trying to tell herself.

That, and she did not want to show weakness in front of Lord Mazael. The man seemed tireless. More than that, he seemed eager for battle, to enjoy fighting in a way that Sigaldra found a little disturbing.

It was just as well that he was on their side. No wonder Earnachar had refused to rebel against Mazael until the Prophetess had forced him into it.

Her gaze turned back to Adalar, who climbed the path with easy grace. She did not want to look weak in his eyes either. In fact, his opinion mattered the most to her. Of course, he had already seen her look weak when she had been trapped in the soliphage’s web. He had seen her naked…and that recollection brought a flood of warmth to her face.

Fortunately, no one noticed, and Sigaldra rebuked herself for allowing her mind to wander.

The path widened onto a large, boulder-strewn ledge overlooking another valley. At the far end of the valley, Sigaldra saw a waterfall tumbling along the rocky face of a cliff towards a stream, the distant roar of its spray coming to her ears. Romaria dropped to a crouch, and Sigaldra and the others followed suit. Together they crawled to the edge of the ledge and peered into the deep valley.

Sigaldra found herself looking at a battlefield.

Scores of valgasts lay dead along the banks of the stream, their bodies reduced to blackened husks. The smell of burnt flesh came to her nostrils, and she saw patches of flame burning here and there. A mob of about fifty valgasts moved along the stream, led by four valgast wizards.

Between the valgast wizards walked a human woman.

Sigaldra blinked in surprise, and for an instant, she wondered if they had caught up to the Prophetess at last.

Then she realized that the woman was a prisoner.

She wore a long coat of dark red leather over dusty trousers and boots, and her hands had been bound with a coil of crude rope. A sack had been tied over her head, and another length of rope coiled around her neck, held as a leash in the hands of one of the valgast wizards. Every so often one of the valgasts jabbed the butt of a spear into her back, causing her to stumble, which sent up a chorus of snarling laughter from the rest of the valgasts.

“That’s her,” whispered Romaria.

“Who?” said Mazael. “You know her?”

“No,” said Romaria. “At least, I don’t think I do. Something about her smells familiar, but I can’t place it. But she’s the wizard. She’s the one who burned all those valgasts.”

“How do you know?” said Earnachar.

“The Sight,” said Romaria. Earnachar shuddered. “I can see the power around her. It’s weakened, probably from all the fighting, but it’s strong.”

“That power might make a useful ally,” said Adalar.

Sigaldra looked at Mazael. He had said nothing yet, his gray eyes narrowed as he considered the scene. Basjun waited behind him, so calm he almost seemed placid. Sigaldra envied him that and wondered if it was feigned or if he really was that calm. Crouch, for his part, seemed utterly unconcerned by everything. The ugly dog seemed to find the taste of valgast flesh appealing. Perhaps he looked at all those valgast warriors and saw dozens of snacks on two legs

Well, if he did, he would have his fill.

“Where are they going?” said Mazael at last.

“I see a cavern at the other end of the valley, below the waterfall,” said Romaria. “I suspect they will wait until nightfall, and then take the prisoner to one of their strongholds in the caverns of the underworld.”

Mazael nodded. “Good. That gives us a few hours.”

“To do what?” said Earnachar.

“This is too good of a chance to let pass,” said Mazael. “We’re going to rescue her and give the valgasts a bloody nose in the process.”

Chapter 3: Firestorm

Adalar rolled his shoulders, preparing himself for combat.

“One final time,” said Earnachar, “I must say that this is a bad idea.”

“Does Earnachar son of Balnachar flinch from combat?” said Sigaldra. “What would mighty Tervingar say?”

Earnachar scowled at her. “Mighty Tervingar feared no battle, and neither does the Tervingi nation…”

Sigaldra smiled. “There you go.”

“He would also say,” said Earnachar, “that it is folly to throw our lives away in a pointless attack. Especially since we do not know if this witch woman is an ally or not.”

Basjun offered a shrug. “She may not need to be an ally, sir. Clearly, she does not care for the valgasts. Even if we free her and she wishes nothing to do with us, she will likely resume her war upon the valgasts.”

“Think of how many burned valgasts we have seen this day, my lord headman,” said Timothy. “Likely we would have had to fight them all if the woman had not killed them.”

Earnachar scowled but said nothing more. He was not happy, but he would cooperate. Mazael had made up his mind, and that was that. Earnachar would not oppose his will, especially since Mazael had been well within his rights to execute Earnachar after the siege of Greatheart Keep.

Adalar was not sure that he could have been as merciful.

Earnachar would not oppose the plan…but the gods knew he would not shut up about it.

“We’re not throwing our lives away,” said Mazael. He stood at the brink of the ledge as the sun slipped away beneath the mountains to the west, throwing long, jagged shadows over the rocks. His gray eyes narrowed as he contemplated the steep valley and the churning waterfall. “We’re taking a gamble, that’s all.”

Earnachar snorted. “At steep odds.”

“Not necessarily,” said Mazael. “The valgasts are frightened. That woman slaughtered dozens of them, but the valgasts know they have other enemies nearby. The woman burned all her foes to death. We killed our foes with sword and arrow and blade. So they’re wondering if the wizard has allies,” he glanced at the black staff in Timothy’s hand, “and if those allies are going to attack.”

“Which we are,” said Earnachar. “Since we are apparently now this woman’s allies.”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” said Romaria.

Earnachar gave her a sidelong glance. “That is not always true, Lady Romaria.” He always spoke respectfully to her, though Adalar had heard him mutter about the she-wolf of Castle Cravenlock from time to time. Given that Adalar had seen Romaria’s wolf-form rip out the throats of her enemies, that respect was understandable.

“A good point,” said Mazael. “Even if she isn’t our ally, it doesn’t matter. We’ll free her and get out of her way while she mows down the valgasts. While she distracts the valgasts, we’ll chase the Prophetess and kill her. Now. Enough talk. You know what to do. Timothy, with me.”

Adalar nodded and joined Earnachar, Basjun, Crouch, Sigaldra, and Romaria. Timothy went to join Mazael, and the Lord of Castle Cravenlock and the wizard turned, walking along the lip of the valley towards the tumbling waterfall. Romaria’s scouting had revealed a narrow path that clung to the cliff’s face, threading its way behind the waterfall.

“Follow me,” said Romaria, lifting her Elderborn bow. It was a large weapon, the staff nearly five feet tall, and sturdy enough that Adalar had seen her use it as a cudgel when necessary. He drew the Dark Elderborn sword from its scabbard over his shoulder and fell in next to Sigaldra, while Basjun and Earnachar brought up the back. Crouch walked at his master’s side in silence.

“Now what?” said Adalar.

“This way,” said Romaria, and she led the way in the opposite direction from the waterfall, circling to a path that led down to the valley. Another patch of pine trees stood on either bank of the stream. The remaining valgasts waited at the base of the waterfall, not far from the yawning mouth of a cavern in the cliff face. Adalar wasn’t sure why they had decided to wait until sundown to enter the underworld, but it looked as if they were arguing about what to do next. Maybe they hadn’t actually expected to capture the woman in the red coat.

“Your dog is well-trained, young Basjun,” said Earnachar. For some reason, he always called Basjun “young Basjun,” but fortunately the Skuldari man did not mind. “He is quiet upon the hunt.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Basjun. “It is necessary to train animals carefully in the vales of Skuldar. The smell of the hunting spiders of Weaver’s Vale upsets most animals, so the hounds must be trained not to fear the odor.”

“Do not the priests and priestesses of Marazadra take offense?” said Sigaldra. “I thought those wretched spiders are sacred to Marazadra.”

“They are,” said Basjun, “though fortunately, the priests take a practical view of such matters. If we slay a hunting spider in self-defense, then the spider was not a proper vessel of the goddess’s power.”

“Practical indeed,” said Adalar in a dry voice.

“It is different for the soliphages, though,” said Basjun, and he shook his head, his black beard scratching against his chest. “The priests say the soliphages are the messengers of the goddess, the angels of Marazadra, and to resist them is a crime.” He scowled. “When the soliphages emerge from their caverns in search of prey, most do not resist, and allow themselves to be taken to their death.”

Adalar saw Sigaldra's expression tighten. No doubt she remembered her own ordeal at the hands of a soliphage in Weaver’s Vale. For a moment he felt the overwhelming urge to put his arm around her shoulders, but he suppressed it. They were in too much danger, and she would have been furious to show any weakness in front of Earnachar.

“That is hard to imagine,” said Sigaldra. “To surrender meekly to such a terrible fate.”

“That is why my father and I have joined the secret church, along with many others,” said Basjun. “The Amathavian gods are kinder. Perhaps in time all of Skuldar can be freed of the blight of the goddess and her soliphages.”

“Perhaps,” Romaria called over her shoulder, “but if the valgasts kill us first, none of us will live to see it. Keep quiet. The valgasts have keen ears, and I do not want to be discovered.”

Adalar nodded and kept walking, his eyes scanning the path for any sign of foes. He wondered if the valgasts had put out sentries, but it seemed the creatures had not done so. Perhaps they mistakenly believed themselves safe. Or perhaps they wanted to keep an eye on the woman in the red coat who had killed so many of them.

They descended into the pine woods. Romaria moved like a silent shadow between the trees, her boots making no sounds against the pine needles covering the ground. Adalar envied her that. Basjun moved quietly enough, as did Crouch, but Adalar and Earnachar made more noise than he would have liked, thanks to the weight of their armor and weapons.

Yet the valgasts still did not notice.

They came to the edge of the trees, and Romaria gestured for them to take cover. Adalar ducked behind a mossy boulder wedged between a pair of pine trees, Sigaldra settling next to him. Her shoulder brushed his arm, and a little jolt went through him, and he took a deep breath. Sigaldra looked up at him, mouthing the word “sorry” in silence. Perhaps she thought that she had jostled him.

Adalar smiled at her, and then regarded the valgasts.

They had not bothered to form a proper camp and stood in clumps around the stream flowing from the waterfall. Adalar had the impression they were tired, and some of them looked a little scorched. The four valgast wizards stood around the bound woman, who sat upon the ground with her wrists and ankles tied. One of the valgast wizards held her leash, gesturing with its free hand as it snarled and hissed in the valgast tongue. Adalar wasn’t sure, but it looked as if the four wizards were having an argument.

There were fifty valgast warriors around the wizards. Maybe, Adalar thought, with the aid of Mazael and the others, they might have been able to take the warriors. But when the four wizards threw their powers into the fray, they would quickly decide the course of the battle.

“Ah,” breathed Romaria.

There was satisfaction in her voice.

She squatted next to Adalar and Sigaldra. “Most of the wizards’ power is going in a ward around the woman, a spell to hold her power at bay. They won’t be able to bring their magic to bear against us without releasing the ward.”

“Lord Mazael was right, then,” said Adalar. “We can take them.”

“He’s usually right about this kind of thing,” said Romaria, her blue eyes flashing as she smiled. They often flashed that way when she talked about Mazael. Adalar remembered Earnachar’s mutters about the she-wolf of Castle Cravenlock, and maybe someone like Mazael Cravenlock was the only kind of man who could tame a woman like Romaria.

“What now?” said Earnachar, gripping his mace.

“We wait,” said Romaria. “We’ll know when to act.”

###

Mazael made his way along the narrow path, the roar of the waterfall growing louder. Timothy followed him, using the black valgast staff as a walking stick. As they drew closer, the rock path became damp and slick, and he felt the spray from the waterfall on his face. He took care with his footsteps. It would be grimly amusing to have escaped Armalast and the Veiled Mountain only to lose his balance and fall to his death on a wet path.

Below them, the stream churned its way through the valley. The valgasts huddled on one side of the stream, surrounding their wizards and the bound woman. From this height, they looked almost like toys. To the south, Mazael saw the patch of pine trees. With luck, Romaria and the others were in position and had not run into any valgasts.

Mazael stopped at last, the waterfall a few yards to his left, the waters churning in the stream a hundred feet below him. The mass of valgasts huddled along the stream bank, and from this height, they looked like a leprous yellow-green growth upon the ground. He drew Talon from its scabbard, memories flickering through him. Years ago, the Demonsouled Amalric Galbraith had tried to assassinate Lord Malden Roland with the aid of the San-keth archpriest Straganis, though all of them had danced upon the strings of Morebeth Galbraith. Lord Malden was dead now, and so were Lucan Mandragon and Morebeth and Amalric and so many others who had been at Knightcastle that day.

Adalar was still alive, though, and so was Timothy…and Timothy’s spells had helped win their victory at Knightcastle.

Perhaps they would do so again.

“Ready?” said Mazael.

Timothy nodded. “When I give the word, my lord.” He took a deep breath and began casting a spell, holding a crystal and a large feather with his free hand. Blue light flashed around his fingers, and a hazy blue light wrapped around Mazael.

Suddenly he felt lighter.

“Now,” said Timothy.

Mazael nodded, took a deep breath, and jumped off the ledge.

He should have plummeted to a messy death against the rocky ground below. His Demonsouled blood could heal many things, but it couldn’t heal everything, and he suspected it would fail to heal a fall from such a height. Fortunately, it didn’t matter. As it had during that long-ago battle at Knightcastle, Timothy’s magic coiled around Mazael, slowing his fall from a plummeting descent to a swift glide. He hit the ground running and sprinted forward, the stream churning to his left, the valgasts looming before him.

It took the valgasts longer than he expected to react.

Fortunately, by then, he was already among them.

Talon blurred in his fist, the dark blade flashing with golden fire, and Mazael took off the head of a valgast, and then another, striding through their midst and killing with every step. The valgasts had been focused on the argument between the four wizards guarding the red-coated woman and hadn’t even noticed Mazael until he had already killed several of them.

He wondered what the wizards had been discussing, and then forgot about it as the Demonsouled rage boiled up in his blood, filling him with strength and power. The valgasts started to recover from their surprise, and Mazael met their attack. He ducked under a volley of poisoned darts, killing another valgast as he did so, and straightened up in time to deflect the thrust of a short sword. The valgast wizards turned, starting to cast spells, and dozens of the creatures rushed at Mazael. No matter how fast or how strong his Demonsouled blood could make him, he couldn’t fight that many at once.

A searing blast of white-hot fire shot over his shoulder and slammed into one of the valgasts. The creature ignited, fire consuming its flesh, and it went into a frantic, flailing dance before it collapsed, the stench of burnt valgast flesh filling Mazael’s nostrils. A second bolt killed another valgast, and a third clipped still another, setting its arm aflame.

Timothy had put the staff of the slain valgast wizard to good use.

A ripple of fear went through the valgast warriors, and they glanced in the direction of the wizards and the bound woman. As Mazael guessed, the blasts of fire had frightened them. The woman had killed dozens of them with her fire magic, a fact no doubt at the forefront of their minds. Mazael killed two more valgasts as they hesitated, and the warriors began to recover their courage as Timothy rained down more bolts of fire from the cliff.

The arrows started to fall among the valgasts then.

###

“Now,” said Romaria, raising her bow.

Sigaldra followed suit while Adalar, Earnachar, Basjun and Crouch charged forward, Earnachar bellowing a Tervingi battle hymn at the top of his lungs while Crouch loosed a steady stream of barks. Sigaldra released one arrow, then another, and then still a third. All three of her shafts found targets, the wounded valgasts staggering back.

She wasn’t nearly as effective as Romaria. The half-Elderborn woman shot twice as many arrows as Sigaldra, her hands a blur, her face an icy mask of concentration. Every one one of her arrows killed a valgast, even as Adalar and Earnachar and Basjun attacked. On the other side of the valgasts, Sigaldra saw Mazael cutting down their opponents, while Timothy flung blasts of fire from the ledge. The staff he had claimed must have used its power to guide the blasts because the bolts of fire never missed or went astray. Every burst of fire set a valgast alight, and that seemed to terrify the creatures more than anything else.

Sigaldra pulled back her bow and released.

###

Mazael cut down another valgast and found himself face to face with the wizards.

The four pale creatures turned to face him, the air around their claws rippling and flickering with magic. They stood in a loose ring, and the woman sat in the center of the ring, the hood still pulled over her head. A flicker of recognition went through Mazael. For an instant, he was sure that he had seen her somewhere before, but he could not place it.

Then the valgast wizards flung out their hands, and his full attention turned to his enemies.

The bulk of the wizards’ power might have gone to keeping their prisoner restrained, but they still had enough strength to hit him with a blast of invisible force. The spell struck Mazael and flung him to the ground with enough force to break bones. Gray mist swirled at the valgast wizards’ feet, and a creature of the spirit world leaped forth. It looked somewhat like a cougar, albeit a cougar sheathed in bony armor plates with barbed tentacles rising from its shoulders. The creature sprang from the mist and came right at Mazael, jaws yawning wide, barbed tentacles snapping back and forth like whips.

Mazael rolled and came to his feet, dodging the snap of the creature’s jaws and sweeping Talon before him. A sword of normal steel had a hard time wounding summoned creatures of the spirit world, but a blade of enspelled dragon talon had no such difficulty. Talon sliced off the end of the cougar’s tentacles, and the creature reared back with a scream. Mazael thrust, the tip of his sword sinking into the cougar’s throat, and again the creature stumbled. That gave him the time he needed to surge to his feet, and he drove Talon down, splitting the creature’s skull.

It dissolved into mist, vanishing back into the spirit world.

He whirled to face the wizards as they began another spell. This time, Mazael had the advantage, and he lashed Talon down, carving a gash that opened the nearest wizard from shoulder to hip. The valgast wizard groaned and fell as its innards fell loose, and Mazael spun to attack the next foe. The valgast wizard hopped back in a pale blur to avoid Talon’s edge, but the light vanished from its talons. The other two wizards continued their spells, drawing more power to themselves.

As they did, the bound woman surged to her feet.

Flames erupted from her hands, burning away the ropes around her wrists. Mazael realized that the valgast wizards had been concentrating on the spell to keep her powers at bay, and his attack had disrupted that spell.

Now she was free to strike back.

She thrust her right hand, and a bolt of fire erupted from her palm to strike the valgast wizard trying to evade Mazael. The heat of the spell was so intense Mazael had to take a step back, and the wizard let out a wailing scream that ended a half-second later when the fire seared the flesh from its skeleton, leaving charred bones to collapse to the ground. The remaining two wizards began new spells, but the woman attacked again, another bolt of white-hot flame turning a valgast wizard to ash.

That was the breaking point.

The remaining valgasts fled as one for the cave entrance below the waterfall, some of them throwing down their spears for greater speed. Romaria and Sigaldra kept shooting arrows at the retreating valgasts. Mazael expected the red-coated woman to cast another spell, but she wobbled and fell to one knee, breathing hard. Evidently burning a valgast wizard alive was hard work.

Mazael crossed to her, reached down, and pulled away the hood.

For a moment, pure astonishment froze him.

He had seen this woman before, recently.

She was about twenty-five, with black eyes, slicked-back black hair, and white teeth. Her face was remarkably beautiful, which was not surprising since she had given it to herself. The woman had called herself Mother Volaria when she had spoken with Mazael in the common room of the Guesthouse in Armalast, but “Mother Volaria” had only been the human guise of the ancient dragon Azurvaltoria, the guardian of the Veiled Mountain and the Mask of Marazadra.

Which meant that the dragon Azurvaltoria was kneeling before him in human form.

“You,” said Mazael, too surprised to say anything else.

“Indeed,” said Azurvaltoria.

“You’re dead,” said Mazael.

“Plainly not,” said Azurvaltoria. “Your father was much more observant.”

“My father,” said Mazael.

His brain started to catch up with his surprise.

He had seen the Prophetess kill Azurvaltoria in the caverns of the Veiled Mountain. Except…he hadn’t, had he? He had just assumed her death. The Prophetess’s spell had twisted Azurvaltoria’s form, causing her to shift from the shape of a great blue dragon, an old woman, and a young woman, cycling through the different shapes over and over again in a matter of seconds. Then the roof had started collapsing, and Mazael and the others fled for their lives. He assumed that Azurvaltoria had been killed by the Prophetess’s magic or entombed when the roof collapsed.

Apparently, something else had happened. Why was Azurvaltoria wandering through the Skuldari mountains in human form? For that matter, how had the valgasts even captured her?

She grimaced. “Would you…help me up? I’m afraid I have exhausted myself.”

Mazael blinked, gripped her hand, and pulled her up. Even through the leather of his gauntlet, he felt the heat radiating from her skin.

“All right,” said Mazael. “I think we need to talk.”

“Plainly,” said Azurvaltoria.

“Not here, though,” said Mazael. “Let’s be gone before the valgasts recover their nerve.”

Azurvaltoria nodded and followed Mazael as he headed towards the pine trees.

###

Timothy returned first.

Sigaldra lowered her bow, watching as the wizard jogged to join them, the black staff in his right hand. Smoke rose from the length of the staff, though he seemed to hold it without discomfort.

“That was an impressive light show,” said Romaria.

“Thank you, my lady,” said Timothy. “The staff is a useful weapon. I can think of a few others times when it might have…”

“Lord Mazael,” said Adalar, lowering his Dark Elderborn sword.

Mazael hurried towards them, Talon in his right hand, the woman in the red coat following him. The hood had been removed, and…

Sigaldra felt her jaw fall open. She had seen that woman before.

“Mother Volaria?” said Basjun, astonished.

“No,” said Romaria. “Azurvaltoria.”

“Indeed,” said the dragon in the form of a human woman. “We meet again.”

“Let’s get out of here,” said Mazael. “I suspect we have some things to discuss.”

Chapter 4: Something Went Wrong

Mazael had Timothy check the Prophetess’s location with the maethweisyr, and then they set off, crossing the valley and heading north.

They slowed as they climbed the far side of the valley, largely because Azurvaltoria was having a hard time keeping up. Whatever had happened to her and the resultant fight with the valgasts had left her exhausted. Mazael considered helping her along but decided against it. Romaria was giving Azurvaltoria a fixed, unblinking stare, just as she had done to Sigaldra when they had first met and she had thought Mazael might want to seduce her. In truth, if Mazael had not been married he might well have seduced Sigaldra so he could see Romaria’s point.

Still, there were limits. There had been a few times in his younger days when he had regretted sleeping with a woman, but attempting to seduce a dragon in human form? Mazael had made many mistakes in his life, but he hoped he wasn’t quite that stupid.

So he had Basjun and Earnachar help Azurvaltoria along. Neither man seemed happy about it, but they obeyed.

“This ought to be far enough,” said Mazael as they reached a barren, stony hilltop. They could keep watch from here, and no valgasts could approach the hill undetected.

Though come to think of it, after the fiery battle along the banks of the stream, perhaps the valgasts had had their fill of fighting for the day.

“Yes,” croaked Azurvaltoria. “Let’s all sit down. That’s an excellent idea.” She staggered over to a flat stone and sat down with a sigh, her legs stretched out before her.

Mazael gripped his scabbard and slid Talon into it, exchanging a glance with Romaria as he did. She gave a little shrug. She didn’t know what to make of the dragon in human form, and truth be told, neither did Mazael.

“Basjun,” said Mazael. “Get a fire going. We…”

“Don’t bother,” said Azurvaltoria. She grunted and made a flipping gesture with her hand, and a large flame erupted from the ground nearby, throwing heat and shadow over the hilltop. “There’s nothing here to burn.”

“Except magic, apparently,” said Timothy, watching her.

“You would know, wizard,” said Azurvaltoria. “That was a nice trick with the elemental staff.” She smiled and wiped some sweat from her forehead. “Though I had already taught the little skulking rats to fear fire.”

Azurvaltoria looked for all the world like an exhausted human woman at the end of her strength. But as Mazael’s father had taught him, appearances were often deceiving.

“About that,” said Mazael. “We have a few questions.”

Azurvaltoria snorted. “I thought you might.”

“First,” said Mazael, “what is a dead dragon doing wandering the mountains of Skuldar in human form while pursued by a valgast army?”

“To start,” said Azurvaltoria, “if I am dead, I am clearly doing it wrong.”

“Obviously,” said Mazael. “Hence the question.”

Azurvaltoria shrugged. “Bad luck. I was heading north, and I ran into a small army of the little rats. As it happens, they weren’t looking for me. They were looking for you.”

“The Prophetess,” said Mazael.

“Yes,” said Azurvaltoria. “Our dear Lady Celina du Almaine has everything she needs to summon her goddess. She has the Mask of Marazadra. She has the Horn of Doom and Fate. She has a child with the Sight to act as a vessel.” Sigaldra stirred at that. “Now she just needs to live long enough to reach the Heart of the Spider at Mount Armyar. Of course, she has you on her trail, which rather lowers the odds of her living long enough to reach it. So she has called all her allies and sent them after you.”

Basjun frowned at the mention of the mountain. Mount Armyar? Mazael had never heard of it, but he was willing to wager that Basjun had. Perhaps they could reach it before the Prophetess and lay a trap for her.

“How did they wind up capturing you?” said Mazael.

“I was weakened,” said Azurvaltoria. She smirked. “The valgasts have something of a grudge against me. Whenever they tried to steal from the caverns of the Veiled Mountain, I made sure they regretted it. Unfortunately, they saw a chance to take revenge. I made them suffer for it, but my strength failed, and they overwhelmed me.” She hesitated. “As loathe as I am to concede it, your arrival was…timely. The spell the valgast priests used prevented me from regenerating my magical strength. I might not have been able to break free before they took me to Tchroth.”

“Tchroth?” said Mazael, trying to pronounce the strange word.

“The chief city of the valgasts,” said Azurvaltoria. She scowled and rubbed at her neck as if trying to loosen a stiff muscle. “It’s in the caverns of the underworld, not all that far from here. More or less under Mount Armyar, come to think of it. The Prophetess will probably pass through the place on her way to the Heart of the Spider.”

“Another question,” said Mazael.

Azurvaltoria sighed. “You mortals. Always so full of questions.”

“We did just save you from death or slavery by your own admission,” said Mazael. “How many answers is your life worth? If you’d rather not answer questions, we could give you back to the valgasts.”

Azurvaltoria blinked at him, and then snorted, her gaze turning towards Romaria. “I see why you like him.”

“Why didn’t you kill them all?” said Mazael.

“I was weakened,” said Azurvaltoria. “I used a considerable amount of magical power to fight off the valgasts, and once the wizards found me, their spells prevented me from regenerating my strength.”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Mazael, “and you know it.”

She lifted her dark eyebrows. “And just what did you mean, my lord Mazael?”

“You shouldn’t need magic to kill a thousand valgasts,” said Mazael. “You shouldn’t need magic to kill a single valgast. Take to the air and breathe fire on them. They’ll die in their dozens. Or rip them apart with your claws and crush them with your fangs. After you killed the first few hundred, they should have fled. So why didn’t you?”

Azurvaltoria glared at him. The glare of an ancient dragon, potent with magic, should have been intimidating even to a child of the Old Demon, but to Mazael’s surprise, he felt no fear at all. There was anger in the dragon's stare, but he also thought there was more than a little fear.

She was afraid.

“I can’t,” said Azurvaltoria in a quiet voice.

“Can’t do what?” said Mazael.

“At the moment,” said Azurvaltoria, “I am unable to resume my true form.”

“I did not think the Prophetess was capable of wielding magic of that potency…ah, Lady Azurvaltoria,” said Timothy.

“Lady Azurvaltoria?” said Azurvaltoria. “I like him. He’s polite. In answer to your question, she can’t. Not by herself. But while you and the Champion fought, I didn’t realize she was creating a bond between herself and the Mask of Marazadra. The Mask is a font of dark magic, and she drew upon it to work a spell far beyond her native strength.”

“She tried to kill you?” said Romaria.

Azurvaltoria’s smile showed teeth. “She tried. The spell was supposed to rend my physical form and kill me. Even with the Mask’s power fueling her spell, it wasn’t quite enough. Instead, it triggered a shape change.”

“From your true form to your current shape,” said Mazael. “Obviously, you got away from the caverns of Veiled Mountain before they collapsed. So why can’t you change back to your true form?”

“A spell lock,” said Timothy, and they all looked at him. “It is a risk of shapeshifting magic. Someone like Lady Romaria, for instance, can easily shift form because it’s part of her essential nature. For a dragon to take human form is harder, because it is…well, unnatural, like forcing water to flow uphill. A shapechanged entity, whether human, dragon, or anything else, is more vulnerable to magical attack than otherwise.”

“Essentially correct,” said Azurvaltoria. “I am afraid I am trapped in human form until I can kill the Prophetess.”

“How dreadful for you,” said Mazael.

She either missed his sarcasm or didn’t care. “It is! How you manage in these feeble physical configurations, I have no idea. No scales, no claws, no talons, no wings! You have to walk everywhere! Egregious! And the human female form is even more inconvenient than the male one.” She grasped her chest. “These damned udders throw off my balance, and that one cannot stop staring at them.”

Basjun blinked, turning red behind his beard.

“We…do not customarily call them udders,” said Sigaldra. She looked a little poleaxed. Mazael understood. This had been one of the stranger conversations he’d had in his life.

Yet he saw the opportunity. He had thought the mysterious wizard attacking the valgasts might make a useful ally, and he had been more right than he had known. Even locked in human form, Azurvaltoria possessed a great deal of powerful magic. More importantly, she possessed knowledge that Mazael needed. The Prophetess wanted to summon the goddess Marazadra, and Mazael had no idea how she intended to do that, and to defeat her, he needed to understand her.

“Whatever,” said Azurvaltoria, lowering her arms. Basjun looked at her chest again, blinked, and looked away. Mazael understood the poor lad’s discomfiture. The dragon might have been locked in human form, but it was an attractive human form. “It is…undignified, to say the least.”

“The author of your indignities,” said Mazael, “is the Prophetess.”

“Obviously,” said Azurvaltoria.

“Then you’re stuck in human form until you kill her?” said Mazael.

“Or someone else kills her,” said Azurvaltoria. “The spell is bound to both of us. I can’t end it without killing her first.”

“As it happens,” said Mazael, “I want to kill her, too.”

“Then you are proposing an alliance,” said Azurvaltoria. She drew herself up. “I do not need the help of anyone. For three thousand years, I guarded the caverns of the Veiled Mountain, and slew anyone who dared to enter, I…”

“The caverns in the Veiled Mountain are buried,” said Mazael, “the Prophetess has the Mask of Marazadra that you were bound to guard, you are locked in human form, and when we found you, the valgasts were about to carry you off to their lair. It is just possible you might need help, even from lowly humans.”

Azurvaltoria let out a long, irritated breath. “As loathe as I am to admit it…you might be right. So. What do you suggest?”

“An alliance,” said Mazael. “Even in human form, you’re still powerful…”

Azurvaltoria snorted. “High praise.”

“But not powerful enough to kill the Prophetess by yourself,” said Mazael. “Neither are we. We’ve faced her three times – at Greatheart Keep, at Armalast, and most recently in your caverns. All three times she escaped. I don’t intend for her to escape a fourth time.”

“So be it,” said Azurvaltoria. “I accept your proposal. We shall hunt and kill the Prophetess together.”

“And if we are to be allies,” said Mazael, “then we shall share our resources. Such as knowledge.”

“Ah,” said Azurvaltoria with a little smile. “Always the questions. Very well. What do you want to know?”

###

Sigaldra stared at the woman who had once been a dragon.

The thought of allying with such a creature unsettled Sigaldra. She remembered looking upon Azurvaltoria in all of her majesty and power in the caverns of the Veiled Mountain, her wings wide enough to blot out of the sun, her teeth like daggers and her talons like swords, her blue scales like plates of armor. Mazael presumed to ally with such a creature? A dragon needed allies no more than the sun needed firewood.

And yet…Azurvaltoria had been defeated, hadn’t she? The dragon had underestimated the Prophetess, and the Prophetess had locked her into human form. All that strength and power hadn’t saved her. Perhaps Azurvaltoria’s knowledge would make the difference.

Sigaldra glanced at Adalar and saw her own doubts mirrored in his face. Behind him she saw Earnachar, trying to keep up his usual scowl, while she noted with a flicker of amusement that Basjun was very carefully not looking at the dragon. Yet Earnachar caught Sigaldra’s attention for a moment. She had hated the man and desired his death, and while she would never like him, they had worked together to rescue Liane.

Surely working with a dragon would be at least as insane as going into the mountains of Skuldar with Earnachar, and they had already done that.

Sigaldra gave Adalar a shrug and turned her attention back to Azurvaltoria and Mazael.

“What I want to know,” said Mazael, “is how the Prophetess intends to summon Marazadra back to the mortal world.”

“Ah,” said Azurvaltoria. “I thought you might. Clever of you to realize her goal, though I assume you know not her methods.”

“She has been proclaiming her goal to anyone who would listen,” said Mazael. “As to her methods, I need to understand what she intends if I am to defeat her.”

“True,” said Azurvaltoria without rancor. “So. To understand the Prophetess’s goals and methods, you must first understand some history. Some of it, I presume, you have already learned. A long time ago, before even I was born, many dark powers competed to rule this world – the San-keth, the soliphages, the Trichirabi, the deep princes, the Imperium of the Dark Elderborn, and others. Marazadra was one of those dark powers. So were the Demonsouled…and the Old Demon was the chief of the Demonsouled.”

“The Urdmoloch,” said Sigaldra. Ragnachar and his orcragar warriors had worshiped the Urdmoloch as a god, and if the rumors were true, Ragnachar had even been a child of the Urdmoloch, his blood tainted by demon power. Certainly, that explained both the man’s cruelty and his prowess in battle, but neither had been enough to stop Mazael Cravenlock, who had slain him below the gates of Sword Town on the day Lucan Mandragon unleashed the runedead.

“Yes, the Old Demon,” said Azurvaltoria with spiteful scorn. For an instant, Sigaldra wondered if the dragon’s venom was aimed at her, but then she realized Azurvaltoria was thinking of her enemy. “The Urdmoloch, as you barbarians called him. Or the Hand of Chaos, or whatever other poetic names his enemies gave him. He loved that, you know.”

“He did,” said Mazael, his face hard with some dark memory of his own. Romaria stepped closer to him.

“The worst of humanity and the worst of demons, bundled together within one man,” said Azurvaltoria. “The Old Demon wanted to become a god, the one and only god, but you knew that already. Of course, he had many competitors to that title, Marazadra and the Trichirabi and the Dark Elderborn and all the others. He also had a grave disadvantage. He had tremendous power, but he was half-spirit, so he could not attack his enemies unless they attacked him first.”

“That never slowed him down,” said Mazael.

“No, it didn’t,” said Azurvaltoria. “He didn’t need to destroy his enemies. All he had to do was to talk them into destroying themselves for him, and he was very good at it. That’s what he did to Marazadra and Sepharivaim both. He tricked them into destroying themselves. Of course, you can’t kill a god, not really. They’re like water that way.”

“Water?” said Adalar, his confusion plain.

“Water can be frozen, my lord,” said Timothy. “It can be boiled. It can be poured away and dissipated. But it can never truly be destroyed. Even steam can condense and become liquid once more.”

“The wizard is correct,” said Azurvaltoria. “Marazadra foresaw her destruction at the Old Demon’s hands, so she made preparations. She bound her power into three artifacts, one greater, two lesser, in preparation for her return.”

“The Mask of Marazadra,” said Mazael, nodding, “the Talisman of the Messenger, and the Mask of the Champion.”

“Correct,” said Azurvaltoria. “You saw the Talisman of the Messenger.”

“That metal spider on the Prophetess’s chest,” said Sigaldra. “Right between her…udders.”

Azurvaltoria snorted. “Yes. The purpose of the Talisman is to empower an agent to facilitate Marazadra’s return. The purpose of the Mask of the Champion is to assist the agent in her work.”

“Hence Rigoric,” said Mazael, “and why the Mask of the Champion keeps healing him.”

“Precisely,” said Azurvaltoria.

“So what does the Mask of Marazadra do?” said Mazael. “It is the reservoir of Marazadra’s power?”

“To an extent, but it is more than that,” said Azurvaltoria. “To put it in the simplest possible terms, the Mask of Marazadra is an…egg.”

“An egg?” said Sigaldra. The Mask hadn’t looked like an egg. The Mask of the Champion looked like it had been made from miniature sword blades. The Mask of Marazadra looked like a steel spider that gripped its bearer’s face, and Sigaldra couldn’t imagine voluntarily wearing such a ghastly thing.

“So if the Mask as an egg,” said Adalar, “then the Prophetess is trying to summon Marazadra’s…daughter?”

“No, no,” said Azurvaltoria with an aggrieved wave of her hand. “Marazadra was a goddess. Death doesn’t work for a creature like her the way it would for you, or even for me. The Old Demon destroyed her physical form, but her power and will remained. The Mask is the egg of her new physical form, the catalyst that will allow her to be resurrected in this world.”

An egg? A flicker of dread went through Sigaldra. The Jutai, the Tervingi, and the Marcher folk all had variations on the same proverb about eggs. To make an omelet, the proverb went, one had to break a few eggs.

So what did the Prophetess intend to do with Liane?

“My sister,” said Sigaldra before Mazael could speak again. “Why did she take my sister?”

“The little barbarian girl with the Prophetess?” said Azurvaltoria. Sigaldra nodded. “Does she have any magical abilities?”

“Some,” said Sigaldra. “She has the Sight. She can’t control it very well, though.”

“Ah,” said Azurvaltoria. “That explains a great deal.”

“It doesn’t explain anything to me,” said Sigaldra. “Why did she take my sister?”

“The Mask of Marazadra is an egg,” said Azurvaltoria. “You can also think of it as a seed. A seed must be planted in something to bloom. Your sister will be the soil for Marazadra’s rebirth.”

Sigaldra scowled. “Then she wishes to…possess Liane?”

“In essence, yes,” said Azurvaltoria. “The Mask is the catalyst for her rebirth, and your sister will serve as her vessel. The Mask and your sister both shall be consumed, and Marazadra will rise in physical form once more.”

Sigaldra felt her hands curl into fists at her side. She had known all along that the Prophetess intended some dire fate for Liane. Certainly, nothing else the woman had done had been benevolent. Yet to hear beyond all doubt that the Prophetess intended to murder Liane to raise her precious goddess sent a wave of fury through her. For a moment she wanted to take up her bow and stalk into the night at once, to find and strangle that damned sorceress this very instant…

“We’ll find her,” said Adalar, his voice quiet. “We’ll find the Prophetess and get Liane back.”

“How can you be so sure?” said Sigaldra, bitter venom filling her.

“Because,” said Adalar with a shrug, “the dragon tried to kill us, and here we are.”

“I didn’t try to kill you,” said Azurvaltoria with some asperity. “Marazadra was not the only one to underestimate the Old Demon. I did as well and wound up bound to guard the Mask for the last three thousand years. She shrugged. “Not that’s been all boring. Some powerful people have tried hard to obtain the Mask.”

“Who you then killed,” said Adalar.

Azurvaltoria shrugged again. “They knew what they were doing. If they wanted to live, they should not have tried to take the Mask. If it makes you feel better, they were almost all mortal wizards with a long string of crimes and misdeeds to their names, so they deserved to die.” She smiled. “And they never defeated me and claimed the Mask.”

“Until the Prophetess did,” said Sigaldra, annoyed. That made the dragon’s smile vanish. “I didn’t expect that she could tap into the power of the Mask. I suppose I should have realized it sooner. She was the first priestess of Marazadra to reach the cavern housing the Mask itself.”

“So why does the Prophetess have to go to the Heart of the Spider and this mountain…” said Mazael.

“Mount Armyar,” said Azurvaltoria.

“It is some distance north of here, sir,” said Basjun, still not looking at the dragon. Her crack about “udders” must have landed home. Sigaldra supposed the dragon’s human form looked attractive enough if one overlooked the fact that her true form was an ancient scaled horror.

“Why does she have to go there?” said Mazael. “Why didn’t she use the Mask and summon Marazadra back the minute she escaped from the Veiled Mountain?”

“Because Marazadra can only be reborn in the place where the Old Demon destroyed her,” said Azurvaltoria.

“Which, I assume, is the Heart of the Spider,” said Mazael.

“You assume correctly,” said Azurvaltoria.

“Why, though?” said Mazael.

“Killing a goddess releases a tremendous amount of power,” said Azurvaltoria, “and that power is drawn back into the spirit world. What happens if you drop a lead weight onto an awning from a great height?”

“It tears a hole in the fabric,” said Timothy. “Do you mean to say that the Heart of the Spider is a…gate to the spirit world?”

“Very clever, wizard. A rift, more precisely,” said Azurvaltoria. “A gate implies stability. A rift is the product of damage. The Heart of the Spider is a rift to the spirit world, leading directly to where the power of Marazadra lies dormant within the spirit world.”

“Then those are all the components of the summoning spell,” said Timothy. “The Heart of the Spider to draw forth Marazadra’s power. The Mask to act as the spark to ignite the power. Lady Liane as the vessel for her rebirth.”

“That is the entirety of it,” said Azurvaltoria. She looked at Mazael and smiled, who did not smile back.

He knew she had omitted one component of the spell.

“So why,” said Sigaldra, “why did she make such an effort to take the Horn of Doom and Fate from Armalast?”

Liane, in her final words to Sigaldra in the collapsing caverns of the Veiled Mountain, had told Sigaldra to sound the Horn of Doom and Fate when the time came. Of course, since the Prophetess currently carried the Horn, that seemed unlikely. For that matter, Sigaldra didn’t know what the Horn was supposed to do. The Prophetess had bullied Basracus out of the Horn, and Basracus had been reluctant to hand it over. On the other hand, Basracus had finally surrendered the Horn…which meant he was afraid to use it.

“Marazadra is a goddess,” said Azurvaltoria. “A goddess needs followers. The Horn of Doom and Fate, when sounded, calls up the shadows of the dead and binds them to the bearer of the horn. I suspect the Prophetess will use it to summon up the shades of dead Skuldari. When Marazadra rises in power, she’ll have quite the army – the Skuldari under Basracus, the soliphages, the valgasts, and tens of thousands of bound shades.”

“She will invade the Grim Marches,” said Mazael.

“Obviously,” said Azurvaltoria. “And the High Plain, and Knightreach, and Mastaria, and every other land her armies can reach. The goddess wants to rule the world. The empire of the spider, they’ll likely call it.”

“Not unless we kill the Prophetess and rescue Liane first,” said Mazael, “which we’ll do by getting to Mount Armyar before they do.” He looked at Basjun. “Do you know the way to Mount Armyar?”

“I do, sir,” said Basjun, “but I’m afraid that will do you no good. There is no safe way to reach the ruins at the top of the mountain. The slopes near the summit are simply too steep, and the sole path is guarded by many soliphages.”

“Oh, you can’t climb the mountain without getting killed,” said Azurvaltoria. “The only way for you to reach the Heart of the Spider is to pass through the tunnels of the underworld. One of them leads to the peak of the mountain and the temple where Marazadra was defeated.”

Mazael frowned. “I thought you said that the chief city of the valgasts was beneath Mount Armyar.”

Azurvaltoria smiled. “Oh, good, you were paying attention. Yes. Tchroth is the chief city of the valgasts, or one of their chief cities, a place sacred to Marazadra and therefore to them. It guards the cavern that climbs to the peak of the mountain.”

“Which means,” said Mazael, “to get to the Heart of the Spider, we’ll have to pass through Tchroth.”

“Then we have to catch the Prophetess before she enters the underworld,” said Sigaldra. “An entire city of valgasts…how many thousands of them would we have to fight?”

“Tens of thousands,” said Azurvaltoria.

“We would need an army,” said Adalar. “We would need the entire host of the Grim Marches and the Tervingi, and perhaps the hosts of Knightreach and Greycoast as well.”

“Actually, you don’t,” said Azurvaltoria. “Outsiders often come to Tchroth. The valgasts trade and conduct commerce like everyone else. A place called the Shadow Market in Tchroth permits outlanders to buy and sell, assuming they are strong enough to keep from getting captured and sold into slavery. The valgasts have needs that can only be met by commerce, just like humans, and they offer in trade an array of exotic weapons and poisons and magical lore.”

Adalar frowned. “Who would be mad enough to go there?”

She smiled at him. “You tell me, Lord Adalar. You were the one who followed a woman into a dragon’s lair in pursuit of a sorceress.”

Sigaldra felt a tinge of color in her cheeks. If Earnachar said anything, she might well hit him. Fortunately, the headman of Banner Hill remained silent. Perhaps a prudent fear of the dragon’s magic had stilled his tongue.

“We crept into Armalast,” said Mazael, rubbing his chin, “and I suppose we can sneak into Tchroth as well. But Adalar is right. We will need help.”

Sigaldra frowned. “The Guardian said that we had to go alone to pursue the Prophetess.”

“We did,” said Mazael, “but I doubt the Guardian foresaw that we would have to sneak through a valgast army to do it. Or that we would wind up going to the Veiled Mountain.”

“The foretelling of the Sight is never completely accurate,” said Romaria, “and I think that we have moved beyond what Riothamus foresaw. Had we taken the host of the Grim Marches against the walls of Armalast, we would have been slain. But we are past Armalast now, and must make a new decision.”

“Yes,” said Mazael. “This is what we’ll do.”

###

Mazael looked at his companions, considering the best course of action.

Though he had already made up his mind while Azurvaltoria had spoken. They needed help, and Romaria was right. They had moved beyond the range of Riothamus’s vision. The Guardian had seen the future, but Mazael and the others had changed that future. That meant they faced new dangers, and they needed to take new actions.

Specifically, they needed help, and Mazael needed to send someone to summon Molly and Riothamus.

He couldn’t go himself. He was the only one who could match Rigoric in combat, and his Demonsouled blood let him recover from injury in a way that the others could not. His first impulse was to send Romaria. She knew the way, and she could cover the ground quickly. Yet she was the best scout among them, and without her help, they might not survive the trip to Tchroth. His next thought was to send Timothy, but they needed his spells to find the Prophetess. Sigaldra, then? Sigaldra would not turn aside from her quest to find her sister, and if Mazael sent Earnachar, Molly might well conclude that Earnachar had betrayed Mazael and kill the Tervingi headman on the spot, which might touch off a civil war in the Grim Marches.

His daughter was sometimes impulsive like that. He couldn’t blame Molly. She had gotten it from him.

Another thought occurred to him, the beginnings of an idea.

“Azurvaltoria,” said Mazael. “We took a maethweisyr from your hoard.”

She scowled. “Did you, now.”

“You weren’t using it,” said Mazael.

“That’s no excuse,” said Azurvaltoria.

“Perhaps you’ll forgive us when I tell you our plan for it,” said Mazael. “I threw it at the Prophetess, and it absorbed some of her blood.”

Azurvaltoria blinked, and then smiled. “Ah. Clever. I should have expected that from you. She can’t run now. Any wizard with a modicum of the proper skill could use the thing to follow her to the ends of the earth.”

“Do you have that modicum of skill?” said Mazael.

She looked affronted. “Of course.”

“And you would be willing to use it?” said Mazael.

“Certainly,” said Azurvaltoria.

“Good,” said Mazael. He looked at Timothy. “I need you to go back to Weaver’s Pass and tell Molly and Riothamus to send help to Mount Armyar. I would go myself, or I would send Romaria, but I think we are both needed here. Molly knows who you are, and she trusts your judgment and word. If you give her a message from me, she will listen.”

Timothy inclined his head. “I shall do as you say, my lord.”

Adalar frowned. “You’re not sending him alone?”

“Of course not,” said Mazael. “Earnachar, you’ll go with him. Make sure Timothy arrives alive at the camp in Weaver’s Pass. Basjun, I do not have the right to command you, but I would like you to go with Timothy and Earnachar. You know the terrain, and more importantly, you know how to find Mount Armyar. You can guide my daughter and her retainers there.”

“Crouch and I shall be glad to serve, sir,” said Basjun. He scratched behind the ears of the ugly dog. “It will be a heavy blow against the priests of Marazadra if we defeat the Prophetess.”

“Ah…what if they do not believe us?” said Earnachar. “Lady Molly is not fond of me, and…”

“You’re afraid she’ll kill you on sight?” said Sigaldra with a little smile.

Earnachar muttered something under his breath and then kept speaking. “I can hardly deliver the hrould’s message if I am killed before I even speak it.”

“An excellent argument,” said Mazael. He reached into a pouch at his belt and drew out his signet ring, a heavy gold band adorned with a stone carved into the sigil of the House of Cravenlock. “Take this and present it to them. They will believe you. From what I understand, it is difficult to lie to the Guardian of the Tervingi anyway.”

“Truly,” said Earnachar with a grimace.

“Basjun, can you find the way from here?” said Mazael.

“Of course, sir,” said Basjun, still scratching behind Crouch’s ears. The ugly dog let out an agreeing woof. “There is a trail a few miles west of here that should take us to the eastern end of Weaver’s Vale. I would worry about encountering the valgasts, but since they were all searching for…uh, Lady Azurvaltoria…”

“Lady Azurvaltoria?” the dragon said with a smile. She sat up a little straighter, her shoulders back. Gods, but was she flirting with the poor boy? “How polite.”

“Ah…thank you,” said Basjun, tearing his gaze away from her. “Since the valgasts were looking for Lady Azurvaltoria, I fear you will have more trouble with them than we shall.”

“And if we encounter any Skuldari?” said Earnachar.

“I will disguise myself as a priest of Marazadra once more,” said Timothy. He tapped the end of the valgast staff against the ground. “Should they require persuasion, I believe the staff can provide a convincing demonstration.”

“Good,” said Mazael.

“Should we leave tonight, hrould?” said Earnachar.

Mazael considered. Sigaldra, he knew, would want to set off for the entrance to the underworld at the other end of the valley at once. But they had just endured a hard day of fighting, and he did not want Basjun and Earnachar and Timothy to have to find their way over the treacherous hills in the dark.

“No,” said Mazael. “No, it’s well past dark, and at this point, a few more hours shouldn’t make a difference. We’ll rest here, and continue on our way at dawn.”

Chapter 5: Child of the Old Demon

They made camp atop the hill.

There was no wood to burn for a fire, but thanks to Azurvaltoria’s magic, that was not a problem. She waved a hand and increased the strength of the fire she had conjured earlier, setting the flame to grow brighter and larger. Mazael had to admit that the heat felt nice in the chill of the Skuldari mountains.

“Won’t that draw valgasts?” said Sigaldra. “The flame must be visible for miles.”

“Probably,” said Azurvaltoria, her teeth glinting white in the glow of the flames. It reminded Mazael of the rows of dagger-like fangs in the dragon’s jaw. “But the valgasts have suffered a very bad day, haven’t they? So many warriors and priests have fallen who might have instead participated in the glorious conquest to come. They won’t bother us again, not unless they get help.” She sighed and rubbed one of her knees. “You ought to worry more about the Skuldari warriors or the soliphages stumbling across you.”

“A good point,” said Adalar. “I will keep the first watch.”

“Thank you,” said Earnachar. Mazael noted Sigaldra’s blink of surprise. Earnachar never thanked anyone. “It has been a long day, and I am going to sleep.”

“As am I,” said Timothy. “Wake me for the second watch.”

One by one the others lay down near Azurvaltoria’s fire, wrapping themselves in their cloaks. Romaria, however, stood and stretched, and Mazael felt her eyes resting on him.

“I’m going to take a look around,” said Romaria. “Best to make sure nothing is creeping up on us in the darkness.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Mazael. “If something is creeping around in the darkness, better not to fight it alone.”

Adalar nodded, stretching his shoulders, and Azurvaltoria regarded them with black, glittering eyes.

Romaria started down the side of the hill, and Mazael followed her, hand resting on Talon’s hilt. A few moments later they were alone in the gloom at the base of the rocky hill. A stream bubbled its way through the center of the narrow valley, and the cool wind whistled and moaned past, but other than that Mazael heard nothing at all.

“Anything?” said Mazael.

Romaria walked a few paces to a boulder and leaned her bow against it, and then turned to face him.

“Nothing at all,” she said. “We’re alone.”

“Good,” said Mazael, and he stepped forward, grabbed her hips, pulled her close, and kissed her long and hard. She responded at once, pressing herself against him, her arms coiling around his back despite his armor. A moment later they had each other out of their clothes and armor, and a moment after that they were on the ground, using Romaria’s cloak as a blanket. The Demonsouled blood gave Mazael greater strength and speed at the cost of rage…and increased appetites of the flesh.

Fortunately, Romaria was most receptive.

She had told him that the Elderborn half of her soul, charged with earth magic, was drawn to strength, was attracted to raw power. Whenever they went into battle together, at the first opportunity afterward they sprang upon each other with a will. It was fortunate they were married. Without her, Mazael would have succumbed to his Demonsouled blood, and the Old Demon would have devoured him. Without him, Romaria would have been dominated by the Elderborn half of her soul, losing her rational mind as she transformed into a beast.

The thought flickered across Mazael’s mind, and then he didn’t think of anything at all as Romaria’s arms pressed against his back and her legs wrapped around him.

Later they lay side by side, the sweat cooling on their fevered skin.

“That,” said Mazael, “is the only thing better than battle.”

“Mmm,” said Romaria, a satisfied little sound. She stretched next to him, her body sliding against his. “Do you think the others know why we left?”

“Who cares?” said Mazael, and Romaria laughed. “We should probably get back, though. If a soliphage shows up, they will need help.”

“Aye,” said Romaria, sitting up and reaching for her clothes, her black braid bouncing against the pale skin of her back. “And I’d not wish to fight a valgast while naked.”

Mazael snorted. “No.”

He would have liked to lie with her a while longer, maybe fall asleep, but she was right. Falling asleep out here, away from the others, would be suicidal. In short order, they dressed and donned their armor, and Mazael led the way up the hillside to the camp. The magical fire still burned, throwing off heat and light, and Azurvaltoria sat atop her rock, gazing into the night. The dark eyes turned in their direction, and she smirked.

“I let Adalar go to sleep,” said Azurvaltoria. “He needed the rest, and I do not think I will sleep.”

“Kind of you,” Mazael said.

“Did you enjoy yourselves?” said the dragon.

“You like to watch, do you?” said Romaria without missing a beat.

“I neither watched nor listened,” said Azurvaltoria. “It was not necessary. I could smell you. Humans sweat a great deal while mating. And human reproductive organs give off an unpleasant odor.” She smiled. “But neither of you are entirely human, are you?”

“Since you already know the answer to that question,” said Mazael, “I assume you have a reason for asking it again?”

“Your friends,” said Azurvaltoria. “They don’t know the truth, do they?”

Romaria snorted and lifted her hair, showing the points of her ears. “They’re not blind.”

“There are degrees of blindness,” said Azurvaltoria. “Your nature is obvious. Lord Mazael’s nature is…less obvious, but still obvious to those with eyes to see.”

Mazael considered her for a moment, wondering what she wanted. Was this a threat? A warning? Maybe she was bored and was trying to pass the time.

“You didn’t mention the Prophetess’s maethweisyr,” said Mazael.

“The one the Prophetess took, charged with your blood,” said Azurvaltoria. “She must have gone to considerable lengths to claim it.”

“She did,” said Mazael.

“You noticed that I didn’t mention it,” said Azurvaltoria. She looked at the others, all of them asleep. “No need for them to know the truth, I think, if you haven’t told them. It would only alarm them to learn they are traveling with the last child of the Old Demon.”

“So why does she need a maethweisyr charged with my blood?” said Mazael.

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Azurvaltoria. “Power, of course. You’re the last child of the Old Demon, as far as I know, and the Old Demon himself was the son of one of the Great Demons of the outer darkness. That makes you, essentially, the grandson of a god.”

“The Great Demon was not a god,” said Mazael.

Azurvaltoria made a dismissive noise. “Then a creature with the power of a god. Some of that power now resides in your blood. The spell to bring back Marazadra is beyond mortal capacity. There must be a catalyst, a way to empower the spell. Hence your blood. The blood of the Demonsouled carries the necessary power.”

“She’s a fool,” said Mazael. “My blood is dangerous.”

“Oh?” said Azurvaltoria.

“Lucan Mandragon,” said Mazael.

“The Old Demon’s puppet, as I recall,” said Azurvaltoria.

“He stole some of my blood and used it to empower his spells,” said Mazael. “That set him upon the path to destruction. The power corrupted him and made him vulnerable to the Old Demon’s influence.”

“Your blood destroyed him,” said Azurvaltoria. “Yet the same blood flows through your veins and it hasn’t destroyed you. Why is that, I wonder?”

Mazael shrugged. “I had better teachers as a child than Lucan did. His father taught him to wield power at whatever the price. Adalar’s father taught me that power without restraint is evil. Romaria held me back at the moment when it would have consumed me. After that…” He shrugged. “After that, I saw my father for what he was. It was easier to resist him then.”

“Interesting,” said Azurvaltoria. “I’ve killed Demonsouled before.”

“Have you?” said Mazael, his hand itching to grasp his sword hilt. Azurvaltoria had said she would help them, but if she changed her mind…even locked in human form, she had a great deal of power.

“I guarded the Veiled Mountain and the Mask of Marazadra for three thousand years,” said Azurvaltoria. “Often wizards and other madmen came to claim the power of the Mask for themselves. Some of them were Demonsouled. Some were clever enough to realize what the Old Demon really was and sought to claim the Mask to use it against him.” She shrugged. “I killed them, of course, though I didn’t wish it.”

“Why?” said Mazael. “Why didn’t you want to kill them?”

“Because I hated the Old Demon,” said Azurvaltoria.

“We’ve all got that in common, then,” said Romaria.

“I hated him before either of you were born,” said Azurvaltoria. “When I was young, I was foolish enough and vain enough to challenge him, and he bound me to guard the Mask of Marazadra for thousands of years. Not that it has been boring, mind you. But I wanted my freedom, and I hoped that one of you would kill him. None of you did, of course…and then you came along and killed your father. When you wandered into Skuldar in pursuit of the Prophetess, naturally I was curious.”

“What did you think?” said Mazael.

“You remind me of him a great deal,” said Azurvaltoria. Mazael’s mouth twisted, but she kept speaking. “The same wrath. The same cunning, though less experienced. And the same charisma. All he had to do was crook his finger, and a woman would give herself to him. It explains how he fathered so many Demonsouled, does it not? I was surprised that you had not bedded the angry barbarian girl, or that the Prophetess was not one of your spurned former lovers.”

“I’m married,” said Mazael. “I’m not going to betray Romaria.”

His wife smiled and squeezed his hand.

“Indeed,” said Azurvaltoria.

“Was that why you helped me?” said Mazael. “Because you did help me. Subtly, of course, and within the bounds the Old Demon put upon you. But you did help me.”

“I confess you are not quite like anyone I have ever met,” said Azurvaltoria. “Neither of you are.” She pointed at Romaria. “You should have become a beast years ago, yet here you are.” The black eyes turned back to Mazael. “And you…I have killed many Demonsouled. Most of them wanted to fight and kill the Old Demon so they could take his place. You fought and killed him, but you refused to take his place. You could have conquered the world, but instead here you are, refusing to take any lovers save your wife and helping one of your weaker vassals rescue her sister.”

“You make me sound kinder than I really am,” said Mazael.

“Kindness is useless without strength,” said Azurvaltoria. “I think the world needs someone like you. You are the Demonsouled who killed the Old Demon. All kinds of nasty things lurked in the shadows from fear of your father, but now he’s dead. And now that he’s dead, they’re going to wake up and try to take their piece of the world. Marazadra is just the first. So that is why I’m helping you. You’re a thunderbolt, Mazael Cravenlock, and I’m pointing you at my enemies.”

“You’re a dragon,” said Mazael. “Aren’t you one of those dark powers that seek dominion over the world?”

“Hardly,” said Azurvaltoria with a disdainful sniff. “We dragons are vastly more powerful than you humans, of course, but even we can be killed. The high lords of Old Dracaryl enslaved and destroyed many of my kind, and built their necromantic empire upon the backs of my kindred. Then the Old Demon destroyed the high lords as well. Do you think I want a world ruled by a creature like Marazadra? No.”

“Then what do you want?” said Mazael.

“To wander,” said Azurvaltoria. “I have been here for so long I have forgotten what the world looks like beyond the mountains of Skuldar. I wish to see the ocean again, and the forests of the middle lands, and the vast plains of the eastern realms. I desire to disguise myself as a human and to walk the streets of your towns and cities. Many of my race do, you know, for though humans are weak and foul-smelling they are nonetheless fascinating. And I wish to find another of my kind and mate and bear children. I should have done so long ago, but I have been bound here, and none of my kind has come to Skuldar.”

Romaria shook her head. “And you were making fun of us for…mating.”

“That is because humans look ridiculous when they mate,” said Azurvaltoria. “But we wander from the point. I wish for freedom, Mazael Cravenlock, and freedom in a world that isn’t ruled by a creature like the Old Demon or Marazadra or one of the Archons of the Dark Elderborn. This is my chance for freedom, to destroy the Mask, to be rid of it, and be free at last. That, if you must know, is why I am going to help you.”

“Very well,” said Mazael. “The gods know I’m not in any position to turn away help. And, truth be told, your knowledge might be more useful than your power.”

“Though you’ll make use of that, of course,” said Azurvaltoria.

“As I said,” said Mazael, “I won’t turn away help when it is offered.”

“Wise of you,” said Azurvaltoria. “First, we have to do something about your smell.”

Mazael snorted. “I haven’t had a bath in a while, yes. I suppose I could bathe in one of the streams, but there’s no soap at hand.”

“I don’t think,” said Romaria, “she’s talking about that.”

“No,” said Azurvaltoria. “The smell of your blood, rather.” Her nostrils flared. “I can smell it, even in the limited and weak form of a human. The blood of the Old Demon courses through your veins, and I can smell its power, its taint. Nor am I the only one.”

“The valgasts,” said Romaria.

“At the village of Gray Pillar in the Grim Marches,” said Mazael, “when this all began. A valgast wizard there recognized me as a child of the Old Demon.”

“What did you do then?” said Azurvaltoria.

“I killed him.”

“Yes, of course,” said Azurvaltoria.

“He was trying to kill me, to be fair,” said Mazael.

Azurvaltoria shook her head. “That is not the point. Any valgast will be able to smell the power in your blood.”

Mazael frowned. “So they will recognize me as Demonsouled the minute they see me…well, the minute they smell me?”

“The common warriors and the thralls would not,” said Azurvaltoria. “They would recognize you as powerful and dangerous, but they wouldn’t realize what you really are. Their priests, though, are schooled in the lore of their people, and they would recognize you.” She shrugged. “For that matter, they would recognize me. My blood still smells like the blood of a dragon, even while trapped in human form.”

“It does,” said Romaria.

Azurvaltoria smiled. “And you, my dear, smell of the Elderborn when you should not. So if we are to enter Tchroth and the Shadow Market and survive, we shall have to do something about that.”

“What do you propose?” said Mazael. “I imagine a bath would be insufficient.”

“You would both benefit from a bath, especially after what you just did,” said Azurvaltoria. “But that would not conceal us from the valgasts. I propose a spell, therefore. A minor warding spell. I shall cast it over us every night when we stop to camp. Timothy would recognize it for what it is, but since he is going back to the Grim Marches, that will not prove a problem. We shall simply tell the others it is a ward against detection, which is true enough. I imagine you would prefer not to share the real reason with them.”

“No,” said Mazael. He didn’t trust Azurvaltoria, not after the game she had played with them during their journey to the Veiled Mountain, but on the other hand, she had given him no reason to fear treachery. And they faced a common foe in the Prophetess and the spirit of Marazadra. Whatever Azurvaltoria thought of Mazael, whether or not her description of him was what she truly thought or a bizarre attempt at flattery, the dragon hated the Prophetess and desired revenge. More, she desired her freedom by destroying the Mask of Marazadra. Perhaps Mazael could not trust the dragon locked in human form…but he could trust to her hatred.

Common enemies, Richard Mandragon had once told Mazael, made for a safer alliance than friendship or bonds of blood. The old lord had ruled the Grim Marches with an iron hand for nearly twenty years, so he had been right about that.

On the other hand, his teachings had twisted his son Lucan, so perhaps Mazael ought to take them with a grain of salt.

He felt Azurvaltoria’s dark eyes on his face and had the disturbing idea that she knew exactly what he was thinking.

“All right,” said Mazael.

Azurvaltoria rose to her feet, wincing a little. She still hadn’t recovered from the long battle with the valgasts, or from the Prophetess’s attack upon her. Fire flashed around her fingers as she began to gesture, tracing intricate patterns in the air. Her lips moved in silent words, and then she made a pushing gesture. The fire flashed brighter and vanished, and a cold chill rolled through Mazael. He scowled and shook his head, while Romaria flinched.

“I forgot,” said Azurvaltoria, rolling her shoulders. “That spell has a kick to it.”

“Clearly,” said Mazael. “Did it work?”

Azurvaltoria stepped closer and sniffed the air. “Yes. I cannot smell the taint in your blood, nor your Elderborn ancestry.”

“What do we smell like now?” said Romaria, curious.

“Sweat, mostly,” said Azurvaltoria.

“I knew that,” said Romaria. “But you can’t smell our blood?”

“No,” said Azurvaltoria. “Nor can the valgasts. They will think it odd, but not odd enough to do anything about it. If all goes well, that shall allow us to ambush the Prophetess long before she reaches the Heart of the Spider.”

“Perhaps,” said Mazael.

He doubted it would be as simple as that.

###

Mazael took his turn at watching over the camp and then slept the rest of the night.

The next morning the others awakened, and Timothy, Earnachar, and Basjun prepared for their journey to the east and the waiting army of the Grim Marches.

“Remember,” said Mazael. “Travel fast and quiet. Avoid the Skuldari if at all possible, and stay away from Armalast and the main road through Weaver’s Vale. Get to Lady Molly and the Guardian as fast as you can, and tell them to meet us at Mount Armyar.”

Mazael knew that he was stating the obvious. Yet Earnachar, Basjun, and Timothy nodded as if he had said something profound. All three men knew their business. Yet Mazael had found time and time again that sometimes it was a lord’s task to state the obvious to his men.

“It shall be done,” said Earnachar. “Earnachar son of Balnachar shall go to the Grim Marches and return with aid, and we shall bring destruction down upon the head of the false Travian whore who calls herself the Prophetess.”

From the corner of his eye, Mazael saw Sigaldra’s lip twitch. A few weeks ago she would have mocked Earnachar’s bombastic pronouncement, or at least rolled her eyes. She would never like Earnachar, but battling through Armalast and the caverns of the Veiled Mountain had softened her disdain for the man. Perhaps that was a good sign. Perhaps if they succeeded and returned to the Grim Marches, the remnants of the Jutai could live in peace alongside the Tervingi.

“If you do encounter any Skuldari or priests of Marazadra,” said Azurvaltoria, “I suggest you impersonate a priest and command them to clear from your path. That staff of yours should prove useful, wizard. The valgasts did a reasonable job of enchanting it, and if you burn a few Skuldari warriors alive, the rest should let you pass.”

Timothy nodded, his face cautious as he watched the dragon. “I shall keep that in mind, my lady.”

“What if we encounter any soliphages?” said Basjun. He took care not to look at Azurvaltoria. Her taunt about “udders” had clearly struck home. If they lived through this, perhaps Danel could find his son a pretty wife of his own.

“Kill it as quickly as you can,” said Mazael, “and continue on your way.”

Earnachar grunted. “Sound counsel.”

“Go,” said Mazael. “I hope to see you all soon at Mount Armyar.”

Mazael knew he might well be sending them to their deaths. The High King Basracus was at Armalast, and he was mobilizing the host of the Skuldari to send them to war against the world. If one of those Skuldari warbands came across Timothy, Basjun, and Earnachar, they might kill them. On the other hand, Basracus might pull his host back to Mount Armyar until the Prophetess had summoned Marazadra, and Mazael and the others with him were about walk right into them. So he was in at least as must danger as they were, which was a peculiar sort of comfort. A lord could state the obvious, but a lord should never send men into a danger he was not willing to face himself.

“My lord,” said Timothy. “Good journey to you.”

“May your sword run with the blood of our foes,” said Earnachar.

“Sir,” said Basjun, and Crouch barked his approval, turning to follow his master as they headed down the path leading through the stony hills to the southeast.

Mazael turned and saw Romaria, Azurvaltoria, Sigaldra, and Adalar waiting for him.

“Well,” said Mazael, “shall we pay the valgasts a visit?”

“This way, then,” said Azurvaltoria with a smirk, her black eyes flashing like polished stones.

They started on the path that climbed higher into the mountains, deeper into Skuldar and towards Mount Armyar and the Heart of the Spider.

Chapter 6: The Rusted Knight

Mazael had expected Azurvaltoria to lead them to the end of the valley where she had been captured, to the entrance to the underworld where the valgasts had retreated after the fight. Instead, she led them to the northwest, circling between the rocky hills and down into a broader, deeper valley.

“The valgasts would have retreated in disarray down that tunnel,” said Azurvaltoria. “However, sooner or later the little maggots will regain their courage and return to investigate. Or the priests will command it to reclaim the bodies.”

“When the valgasts raided the lands of the Jutai in the middle lands on the days of midsummer and midwinter,” said Sigaldra, “they never left their dead behind.”

“They would not,” said Azurvaltoria. “The priests collect the bodies, you see. Usually, the valgasts consume their dead, but various organs from the dead valgasts are quite useful for necromancy, and the valgasts are a thrifty race who let nothing go to waste. Much how they use every part of the human slaves they kill.”

Sigaldra winced, but Adalar scowled.

“You know a great deal about the valgasts,” said Adalar.

“Of course I do,” said Azurvaltoria without rancor. “More than you do, sir knight. I’ve spoken with them, and traded with some of the smarter ones, and killed a great deal of the stupider ones. I’ve been watching them for a very long time, for centuries before your ancestors wandered over the Great Mountains to settle in the Grim Marches. No need to be so distrustful.”

“Do all dragons talk so much?” said Adalar.

Azurvaltoria grinned. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to anyone for a while.”

“This other entrance,” said Mazael before Azurvaltoria could start up again. Elderly humans often tended to ramble, and it seemed that millennia-old dragons shared the same trait. “What advantage does that give us? It is further from Tchroth.”

“It is,” said Azurvaltoria. “But if the valgasts decide to pursue us, or to simply harvest their dead, they’ll come up the passage to the valley to the south. The entrance to the underworld north of here will take longer, yes, but it is less heavily patrolled. We will have a better chance of coming to Tchroth and the Shadow Market unobserved. Surely you can appreciate the value of coming at the enemy from an unexpected angle.”

“True,” said Mazael, thinking of some of the battles he had fought in years past. “Lead on, then.”

Mazael had regretted losing Basjun and his vast knowledge of Skuldar’s paths and valleys, but he had not taken into account Azurvaltoria’s own knowledge. She had haunted the mountains of Skuldar for centuries, and she knew them well. They made good time over the hills and the paths, and the dragon thought they would reach the entrance to the underworld by noon.

And then…

Mazael rolled his shoulders, his fingers brushing Talon’s hilt.

They hoped to enter Tchroth without drawing suspicion, but if not, he would be ready to fight.

###

Adalar walked alongside Sigaldra as they followed Lord Mazael, Lady Romaria, and the dragon.

He found that he missed Basjun and Earnachar and Timothy. Earnachar was a loud-mouthed braggart, but he was a steady man in a fight and had battled alongside Adalar as they had fought valgasts and soliphages and Skuldari warriors and salamanders. Basjun, likewise, had been a solid fighter, and his knowledge had been useful. Timothy might have been a wizard, but his magical power had not gone to his head, and he had fought alongside Adalar at Castle Cravenlock and Tristgard and a dozen other places. Ever since he had become a knight, Adalar had appreciated the presence of steady men around him in battle.

He suspected we would miss their presence in the days to come.

Azurvaltoria was mad and powerful and dangerous. Lady Romaria was fearless and skillful, but there was always something alien about her, something strange and wild from her Elderborn blood. And Mazael…well, Mazael was not a wizard or a creature like a dragon, but there was something strange about him, something that rejoiced in battle too much. Adalar didn’t know what it was.

But he would follow Mazael. The Lord of Castle Cravenlock had broken the Dominiar Order and the Justiciar Order and Lucan Mandragon and his runedead. If anyone could bring ruin down upon the head of Celina du Almaine, it was Mazael Cravenlock.

If anyone could help Sigaldra save her sister, it was Mazael Cravenlock.

Sigaldra herself did not seem frightened by the dragon and her power. If anything, she seemed more eager than before to chase down the Prophetess. They had faced the Prophetess at Greatheart Keep, in the citadel of Armalast, and in the caverns of the Veiled Mountain. All three times the Prophetess had escaped with Liane. This time, with Azurvaltoria’s magic backing them up, perhaps they could overcome the Prophetess and Rigoric and rescue Liane.

“There’s nowhere left,” murmured Sigaldra.

“Eh?” said Adalar.

Sigaldra blinked her blue eyes and smiled. “Sorry. I was…thinking aloud, that’s all.”

“About what?” said Adalar.

“She can’t run anywhere,” said Sigaldra. “The Prophetess, I mean.”

Adalar nodded. “We have the maethweisyr with her blood, and can follow her anywhere.”

“That is so, but it is not what I meant,” said Sigaldra. “It doesn’t matter where the Prophetess runs. We know where she is going. She has to go to the Heart of the Spider and Mount Armyar to bring back her goddess. Otherwise, everything she has done has been in vain. We can lie in wait for her. She’ll have to go through us to get to the Heart of the Spider.”

“It will be a difficult fight,” said Adalar.

“Let her come,” said Sigaldra. “Every time we’ve fought, she’s had an advantage. This time, though, the advantage is ours.”

Adalar smiled, and Sigaldra laughed.

“What?” said Adalar. “Did I do something?”

“No,” said Sigaldra. “No…it’s just that you were smiling.”

“Do I look foolish when I smile?” said Adalar.

“Not at all,” said Sigaldra. “You look very nice when you do.” She blinked a few times and stuttered over her next words. “I mean…just…you do not smile very often.”

“Neither do you,” Adalar pointed out.

“I suppose not,” said Sigaldra. “There has not been much cause to smile, has there? Not in either of our lives. Not with all the war and death and destruction we have seen.”

“The war and death and destruction would have happened regardless of what you and I chose to do,” said Adalar. “It has taken me some time to understand this, but I think…I think we must take what joy we can, for it may not come twice.”

“Aye,” said Sigaldra in a quiet voice. “Liane was good at that. I hope she is still good at that.”

“I didn’t have much chance to speak with her,” said Adalar, “but she called me…”

Sigaldra frowned. “What did she call you?”

“The rusted knight,” said Adalar.

“Aye,” said Sigaldra “She foresaw it with the Sight, the day you came. She called you the rusted knight, and she called Mazael the warrior, the storm of blood and chaos and war.”

Adalar glanced ahead to where Mazael walked between Romaria and Azurvaltoria, all three of them speaking in low voices. “That’s accurate enough.”

“Though I don’t know why she called you the rusted knight,” said Sigaldra. There was a bit of teasing to her tone. “You take good care of your armor and weapons.”

“Rusted,” said Adalar, his eyes on Sigaldra’s face. She smiled at him, and it made her look younger, less harsh and weary, her blue eyes enormous in her sharp face. It made Adalar feel better, and he came to a sudden decision.

“Rusted,” he said again. “Yes, I had gone to rust.”

“From the lack of war?” said Sigaldra.

“No,” said Adalar. “No, I did not miss the war. I missed…I missed having a sense of purpose. I missed having hope for the future. That was why I had rusted. I had no purpose and no hope.”

“And now?” said Sigaldra. “What do you hope for now?”

He did not have very much experience with women, but Adalar recognized that he would never have a better opportunity. He took a step towards Sigaldra, and she blinked, but she did not step away, and…

“You were talking about rust?”

Azurvaltoria’s voice cut into his thoughts, and Adalar almost cursed in frustration.

The dragon stepped towards them, wrapped in her coat of dark red leather. There was a peculiar expression on her pale face that Adalar could not quite recognize, but that was often true. She looked human, but she wasn’t, and her thoughts and emotions were different from those of a human.

“No,” said Adalar.

“You needn’t worry,” said Azurvaltoria, falling into step alongside Adalar. “The sword you now carry will never rust. Surely you must be curious.”

Come to think of it, Adalar was curious about the sword he had taken from the dragon’s hoard in the Veiled Mountain, and with great reluctance, he turned his thoughts from Sigaldra. The curved blade looked as if it had been made from a metal like silver, but it was lighter than real silver and stronger than steel. For that matter, it had a peculiar vibration when he used it in battle. The vibration was never enough to distract him, but it was there.

“Very well, Lady Azurvaltoria,” said Adalar. “Tell me about the sword.”

“It is called a talchweisyr,” said Azurvaltoria.

“Then it is indeed a weapon of the Dark Elderborn,” said Sigaldra, frowning. “Like a maethweisyr.”

“Correct,” said Azurvaltoria, tapping the sheathed dagger at her belt. Timothy had passed the weapon to the dragon before he had departed for the Grim Marches. “It has a different purpose, though. A maethweisyr was designed to trap the blood of a victim for use in a magical spell. A talchweisyr drains some of the attributes of its victims…”

Adalar frowned. “You mean this thing drinks life?” He almost reached over his shoulder and threw the sword away.

“Not at all,” said Azurvaltoria. “Rather, it is a mimic. Strike down a Crimson Hunter with the sword, and for a brief time, the sword may give you the speed and strength of the spider. Kill a valgast with the sword, and for the next few moments it might give you the creature’s resilience and resistance to poison. But fear not. The power comes from the sword’s innate magic, and not from any stolen life force.”

“I didn’t notice any of that,” said Adalar.

“You weren’t paying attention,” said Azurvaltoria. “Survival occupied your attention, I imagine. But if you focus your will upon the blade after you have killed a foe, it will mimic the abilities of the slain enemy.”

Adalar frowned. “I am a knight and a lord, not a wizard to wield magic.”

Azurvaltoria only smiled. “It is magic, but you are no wizard, my lord Adalar Greatheart. The sword is magic. You may use its power. Or you may not. It will leave no mark upon either your flesh or your soul if that is what you fear.”

“I have been given good cause to be wary of magic,” said Adalar. “It was a sorceress who kidnapped Lady Sigaldra’s sister and set us upon this path. And that same sorceress, I should point out, who caused your current…” He searched for an appropriate word.

“Discomfiture?” said Sigaldra.

Azurvaltoria snorted. “If you call being locked in the form of a hairless monkey a discomfiture, then yes.”

“So it seems I have good cause to be wary of magic,” said Adalar, “if I am to follow your noble example.”

“Such flattery,” said Azurvaltoria. “But you needn’t fear the sword, Lord Adalar. You’ve come all this way to rescue the girl with the Sight. What is a little further?”

“No,” said Adalar. “No, you’re right. I won’t turn to dark magic, or use evil in the pursuit of a greater goal. That was the folly of Lucan Mandragon. But I’ve come this far. I will do whatever I can to rescue Liane.”

“You will?” said Sigaldra. The was an odd catch in her voice.

“Of course,” said Adalar. “I’ve said I would, haven’t I? I’m not thrilled about carrying a weapon forged by the Dark Elderborn, but if it helps and it’s not a thing of dark magic, I will not turn it away.”

“A little clarity is always useful,” said Azurvaltoria.

With that, she walked away, rejoining Mazael and Romaria further ahead.

###

Mazael glanced back as Azurvaltoria rejoined them. The dragon had been telling them about the dangers of the underworld, only to stop talking and fall back to join Sigaldra and Adalar, who brought up the back of their little column.

“What was that about?” said Mazael. “Valgasts?”

“No, nothing like that,” said Azurvaltoria. She seemed pleased with herself. “I wanted to talk to Adalar about his sword.”

“What is it?” said Romaria.

“A talchweisyr,” said Azurvaltoria.

“What?” said Mazael, alarmed. “A kalchweisyr?”

“No,” said Azurvaltoria, blinking. “A talchweisyr. A completely different kind of weapon. You’ve encountered a kalchweisyr before?”

“Years ago,” said Mazael, shaking off the memory of that ruined castle in the Stormvales. “So what is a talchweisyr?”

“Another weapon of the Dark Elderborn,” said Azurvaltoria, looking back to where Adalar and Sigaldra walked side-by-side. “Fear not, it’s harmless to its wielder. The blade is a mimic, and temporarily bestows its wielder with some of the attributes of its victim.”

Mazael frowned. “A peculiar ability. Hard to think of when it would be useful.”

“If he killed a Malrag,” said Azurvaltoria, “he would temporarily gain some of its strength, and if he killed a San-keth priest, he would enjoy some of its immunity to its own venom.”

“That might come in handy,” said Mazael. “Though if he kills Rigoric with it, I hope he doesn’t sprout a mask of swords. That might be painful.”

“Indeed,” said Azurvaltoria. “But he needn’t worry about that. The chief virtue of the sword is that it can wound creatures of dark magic, much as your own blade can. Though I should point out that Lord Adalar’s sword was not made from the talon of one of my slain kindred.”

“If your relative had not been trying to kill me,” said Mazael, “then I would have had no need to slay…him. Her?” To this day he was not sure if the dragon he had killed below the gates of Arylkrad had been male or female. “And if you think that was offensive, you should see the coat of armor I made from the dragon scales.”

Azurvaltoria snorted. “That is in very poor taste.”

“Why tell Adalar about the sword now?” said Mazael. “You could have told him about the blade last night.”

“I am amusing myself,” said Azurvaltoria. “I wanted to give him a little push.”

Mazael felt his frown sharpen, his earlier doubts about Azurvaltoria’s trustworthiness hardening. “If this is some sort of game, I don’t…”

“No, it’s not a game,” said Romaria. For some reason, she looked amused.

“A little push,” said Azurvaltoria, “but for their own good. You see, I remember how Adalar lured the Crimson Hunter into the trapped chamber to save Sigaldra.”

Mazael wondered what that meant.

###

Sigaldra kept looking at Adalar.

“Do you really mean that?” she said.

“What?” said Adalar, taking his mind from Azurvaltoria’s words. He was not used to dealing with wizards and prophecies. Mazael was, which perhaps explained the Lord of Castle Cravenlock’s frequent irritability.

“That you would do whatever it took to free Liane,” said Sigaldra.

He looked at her and forgot all about the dragon. There was something in Sigaldra’s face…

“Yes,” said Adalar. “Why do you think I’m here? Everywhere I went in Mastaria and the Grim Marches I saw dead villages and bones left over from the Malrags and the Great Rising. Then I saw you fighting to save your sister, and I knew I had to help you.”

“Thank you,” said Sigaldra in a soft voice. “This has been…ah, it reminds me of the march to the west, when Ragnachar forced us to leave our homeland and follow the Tervingi to the Grim Marches. Then I was all alone, and there was no one else I could trust to save my people. Thank you for coming with me.”

Adalar smiled. “It shook the rust off the rusted knight, let’s say.”

“You don’t regret it?” said Sigaldra.

Adalar looked up the path as Mazael and Romaria and Azurvaltoria disappeared around the curve of a stony slope. He and Sigaldra would have to catch up to them soon.

His earlier decision returned to the forefront of his mind.

“No,” said Adalar. “I don’t regret it at all. There is only one thing I regret.”

“What is it?” said Sigaldra, her voice soft.

“That I haven’t done this sooner,” said Adalar.

He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her, very gently, towards him.

She didn’t resist. Her blue eyes were huge in her face.

“Adalar,” she said, her voice a faint rasp.

He tilted her face towards his and kissed her on the lips. For a frozen instant, she stood motionless, and then she let out a little gasp and wrapped her arms around his back, pressing harder against him. Adalar’s arms coiled around her, and he forgot the shadows in his mind, forgot the dangers of the quest, forgot that doing in this in the mountains of Skuldar was probably unwise.

None of that seemed important just now.

At last, they broke apart, though she remained in his arms. Sigaldra was breathing hard, spots of color in her sharp cheeks.

“Now I have one less regret,” said Adalar.

She blinked, laughed a little, and then smiled. “Good. Good. I…I admit I thought about this, what it would be like to kiss you after I did the first time…”

“You kissed me before?” said Adalar.

“In that trapped room in the Veiled Mountain with the basin of poison,” said Sigaldra. “To put the antidote into your mouth. After that,” she looked almost shy for a brief moment, “after that I wondered what it would be like to kiss you in truth…”

“I wouldn’t want to keep you wondering,” said Adalar, and he kissed her again.

Again they broke apart, though after a longer time, and Adalar felt Sigaldra breathing hard. His hands rested against her back, and he felt the near-overwhelming urge to let them slide down her hips and backside, to push her against him with all his strength. He remembered the day they had rescued her from the soliphage’s cave. She had been frightened, but she had been naked, and the sight of her at that moment had haunted Adalar’s thoughts since. That memory of her body was tainted by her fear and pain, but he wondered what she would look like if she came to his bed willingly.

It surprised him how intensely he wanted that.

“We,” said Sigaldra. “This…not here. Not now. Not in the middle of mountains that are full of things that want to kill or eat us.”

“Yes,” said Adalar with reluctance. She was right. A part of him wondered if that was just an excuse, if she just wanted to find a way to get away from him without hurting his pride.

As if she had read his thoughts, she leaned up and gave him a quick kiss. “But we will continue this discussion, Lord Adalar Greatheart.”

“If we succeed…” started Adalar.

“No,” said Sigaldra. “When we succeed. When we return to Greatheart Keep with Liane. Then we will continue this discussion. The daughters of the Jutai finish what they begin, and I intend to finish this.”

Her fingers squeezed his as she spoke, and her eyes all but smoldered.

“Yes,” said Adalar. It took him a moment to work moisture into his throat. “Yes, we shall.”

“We should rejoin the others before they come to look for us,” said Sigaldra. She grinned. “But we shall do so with one less regret, yes?”

“Indeed,” said Adalar, and together they hastened up the rocky path and around the curve of the hill.

Mazael, Romaria, and Azurvaltoria came into sight, and all three of them stopped. Romaria had taken a few steps forward as if intending to search for them, and he felt a surge of embarrassment. He could only imagine what Mazael would have said if he had seen Adalar kissing Sigaldra.

Suddenly Mazael drew Talon, the dark blade flashing with golden fire, Romaria lifted her bow, and Azurvaltoria raised her right hand, fire dancing around her fingers. Adalar whirled and stepped in front Sigaldra, placing himself between her and any danger, and drew the talchweisyr as Sigaldra snatched her bow from over her back.

“Did you see that?” said Romaria.

“See what?” said Adalar.

As he spoke, something dark flickered further down the hill, swooping through the air below the path.

An instant later the creature shot into sight, clinging to the slope above their heads with sinuous, dexterous grace.

###

Mazael had seen many strange creatures in his life, but he had never seen one quite like this.

It was a shape of black and white, its limbs covered with fur, antennae bristling from its angular head. As it moved, huge wings unfolded behind it, covered with white and black fur, and Mazael thought the creature looked like a huge, human-sized moth. Its body vaguely resembled that of a human woman, though it had six limbs instead of four. Armored plates of black chitin covered its body, and its head was a triangular wedge with two huge black eyes like faceted pearls on either side. Thick clusters of furred antennae rose from its head, and Mazael realized that the patterns of white and black upon its wings formed images.

Specifically, the images of two huge, grinning skulls.

“Romaria?” said Mazael, watching the moth-like creature. She had traveled more extensively than he had, and had seen many creatures that he had never encountered.

She only shook her head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“The creature is called a motaylakar,” said Azurvaltoria in a quiet voice, the fire around her fingers brightening. “They dwell in the caverns of the underworld, feeding upon the mushrooms that grow there. Sometimes they ally with the valgasts, sometimes they war with the valgasts, and sometimes the valgasts enslave them. Don’t look at it.”

“Why not?” said Mazael, raising Talon in guard.

“Because it’s here to kill us,” said Azurvaltoria, the flame snarling brighter. The moth-creature, the motaylakar, skittered forward. It reared up on its hind legs, its vast black and white wings spreading behind it, the antennae twitching over its head. A strange iridescence shone within its armored carapace, ribbons of red and purple and green writhing over its body.

The strange glow ended when a blast of fire erupted from Azurvaltoria’s outstretched hand and slammed into the creature. The motaylakar let out a horrid shriek as the dragon’s magical fire ripped across its body, twisting its wings into ash and chewing into its flesh. The creature twitched a few times, fell from the hillside, and landed upon the path, curling up as it burned.

The smell was horrendous.

“The light upon the carapace is mesmeric,” said Azurvaltoria. “Do not look…”

Three more of the motaylakars landed upon the hillside, rising on their hind legs as they spread their wings. The strange colors rippled up and down their carapaces.

The light fell into Mazael’s eyes, and the color drowned the world.

###

Sigaldra gazed at the approaching moth-creatures, staring in wonder at the radiant beauty shining from their armored bodies.

Some part of her mind screamed in revulsion as the motaylakars came closer. She had never cared for insects, and her ordeal in the soliphage’s cave had left her with a revulsion of anything that looked like an insect or a spider. The motaylakars, with their moth-like appearance, filled her with disgust.

The radiant colors shining from their carapaces made her forget her disgust.

The colors were beautiful beyond anything she had ever imagined, and in their soothing light, she forgot her fears for Liane, forgot her worries for the future for the Jutai. She even forgot the heat that Adalar’s kiss had sent spreading through her body.

Sigaldra forgot everything except the soothing colors and the peace that spread through her mind.

The motaylakars scuttled down the hillside and moved along the path, their antennae twitching, their wings fluttering, a pale slime covering their serrated mouthparts. Again part of Sigaldra’s mind screamed a warning and recoiled with revulsion at the thought of the creatures touching her, but the colors drowned that part of her mind.

The motaylakars came closer, the skull patterns upon their wings grinning at her.

###

Mazael gazed at the advancing creatures, the soothing radiance of their glows washing through his mind.

Something within him snarled at the sight.

He was never calm. He had never been completely calm in his entire life. As a young man, he had always been restless, always seeking the next fight, prone to irritability and debauched behavior when he could get away with it. Later he had learned the truth, that the blood of the Demonsouled burned through his veins, and with that truth, he had gained a measure of self-control he had never enjoyed before.

But the restlessness was always there.

The rage was always there. Mazael could control it, even turn it into a weapon, but it never entirely went away.

The calm was so unnatural that his mind rebelled against it, his fury boiling over. He growled and shook his head, stepping back, and saw Romaria, Adalar, and Sigaldra gazing at the advancing motaylakars with slack, rapturous expressions. Even Azurvaltoria, to his surprise, looked entranced, her dark eyes wide as she stared at the moth-creatures.

Mazael looked back at the motaylakars, and again the colors washed through his mind, only to shatter against the rage of his Demonsouled blood. One of the motaylakars skittered towards Romaria, reaching for her with its clawed limbs, its jagged mouth yawning wide as its mandibles dripped with poison.

The fury exploded through Mazael, and not just from his Demonsouled blood. These wretched creatures, whatever they were, presumed to threaten Romaria? Malaric of Barellion had poisoned Romaria, and in retribution Mazael had destroyed his army, thrown him from the throne of Barellion, and fed him to the spirit he had bound. The Old Demon had tried to kill Romaria, and while Mazael had his own reasons for killing his father, the harm he had inflicted upon Romaria had been one of the major reasons.

Mazael had killed princes and demons for hurting Romaria.

This creature, whatever it was, would share their fate.

The motaylakars did not react as Mazael strode forward. Perhaps they thought him entranced by the peculiar light show upon their carapaces. He kept Talon low and at his side as he approached the nearest motaylakar. At the last moment, Mazael raised Talon, seized the sword’s hilt with both hands, and brought the blade hammering down. The sword of dragon talon ripped into the creature’s neck and severed its head. The angular head bounced away, the antennae writhing, and the rest of the motaylakar collapsed to the ground.

The other two creatures let out hideous shrieks and surged towards Mazael, but the Demonsouled fury was on him, and they could not stop him. The first creature lunged, raking with clawed forelimbs, and a sweep of Talon took off one of the creature’s limbs. Mazael chopped again as the creature reeled in sudden pain, and his next blow took off its head.

The final creature decided to retreat, and leaped into the air, its wings blurring into motion. It rose before Mazael could strike, but one of Romaria’s arrows sprouted from its abdomen, pinning its right wing against its body. The motaylakar let out a hideous screech and crashed to the path, and Adalar sprang forward, raised the talchweisyr, and drove the blade into the prone creature.

The motaylakar’s head bounced away, black slime spurting from the stump of its neck as its limbs thrashed. For a moment the same eerie colors that had once swirled around its carapace flickered within the talchweisyr’s blade, and Mazael felt his gaze drawn towards it.

Then the colors faded from the silvery blade, and silence fell over the hillside.

The enemy had been defeated, but the Demonsouled rage howled through him, and he wanted to strike and kill and slay, and his maddened mind wondered if Azurvaltoria had planned this ambush, if she had plotted against them…

He forced back the rage, forced himself back to calm, and let out a long, shuddering breath.

“What were those devils?” said Sigaldra, her revulsion plain as she gazed at the motionless carcasses. Somehow the moth-like creatures seemed even more disturbing as they lay dead, the skull-like patterns on their limp wings seeming to glare.

“I told you,” said Azurvaltoria, rubbing her temples as if her head pained her. “They are called motaylakars. Creatures from the underworld. They only rarely come to the surface.”

“Let me guess,” said Mazael. “They like to eat living flesh, but living flesh can fight back. So those colors on their bodies mesmerize their victims, and the victims stand there and smile as the motaylakars rip the flesh from their bones.”

“Actually,” said Azurvaltoria, “they inject a venom that liquefies their victims’ internal organs, and then they drink the resultant slime through their victims’ mouths.”

“Gods and ancestors,” said Sigaldra. “That is as bad as the soliphages.”

“Weak-minded mortals are often susceptible to their mesmerism,” said Azurvaltoria.

“You succumbed to it,” said Sigaldra.

Azurvaltoria scowled. “I am locked in the form of a hairless ape with udders. Of course I am susceptible to its mesmerism.”

“How did you fight it off, hrould?” said Sigaldra. “If you had not attacked, those vile creatures would have devoured us.”

Mazael shrugged. “I got angry.”

“Ah,” said Azurvaltoria. “I suppose that would have done it.”

“What would getting angry have to do with it?” said Sigaldra.

Adalar spared Mazael from having to think up a convincing answer.

“He got angry at Ragnachar and Malaric and Grand Master Caldarus,” said Adalar, “and look what happened to them.”

“A good point,” said Sigaldra, looking at the dead motaylakars again.

“Anger helps to fight off their hypnotism,” said Azurvaltoria. “Certain spells do as well, though they do not last long. Anger is the best defense. If we face them again, you would do well to become angry. That, and don’t look at their glows.”

Mazael frowned, forcing back the last shreds of his Demonsouled fury. “Then you think we will face them again?”

“Oh, almost certainly,” said Azurvaltoria. “It’s still daylight, and the motaylakars hate daylight. They would only come to the surface if compelled. Likely these ones were enslaved by the valgast priests and forced to come to the surface to hunt. Either they were scouts for the valgast host marching to join the Prophetess…”

“Or they were sent to find us,” said Mazael. “Or you.”

“Or me,” said Azurvaltoria. She scoffed. “Sending moths to hunt a dragon.”

“You’re not a dragon at the moment,” said Sigaldra.

Azurvaltoria let out a sour sound.

“Be wary,” said Mazael. “We’ve chased the Prophetess through war and blood and soliphages and a dragon’s lair. I don’t intend to let some moths stop me, no matter how large they happen to be.”

They pressed deeper into the rocky valley.

Chapter 7: Underworld

Before sunset, they reached the entrance to the underworld.

Sigaldra looked at the cliff face of gray stone as a wave of foreboding went through her. A large cavern mouth yawned in the cliff, its edges jagged, and it made her think of some vast beast waiting to swallow prey whole. It reminded her of the soliphage’s cave and the most helpless moment of her life.

Sigaldra would have given almost anything not to walk into that dark entrance.

But that dark cavern was the path to Liane, and Sigaldra had not come this far to turn back now. And compared to what they had already faced, it was hardly worth fretting about a cave.

Despite however much it might make Sigaldra’s skin crawl.

She stepped closer to Adalar and felt an overwhelming desire to take his hand, to feel his arms around her. Once the idea that she would seek comfort in the arms of a man would have shamed her. Yet Adalar had saved her from the Prophetess, had lured a Crimson Hunter to its death, had risked his name and wealth and life to save Liane. How could she be ashamed to rely on a man who had done so much?

He gave her a faint smile, and she smiled back, thinking of the kiss. Sigaldra had set out on this journey to save her sister’s life. Now, though, now she hoped to survive this journey for more reasons than Liane’s life.

Azurvaltoria’s voice cut into her thoughts.

“Behold,” said Azurvaltoria. “The entrance to the underworld. Very few humans have entered the underworld and returned to tell the tale.”

“I have a few times,” said Romaria. “Long ago. It…was not a pleasant experience.”

“The underworld is not a fit place for humans,” said Azurvaltoria. “It is a vast maze, spreading beneath the surface like veins through flesh, an endless labyrinth of caverns and galleries and tunnels. Some of the caverns lead to pits of molten stone. Others are filled with poisonous gasses, and strange creatures beyond count dwell in the silent darkness beneath the earth. The valgasts thrive in such a place. So do the motaylakars and the soliphages and the Malrags and the San-keth. Humans find it…less than hospitable.”

“Is the Prophetess there?” said Mazael.

Sigaldra watched as Azurvaltoria produced the crimson maethweisyr and cast the tracking spell.

“She is very close,” said Azurvaltoria at last. “No more than five or six hours away on foot. I suspect she approaches Tchroth from another tunnel.”

“Then let us hasten,” said Sigaldra, “and catch her before she arrives.”

“No,” said Mazael at once. “We should arrive at Tchroth after the Prophetess, not before, and certainly not at the same time.”

Sigaldra scowled. “Why not? She is almost within our grasp.” Her heart burned with the need to find the Prophetess and tear Liane away from the wretched sorceress’s grasp.

“Because,” said Mazael, “the Prophetess knows all of us on sight. If we walk into Tchroth and the Shadow Market at the same time she arrives, she will sound the alarm, and we’ll have to deal with ten thousand valgasts.”

“It will be closer to thirty thousand,” murmured Azurvaltoria.

“Ten thousand or thirty thousand, we cannot defeat that many,” said Mazael.

“She will not enter through the Shadow Market, though,” said Azurvaltoria. “She will enter through the main gate of the city, the Gate of the Great Goddess as the valgasts call it. Unfortunately, the Shadow Market is easily visible from the Gate of the Great Goddess. A single glance from the Prophetess, and we are done. No, better to let her enter first, and plot an ambush.”

Sigaldra kept scowling. “You seem very familiar with Tchroth.”

“That is because I have been there several times in the last thousand years,” said Azurvaltoria with placid calm. “From time to time the priests of the valgasts attempted to steal the Mask of Marazadra, and once I killed their hired thieves, I traveled to Tchroth to teach them a lesson. After a few centuries passed, they would forget the lesson, and we would have to repeat the cycle all over again.”

“Little wonder the valgasts have a grudge against you,” said Sigaldra.

Azurvaltoria smiled. “Oh, they certainly had cause for one.”

“Would they recognize you?” said Mazael.

“In this form? No,” said Azurvaltoria. “I always came in the guise of Mother Volaria, and then in my true shape.” Having seen Azurvaltoria’s true shape, Sigaldra could just imagine the havoc the dragon had wreaked upon her enemies. “They will not recognize me, and thanks to my spells, they will not be able to smell me. So we should be able to enter the Shadow Market unrecognized.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” said Mazael. “Let’s go.”

“A few things,” said Azurvaltoria. “Among you, only Lady Romaria has been to the underworld before, so I must warn you of some of the more common dangers. A wide variety of mushrooms grows in the underworld. Some of them glow. Do not eat any of the mushrooms, glowing or otherwise.”

“While I may not possess the wisdom of an ancient dragon,” said Sigaldra, “I like to think I have at least sufficient wisdom not to eat a glowing mushroom.”

“You would be surprised,” said Azurvaltoria. “There are many streams and pools. Most of them are tainted with various poisons, and it is best not to drink of them. The tunnels near Tchroth are controlled and patrolled by the valgasts, but sometimes predators from the deeper caverns make their way the area, and the soliphages freely build webs here. The valgasts revere the soliphages as messengers of Marazadra so we may encounter them.”

“It sounds,” said Adalar, “like a delightful place.”

“It isn’t,” said Romaria.

“What shall we do for light?” said Sigaldra. The thought of groping through the dark caverns was not an appealing one. “I doubt there are enough of these glowing mushrooms to provide enough light.”

“There are not,” said Azurvaltoria, “but fortunately, Lord Mazael was wise enough to seek my aid.”

Sigaldra scoffed. “By rescuing you from the valgasts, you mean.”

“I prefer to put the best construction on things, barbarian child,” said Azurvaltoria. She lifted her left hand, palm up, and made a sort of fluttering gesture with her right hand as she did. Three spheres of fiery light shimmered into existence above her head, orbiting her in a slow, lazy circle. “This should provide sufficient light for our needs.”

“Good,” said Mazael. “Let’s go. I will take the lead, along with Azurvaltoria and Romaria. Sigaldra and Adalar, take the back.”

Sigaldra took a deep breath, steeling herself, and drew her bow from over her shoulder, checking the quiver of arrows at her belt. She did not want to descend into the dark cavern, where every shadow and every whisper of sound would remind her of the darkness of the soliphage’s cave.

She looked at Adalar, and he gave her a faint smile.

At least she would not be alone.

Sigaldra followed the others into the cavern.

###

Mazael had spent more time underground than he would have liked.

There had been the San-keth temple below Castle Cravenlock, now sealed. There had been the San-keth temple below Morsen Village and the other temples of the serpent priests that he had destroyed throughout the Grim Marches. He had also traveled through the maze of the Trysting Ways of Knightcastle and the dark, haunted halls of Arylkrad in the Great Mountains, to say nothing of the fiery caverns of the Veiled Mountain.

So he had been underground before, and he had expected the caverns of the underworld to be far more cramped than they were.

As it was, they were almost spacious. Mazael and the others walked through a cavern as wide as the nave of a good-sized church. The air was damp and cold, and the walls glistened with moisture. Stalagmites jutted from the floor like miniature towers, and stalactites hung from the ceiling like glistening stone fangs. As Azurvaltoria promised, there were mushrooms everywhere, growing in clumps along the base of the walls and clustered around the feet of the stalactites. Some of the mushrooms were white as a bloodless corpse, while others were a leprous gray, and some emitted a ghostly green glow that reminded Mazael of the symbols of fire that had burned upon the heads of Lucan Mandragon’s runedead.

Despite Azurvaltoria’s warning, he felt absolutely no temptation to eat them.

They saw other strange things. Some of the caverns held clear pools, eyeless fish darting back and forth through the waters. Several times Mazael saw the thick webs of soliphages stretched between stalagmites, and once they saw a soliphage loom out of the darkness. Romaria had put an arrow into the creature’s chest before Mazael realized that it was dead, that it had been dead for some time, its carapace suspended in the web.

Mazael also saw evidence that countless valgasts had passed through this cavern at various times. Once he saw the broken hilt of a bone sword of the sort the valgasts favored. Several times he saw withered valgast husks wrapped in the webs, their fanged mouths open forever in silent screams. Sigaldra flinched at the sight, her stark face growing even paler, and she strayed closer to Adalar when they came across a valgast suspended in a web.

Despite the bones and the webs, they had gone nearly six miles before they came across another living creature.

“Wait a moment,” said Romaria, holding up a hand to call a halt. Mazael and the others stopped.

They stood in a large, wide cavern, the floor dotted with stalagmites and small pools, Azurvaltoria’s magical lights throwing harsh shadows against the rough stone walls.

“What is it?” said Mazael.

“I can smell it,” said Romaria.

“I can’t smell anything,” said Mazael, though he knew that meant nothing. His wife had far more potent senses than anyone else in their group, save perhaps Azurvaltoria. Mazael smelled wet rock and minerals, but nothing alarming.

“I smell motaylakars,” said Romaria.

Mazael glanced towards the ceiling, half-expecting to see a dozen of the creatures hanging suspended from the ceiling, but he saw only the rounded ends of stalactites.

“Wait here,” said Romaria, and her body blurred and changed, taking the shape of the great black wolf. Mazael half-expected her claws to make tapping noises against the stone floor, but he should have known better. She glided forward in silence and vanished into the gloom.

“A useful trick,” said Azurvaltoria.

Mazael shrugged. “She puts it to good use.”

“I have seen it a dozen times but I am still not used to it,” said Sigaldra. “I am glad she is on our side.”

“As it happens, so am I,” said Mazael.

Azurvaltoria smiled. “Did you think you would wed a half-Elderborn woman, Mazael Cravenlock?”

Mazael snorted. “When I was Adalar’s age, I gave no thought to a wife at all. I had not yet even entered Lord Malden’s service. I traveled from the court of petty lord to petty lord, fighting wherever I could…”

“And seducing their daughters whenever you could?” said Azurvaltoria.

“Something like that, yes,” said Mazael. It wasn’t something he wanted to discuss with the dragon, or with Sigaldra and Adalar. Briefly, he thought of Elizabeth of Barellion and Lydia of the Skulls and Trocend’s apprentice Atalia and the other women he had been with before he had met Romaria. He had not been a good man in his younger days, but he could have been worse…and the Old Demon could have made him far worse.

He put the matter from his mind. Brooding upon the past was an excellent way to get killed in the present.

A shadow moved, and Romaria came back into sight, wearing her human form once more.

“We have a problem,” said Romaria.

“Motaylakars?” said Mazael.

“And quite a few of them,” said Romaria. “I’ll show you, but keep quiet. I think they’re sleeping, and I don’t want to wake them up.”

She led the way across the cavern. At the far end waited a narrow, twisting tunnel, a warm breeze blowing from it. The air carried an unpleasant smell, one that Mazael did not recognize, but reminded him of something else.

It reminded him a great deal of the odor of moth-eaten clothes.

The tunnel twisted and turned and opened into a vast cavern the size of a cathedral. At first, Mazael thought that the cavern had been filled with snow. A layer of splotchy grayish-white material covered the stone floor and clung to the walls and the sides of the stalagmites. It was too warm for snow, and he realized that he was looking at some kind of peculiar whitish moss. He had never seen anything like it before.

The moss, however, was only a background curiosity.

Nearly thirty motaylakars clung to the walls, motionless in the white moss. Their limbs gripped the walls, their wings folded against their bodies, the white-and-black skull patterns still visible.

At the far end of the cavern opened another archway, and through it Mazael saw a faint purple glow.

He beckoned to the others, and they withdrew through the tunnel and back to the previous cavern.

“There were at least thirty of the creatures in that cave,” said Sigaldra. “How are we going to get past them?”

Mazael looked at Azurvaltoria. “Is there another way to Tchroth from here? A way around that cavern?”

“No,” said Azurvaltoria. “We would have to return to the surface and back to the valley where you rescued me. By then the Prophetess may well have left Tchroth for the Heart of the Spider.” She looked disgruntled. “To flee before a mere thirty motaylakars is galling. In my true form, a single blast of my breath would have turned their wings to ashes, and their power of mesmerism would have no effect upon the mighty mind of a dragon.”

“We all have limitations,” said Mazael. A thought occurred to him. “Is that moss flammable?”

“Extremely,” said Azurvaltoria. “I would not recommend setting it afire, though. It burns quickly, and would probably cause a firestorm within the cavern. That purple glow from the far archway? It comes from the lights of Tchroth itself. If we burn the cavern, it would be rather noticeable to the valgasts.”

Mazael scowled. The only way to the Heart of the Spider was through Tchroth. They were not far behind the Prophetess, but if they had to return to the surface and double back, she might gain an insurmountable lead.

“The motaylakars,” said Romaria. “What do they eat?”

“People, mostly,” said Azurvaltoria. “Valgasts. Anything they can mesmerize and catch.”

“But they can’t always catch people or valgasts,” said Romaria. “What do they eat in the meantime?”

Azurvaltoria shrugged. “Almost anything they can. Carrion. Mushrooms. Insects…”

“Insects,” said Romaria, “like the ones living in the moss?”

Azurvaltoria blinked, and then nodded, a slow smile spreading on her face. “Precisely.”

“How do you know there are insects in the moss?” said Mazael.

“Because,” said Romaria, “the last time I was in the underworld, I saw the stuff. It’s full of these insects like that look like shiny green beetles.”

“Aye,” said Azurvaltoria, intrigued. “The motaylakars do eat the beetles.”

“How good is their eyesight?” said Romaria. “Can they see well?”

“Not at all,” said Azurvaltoria. “They can see with reasonable clarity on the surface, but in the gloom of the underworld, their eyes are much less effective. It hardly matters since they rely primarily upon their antennae while in the underworld. Their antennae serve as both nose and ears, and their sense of smell is at least as acute as yours.”

“The beetles smell bad, don’t they?” said Mazael.

“To us, yes,” said Romaria. “If the motaylakars eat them, I imagine they enjoy the smell.”

“Then we want Azurvaltoria to extinguish her light,” said Mazael. “We’ll startle a bunch of the insects and set them to flying towards the motaylakars. While they’re busy eating, we’ll cross the cavern and reach Tchroth.”

Romaria shrugged. “I can’t think of anything better.”

“No,” said Azurvaltoria. “It’s clever. It might even work.”

###

They reached the end of the tunnel, and Azurvaltoria extinguished her magical lights.

Gloom surrounded them, and Adalar felt his fingers tighten against the talchweisyr’s hilt. For a moment he thought he stood in absolute darkness, but after a moment he could still see the purple glow at the far end of the motaylakars’ cavern, could see the light reflecting off the pale moss and the glistening stone walls

He could also see the light glinting on the black carapaces of the moth-creatures.

“Wait a moment,” breathed Azurvaltoria. “Let your eyes adjust to the light. We shall have to be swift.”

Adalar waited, making sure to breathe in deep, slow breaths. It helped with the tension before a battle, and this was no different. They might have to fight for their lives in the next cavern. Sigaldra stood next to him in the darkness, so close he felt the heat of her, that he heard the rasp of her breath.

Suddenly the fingers of her right hand seized his left hand. Her hand was warm and narrow, the fingers callused from archery and the hard work of the last holdmistress of the Jutai. For a moment he was too startle to react, and then he squeezed her hand. She squeezed back, and he felt a little less tense.

He hoped that she did, too.

They waited in the darkness, gripping each other’s hands, and bit by bit Adalar started to make out more details of the next cavern. Either the purple glow from Tchroth had gotten brighter, or his eyes had adjusted.

“Now,” whispered Azurvaltoria. “Take great care. Have your weapons ready.”

Adalar released Sigaldra’s hand, taking his talchweisyr’s hilt. He heard the faint rasp as she drew her own short sword.

“Go,” said Mazael, and they stepped into the cavern.

Adalar’s nerves screamed with tension, but the motaylakars upon the walls remained motionless. Romaria reached over her shoulder and drew her heavy bastard sword. Adalar had always thought that was an odd weapon for a woman to use, but Romaria was taller than most women, and likely her Elderborn blood made her stronger as well.

She raised the sword over her head, and the others followed suit, lifting their weapons. Romaria glanced at the walls, at the ceiling, and then nodded to herself.

“Now,” she whispered.

She brought the flat of her sword down against the moss. It made a loud whacking noise, as if she had struck an inflated leather bladder. Adalar and the others followed suit, striking their weapons against the moss.

And as they did, hundreds of the green beetles boiled forth and took to the air.

They were large insects, each as large as Adalar’s thumb, and they gave off an unpleasant odor halfway between rotting flesh and horse urine. The scent of it made him want to gag, but it was a good sign. If the smell filled his nostrils, how much more would it draw the attention of the motaylakars?

He struck the flat of his sword against the moss, again and again, sending floods of the beetles into the air. It reminded him of watching a peasant woman using a rug beater to clean the dust from a carpet. Adalar risked a glance towards the walls, but so far the motaylakars had remained motionless…

Then they erupted into motion.

The creatures leaped from the walls, and Adalar raised his sword in reflex, but the motaylakars ignored him and the others. Instead, they fluttered back and forth through the cavern, and Adalar realized they were plucking the beetles out of the air and eating them. Perhaps the motaylakars considered the beetles to be a delicacy.

“Go!” hissed Romaria, and they started across the cavern, striking the moss as they jogged forward. Overhead Adalar heard the endless flapping of wings as the motaylakars swooped back and forth, accompanied by the higher-pitched drone of the beetles’ flight. His neck crawled as he expected the motaylakars to descend, but the moth-creatures remained airborne.

The ruse had worked. The stench of the beetles had overwhelmed the motaylakars’ sense of smell, masking the presence of Adalar and the others.

A moment later they reached the archway at the other end of the cavern, the purple glow filling Adalar’s eyes.

“There,” said Azurvaltoria a few moments later. “We ought to be safe now.” She considered for a moment. “In the relative sense of the term, of course.”

“That was clever,” said Mazael.

In the purple-lit gloom, Adalar saw the white flash of Romaria’s smile. “Thank you, husband. I had no great desire to be eaten by a giant moth, so I am pleased that it worked.”

“You can likely summon your lights again,” said Mazael.

“No need, Lord of Castle Cravenlock,” said Azurvaltoria. “We are close enough to the lights of Tchroth that we shall have no trouble seeing.”

Adalar’s elation at escaping the motaylakar-infested cavern settled into grim wariness.

They would have no trouble seeing the lights of Tchroth…but neither would the valgasts have any trouble seeing them.

Chapter 8: Let The Buyer Beware

Mazael led the way down the sloping tunnel, the purple light growing brighter, the cavern becoming wider. A hot breeze blew up the tunnel, and ahead he heard a faint murmuring sound. At first, he thought the noise came from hundreds of voices speaking at once, but then he realized it was the sound of a lake, the murmur of waters splashing against stone.

The tunnel took one last turn and opened into a cavern of colossal size.

“Behold,” said Azurvaltoria. “Tchroth.”

Mazael looked around, impressed despite himself.

He had never seen a city like Tchroth before, had never even dreamed that such a place existed.

The cavern containing the city was huge, as easily as large as one of the mountains, so large that Mazael was astonished that the chamber had not collapsed beneath the weight of its own vast ceiling. A huge lake, perhaps a mile across, filled the cavern, its waters rippling as they reflected the city’s purple glow.

Tchroth filled perhaps half of the lake.

A half dozen enormous stalagmites, each the size of a hill, rose from the waters, and a half dozen corresponding stalactites hung from the ceilings. Within each of the rock formations, Mazael saw hundreds of glowing windows, and he realized that the valgasts had built vast tunnels within the stalagmites and the stalactites. Between the different stalagmites and stalactites stretched a bewildering maze of hundreds of bridges, some built from stone, others seemingly grown from the peculiar bone-like substance the valgasts used for their armor and weapons.

In the midst of the city stood a large, rocky island. A huge statue of an obsidian spider crouched there, as large as a castle, and Mazael realized that it was, in fact, a building. A tower of the same obsidian-like stone rose behind the spider, stretching until it reached the ceiling far above.

The purple glow filled the cavern, coming from symbols of purple fire written upon the tower and the rock formations in strange, eldritch characters. Mazael didn’t know if the symbols were decorative, or if they were part of potent magical wards.

“Gods and ancestors,” breathed Sigaldra. “It’s…it’s…”

“Beautiful,” said Adalar, “in…an alien sort of way. I cannot think of a better way to describe it.”

Mazael understood. The Glamdaigyr, the sword forged by the high lords of Old Dracaryl to destroy their foes, had been a thing of hideous evil, yet it had nonetheless possessed a dark beauty. Tchroth had the same kind of malevolent beauty.

“I never dreamed,” said Sigaldra. “I thought the valgasts lived in caves like savages. Not in a place like this.”

“The valgasts are more dangerous by far,” said Azurvaltoria, “now that they are not bound by the command of the Old Demon. Behold.” A quarter of the way around the circumference of the city, Mazael saw a massive stone bridge that stretched from the heart of Tchroth to the far side of the cavern. Plinths lined the bridge, supporting stone statues of valgast priests and soliphages. “The Great Gate of the Goddess. The Prophetess arrived by that route. If we attempted to enter through the Great Gate, the valgast guards would kill us on sight.”

“Where is this Shadow Market?” said Mazael, looking over the city.

“Here,” said Azurvaltoria, gesturing in a new direction.

A few hundred yards away, a narrow stone bridge, much less ornate than the one leading to the Great Gate, stretched towards the city. Halfway between the cavern wall and Tchroth itself stood a large round island, its surface covered with stalls and tents and booths.

“The Shadow Market,” said Azurvaltoria. “It is one of the only places in Tchroth where non-valgasts, save for slaves, are allowed to enter the city. We will need to speak with the overseer to gain permission to entry.” She paused for a moment. “The office of overseer of the Shadow Market is not a desirable one among the valgasts, and he may try to take his frustrations out upon us.”

“He’ll regret that if he does,” said Mazael. “Before we proceed, check the Prophetess’s location.”

“Of course,” said Azurvaltoria. She reached into her coat, produced the maethweisyr, and cast the location spell, her eyelids fluttering. “She is in the center of Tchroth. Probably in the Tower of the Spider, where the chief valgast priests reside.” She made a flipping gesture towards the giant stone spider and the gleaming black tower.

“Good,” said Mazael. “Then let’s pay the valgasts a visit.”

He led the way from the tunnel. A narrow beach of gravel encircled the edge of the lake, and they followed it along the circumference of the cavern. Here and there Mazael saw bones, some valgast, some human, and even some Malrag bones, and he wondered if the valgasts had a habit of dumping the corpses of their victims into the vast lake. It seemed as if that would poison their only source of drinkable water, but perhaps the valgasts enjoyed the extra flavor.

They crossed the bridge to the Shadow Market. As they drew closer, a variety of scents filled Mazael’s nostrils, the greasy odor of the valgasts, mixed with peculiar spices and things that smelled poisonous. He saw dozens of valgasts moving through the market, some of them wearing armor, others hooded robes, and a few of them wore nothing but loincloths, their mottled gray-green hides covered in swirling black tattoos. There were a few humans in the market, all of them armed to the teeth, their weapons and armor glowing with magical symbols. The wizards’ brotherhood put bounties upon wizards who turned to necromancy and dark magic, and Mazael wondered how many of the renegades ended up here.

He also saw a San-keth serpent priest wrapped around the spine of its undead carrier, guarded by four changelings with yellow, black slit eyes. There were other creatures that Mazael did not even recognize – short figures clad in hooded robes of black leather, flickers of crimson light shining from the ends of their sleeves and within their deep cowls. There was another creature that looked vaguely like a humanoid lizard with a dragon’s head, and it turned a look of loathing contempt towards the San-keth cleric.

As Mazael reached the end of the bridge, a half-dozen valgast warriors in bone armor approached, spears in hand, and placed themselves between him and the Shadow Market.

“Halt!” snarled one of the valgast warriors. Its voice sounded like steel rasping against a stone. “Why have you come to the Shadow Market?”

“To trade, of course,” said Mazael. “Why does anyone come to the Shadow Market? Other than the pleasure of such fine company.”

The valgast leader stepped forward, its needle-filled mouth snapping shut in a flash of anger. “You have an impudent tongue.”

“I’ve come to trade,” said Mazael. “I’m told traders often have impudent tongues.”

The valgast leader shook its spear. “I should gut you and feed you to the fish of the lake. Or perhaps I shall sell your carcass to the princes of the burning lakes. They find human meat most toothsome.”

“They would find me most indigestible,” said Mazael. He dropped his hand to his sword hilt. “Care to find out if you can take me?”

The valgast scowled and sniffed, its nostrils flaring wide. The valgasts’ expressions were alien, but Mazael glimpsed the confusion there. Azurvaltoria’s spell blocked their scents, and to the valgast, they would smell like nothing at all. Perhaps the creature could still smell their sweat and their clothing, but it would not be able to smell their blood.

“Bah!” said the valgast. “You are not worth my time, human. The overseer will decide what is to be done with you. Come with us, or you shall die.”

Mazael grinned at the valgast. “Lead the way.”

The valgast spat upon the ground and beckoned with its spear, and Mazael and the others followed the valgasts deeper into the Shadow Market. They drew brief glances from the other patrons of the Market, but not long ones. To all outward appearances, they were only a group of five human mercenaries, and there were far stranger and more dangerous creatures here.

The valgasts led them to a cleared area on the far side of the Shadow Market, the purple-lit towers of Tchroth rising overhead. A half-dozen steel cages stood in a loose semicircle, and within the cages were black creatures about the size of horses. They looked a bit like giant mantises, with glittering black eyes and forelimbs like serrated scythes.

The fattest valgast Mazael had ever seen squatted on a stool in the center of the semicircle. The valgasts Mazael had all fought, even the valgast priests, had been lean and wiry. This valgast was so fat he almost looked spherical, and he was draped in a ragged black robe adorned with ornaments of bone and jade. Two more valgasts stood next to his stool. One of the valgasts was a warrior with the look of a bodyguard. The other held a bowl filled with writhing black grubs, and every so often the fat valgast’s fist darted down, seized a handful of the grubs, and shoved them into his mouth. The fat valgast’s other hand held a wand that looked as if it had been made from a human femur, symbols carved into its length. From time to time the symbols in the bone wand flashed with a harsh purple light.

“Overseer Vagenash,” said the leader of the warriors.

“What, Talchak?” snarled Vagenash, his voice deeper and wetter than most of the other valgasts Mazael had heard.

“These humans desire entry to the Shadow Market,” said Talchak.

“Do they?” said Vagenash. He shoved another handful of grubs into his mouth. “Did they say why?”

“We wish to trade,” said Mazael, “and to see the splendors of Tchroth with our own eyes.”

“Humans may not defile holy Tchroth with their unclean touch!” said Talchak.

“Bah,” rumbled Vagenash. “The Prophetess of the great goddess Marazadra has decreed otherwise, has she not? Soon the goddess herself shall return to physical form, and we shall march alongside the humans of Skuldar to put all of the world beneath the sway of the goddess. Or so the Prophetess foretells.” Mazael suspected that Vagenash might not have been the most fervent in his devotion to Marazadra.

“They may be spies,” said Talchak.

Vagenash grunted and sat up a little straighter. “Perhaps. Perhaps. But it is a strange group, no? Two human males and three human females. Very strange indeed. I understand humans do not customarily permit their females to take up arms and march to war.”

“We are not that strange,” said Mazael. “We are not marching to war. We are here to trade.” He shrugged. “And perhaps to look for work. My companions and I have a variety of useful skills, and we understand there are merchants who need such skills in the Shadow Market.”

“Come closer, human,” said Vagenash.

“But overseer…” started Talchak.

“Shut up, Talchak,” said Vagenash. Talchak scowled but stepped away. “Human, approach me.”

Mazael took a few steps forward and stopped a yard or so from Vagenash, keeping an eye on the overseer and his guards for any sign of treachery. Up close, the valgast overseer reeked of sweat and mold and old cheese, all overlaid with the musky smell of the grubs he was shoveling into his mouth. Vagenash leaned forward, his stool creaking alarmingly beneath his bulk, and his nostrils flared, his unblinking black eyes reflecting the purple glow from the city.

“You don’t smell like anything,” he said.

“I bathe regularly,” said Mazael.

“Mmm,” said Vagenash. He leaned back, wheezing as if the effort of movement had drained him. “None of you smell like anything. Oh, I can smell your sweat and leather, but I cannot smell your blood. It is as if some clever wizard masked your presence with a spell.”

Mazael kept his face calm, but his hand itched to draw Talon. “Valgasts are not the only ones who track by scent, are they?”

It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it seemed to mollify Vagenash.

“Indeed,” said Vagenash. “Many of the visitors to the Shadow Market have powerful enemies. That is no concern of mine, of course. Still, Talchak may be right, and you may be spies.”

Mazael was beginning to get Vagenash’s meaning. “And how can we prove to you that we are not spies?”

Vagenash rumbled in approval and gestured with his bone wand. “Do you see the beasts in the cages behind me?”

“They are rather hard to miss,” said Mazael. The giant mantis-creatures remained motionless for the most part, but from time to time they twitched, jerking back and forth with remarkable speed. Mazael suspected they would make formidable combatants.

“We call them razormanes,” said Vagenash. “They are descended from smaller insects found upon the surface. Within certain caverns of the underworld are areas of…wild, chaotic magic, let us say, and the original razormanes were created when their ancestors were exposed to that magic. The power twisted them, increasing their bloodlust and growing them to enormous size. We use them as war beasts.”

“I imagine that requires a trainer of particular skill,” said Mazael.

Vagenash let out a watery laugh. “Ha! No, razormanes cannot be trained as our hunting spiders can. No, they can only be enslaved through magic.” He gestured with his femur wand, pointing at the steel cages, and Mazael saw the bone collars that encircled the necks of the razormanes. The collars glowed with the same harsh purple light as the symbols upon the wand. “It is a long, arduous, and expensive process.”

“They must make for effective war beasts,” said Mazael.

“They do,” said Vagenash. “Unfortunately, the spells of enslavement are not always completely effective. Sometimes one of the beasts simply cannot be controlled. Regrettable, but such things cannot be foreseen. Alas, the resources spent constructing the spell of enslavement are then lost.” He pointed his bone wand at the rightmost cage. The razormane within it kept twitching, and Mazael saw that no glow came from its bone collar. “That one completely rejected the spells of control.”

“So why haven’t you killed it?” said Mazael.

“That would be wasteful,” said Vagenash. “Usually, when a razormane eludes the controlling spells, we use it for gambling. A bold warrior confronts the razormane in single combat, while the spectators place bets…”

“And no one has been bold enough to confront the feral razormane yet,” said Mazael, “and you’re looking for volunteers.”

Vagenash smiled a fang-filled grin. It made him look like a murderous toad. “Actually, three valgast warriors and two human renegades all challenged the razormane. It made rather…messy work of them.”

“And you made a handsome profit by collecting wagers,” said Mazael.

“For the greater glory of the goddess, of course,” said Vagenash, reaching for another handful of grubs. He realized that the bowl was empty and scowled, and the valgast servant scurried off to obtain more grubs. “Certainly the priests did not refuse my tithes when I submitted them to the Tower of the Spider.”

“Then you’re looking for another volunteer to fight the razormane,” said Mazael.

He felt Romaria give him a sharp look, heard Azurvaltoria snort in amusement.

“You are indeed quick on the uptake, human,” said Vagenash. “That is the deal I offer you. Fight the razormane and kill it, and will permit you and your companions free entry to the Shadow Market and Tchroth. Fail,” he grinned a needle-toothed grin, “and Talchak and his lads will kill you all. Perhaps we will keep your females alive and use them for breeding stock with our other slaves.”

Sigaldra bristled, but Azurvaltoria only smirked. The valgasts would be in for an unpleasant surprise if they tried to take her captive. Or Romaria, for that matter. She had said that valgast flesh tasted terrible, but that had never stopped her from tearing out their throats while in wolf form.

“And either way,” said Mazael, “you will make a handsome profit upon the wagers?”

Vagenash shrugged, his broad shoulders rippling beneath his robe. “Precisely, human. Do you not see the wisdom? Only fools play the game. The path of wisdom is to arrange the game so that you profit no matter who wins.”

It was so similar to something the Old Demon had said that Mazael felt a chill. Perhaps the valgasts had learned that proverb from the Old Demon himself. But he had learned that lesson himself, hadn’t he?

“Well, then,” said Mazael. “I accept your terms. Let’s see how we can profit from this game.”

Vagenash grinned that fang-filled grin and started barking commands to Talchak and his warrior.

###

Sigaldra watched as the Shadow Market transformed itself into a fighting ring.

In the center of the Market’s island was a shallow pit about thirty yards across and three yards deep. At first, it had been filled with booths and stalls selling weapons and poisons and what seemed to be grilled mushroom slabs. At Vagenash’s command, the merchants dismantled their stalls and hauled them away. If any merchants were too slow, the valgast warriors encouraged them with jabs from the butts of their spears. Another group of valgasts dragged the steel cage holding the feral razormane to the edge of the pit, while a third group dismantled the stairs leading into the pit.

Standing in the midst of so many valgasts and other creatures made Sigaldra’s skin crawl, but so far, the peace of the Shadow Market reigned. She suspected that Vagenash dealt brutally with anyone who caused disruption in the Market.

Given how fat he was, maybe Vagenash ate troublemakers.

Mazael walked to the edge of the pit, Romaria next to him. She gave him a quick kiss and stepped back, and Sigaldra was close enough to overhear them.

“Good fortune,” said Romaria.

Mazael smiled. “Shall I bring you its head as a trophy?”

“Gods, no,” said Romaria with a quiet laugh. “The razormanes stink badly enough as it is. I can only imagine what it will smell like once you open it up. Be careful.”

“Always,” said Mazael.

She laughed again. “Liar. I love you.”

“And I love you,” said Mazael. “Which, I should mention, is no lie.”

He squatted, gripped the edge of the pit, and dropped into it. Mazael walked towards the center as he drew Talon, the blade of dark dragon talon flashing with the golden symbols of the Guardian’s magic. Sigaldra glanced at Azurvaltoria, but the dragon seemed more interested in watching the various creatures around the Market, which made Sigaldra feel slightly better. If the San-keth cleric or one of the renegade human wizards tried something, Azurvaltoria would blast them to ashes.

She turned again and saw Romaria looking at her.

“I’m sorry,” said Sigaldra.

Romaria lifted her eyebrows. Her eyes were cold and blue, but Sigaldra thought she saw a faint hint of strain in them. “For what?”

“For…having to watch him go into battle,” said Sigaldra. “I know that must be hard.”

“It is,” said Romaria.

“My father was Theodoric, the last hrould of the Jutai,” said Sigaldra. “I would watch him and my brothers go into battle. Gods and ancestors, I hated it. He died fighting a Malrag balekhan in the middle lands.” She wasn’t sure why she was talking about that. Perhaps the strain of sneaking into this dangerous place was getting to her.

“My father died fighting the Malrags as well,” said Romaria in a quiet voice. She spoke to Sigaldra but looked at Mazael as he waited in the pit, Talon ready in his right hand. “A renegade Dominiar knight with a bloodsword commanded them, and he killed my father. Mazael killed the Dominiar in the last battle.”

“You must have seen the hrould go into battle many times,” said Sigaldra.

“Yes,” said Romaria. “Deepforest Keep and Morsen Village and Sword Town and other times than I can remember.” She shrugged. “But it is different for us than it is for most husbands and wives. I have gone into battle at least as many times as he has. I know it is as much a strain upon him as it is on me.”

For a moment they stood in silence, and then to Sigaldra’s surprise, Romaria smiled.

“But I wouldn’t have it any other way,” said Romaria. For a moment her face seemed more alien than usual, more Elderborn. “We were not made for peaceful lives, my husband and I. And it is just as well. If our natures were different, if we preferred peace to war, men like Lucan Mandragon and Malaric and Amalric Galbraith would have had a free hand to do as they wished.”

“That is not my nature,” said Sigaldra. “I want to live peace with my sister and what remains of the Jutai. We just want to be left alone.”

“Perhaps we can accomplish that,” said Romaria. “If we do, it will begin here. Watch what happens. I fear for Mazael, yes…but he is going to be victorious. Just watch.”

The valgasts finished dragging the heavy steel cage to the edge of the pit, and Talchak’s warriors stopped collecting wagers. The overseer of the Shadow Market heaved himself to his feet and waddled to the edge of the pit.

“Hear me!” he roared. “For our entertainment, a bold human warrior thinks to face a feral razormane in single combat. Will he prevail? Will he strike down the razormane? Or will the razormane rip him to bloody shreds? We shall now watch for your amusement. Open the cage!”

The valgasts opened the cage and jabbed their spears through the bars, driving the razormane forward.

With a furious shriek, the razormane leaped from the cage and landed in the pit, its legs flexing as it landed. Sigaldra finally had a good look at the thing. It did indeed look like a mantis the size of a horse, albeit sleeker and leaner than a horse. There were blood-colored stripes down the side of its armored carapace, and its massive forelimbs were like serrated scythes. Its faceted eyes glittered as its head turned back and forth, its antennae waving, and with a chittering scream, the razormane surged forward, drawing back its forelimbs to strike at Mazael.

The sheer speed of the creature’s charge should have knocked Mazael to the ground. Somehow Mazael anticipated the movement, and he sidestepped, the razormane’s attack missing him by mere inches. He struck with Talon as he dodged, the curved blade biting into the creature’s armored side. Some kind of black slime bubbled from the wound, and the creature shrieked in pain. Mazael raised Talon and brought it hammering down at the razormane’s head. The creature’s bladed forelimbs rose in a parry, and it went back on the attack.

Mazael and the razormane danced around each other, sword and scythes flashing back and forth. Mazael kept circling the razormane, launching blows towards its side, while the creature kept turning to face him, slashing with its forelimbs. Sigaldra could not understand what the Lord of Castle Cravenlock intended. Why attack its side? Surely he could not hope to reach its heart before the creature killed him. Better to aim blows at its head.

The reason for Mazael’s tactics became apparent a few minutes later when he landed another blow, and this time, Talon sheared off the razormane’s middle leg at the base. The black limb struck the ground and rolled away, and the razormane let out a tearing shriek of fury and pain. Now Mazael went on a furious attack, Talon spinning around him in a dark blur. His attacks forced the creature back onto its wounded side, and to stay upright, the razormane had to use its right forelimb as a leg.

That left an opening at Mazael could exploit, and he exploited it by driving Talon through the razormane’s right eye and deep into its head. The razormane went stiff, and then into a wild, spastic dance, and Mazael ripped Talon free and stepped back, the golden symbols burning through the black slime covering the blade.

The razormane twitched once more and then collapsed motionless to the ground.

A roaring cheer went up from the valgasts and the other denizens of the Market, and Mazael raised Talon over his head, turning in a circle. Sigaldra glanced at Romaria, and to her surprise she saw that the older woman was breathing fast, her eyes a little wider than usual. At first, Sigaldra thought she was overcome with relief, but then she realized the truth. Romaria had found watching Mazael kill the razormane exciting. Likely she would pull him into her bed the moment they were alone together.

Sigaldra shuddered a little. Mazael and Romaria were suited to each other…and she was very glad that Mazael Cravenlock was not her enemy.

“Victory to the human!” said Vagenash, his thick voice booming through the market.

###

“A good fight, my lord,” said Adalar, gripping Mazael’s hand and helping him out of the pit.

“Thanks,” grunted Mazael, regaining his feet. “It wasn’t a fair fight, though. That thing was strong and fast, but it wasn’t bright. It didn’t realize what I was doing, and I doubt it even realized that it was dead. A good lesson, there. Best to keep your head in a fight.” He laughed. “Though you’re not my squire any longer.”

“It’s still a good lesson,” said Adalar.

Sigaldra, Azurvaltoria, and Romaria joined them, and Romaria kissed Mazael.

“Sure you don’t want its head as a trophy?” said Mazael.

Romaria grinned. “No. Vagenash would charge us extra for it.”

They walked to where Vagenash waited.

“My winnings?” said Azurvaltoria, holding out her hand.

Vagenash scowled but clubbed one of his guards with his bone wand, and the valgast produced a small pouch of gold coins.

“You bet on me, I hope,” said Mazael.

Azurvaltoria smiled and tucked the pouch into her coat. Given that she had ruled over a cavern packed with treasure, Adalar wondered what need she had of coins. On the other hand, all her treasures had been buried when the Prophetess collapsed the cavern, so maybe she needed to rebuild her wealth.

“You have been victorious, human,” said Vagenash. “I have turned a tidy profit, and you may now access the Shadow Market and the plaza of the Outer Gate of Tchroth. Under no account enter any other part of Tchroth, or else you shall be killed on the spot.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Mazael.

Vagenash scowled once more, nodded, and waddled away, trailed by his guards and slaves. Bit by bit the normal commerce of the Shadow Market resumed. On the other side of the Market, Adalar saw the stone bridge leading to the towers of Tchroth itself.

“Well,” said Mazael, rolling his shoulders. “Shall we see if we can meet some old friends in Tchroth?”

Chapter 9: City of the Spiders

“I suggest,” said Azurvaltoria, “that we first visit the Tavern of Blood.”

Mazael frowned. “The valgasts drink alcohol?”

They crossed the narrow bridge leading from the Shadow Market to the Outer Gate. For a moment, they were alone. Beyond the massive stone arch of the Outer Gate, Mazael glimpsed a plaza at the base of the stalagmites, a plaza teeming with valgasts.

“Prodigiously,” said Azurvaltoria. “They ferment it using mushrooms.”

“Mushroom wine?” said Sigaldra. “How does that taste?”

“Horrendous,” said Azurvaltoria, “but the valgasts will eat almost anything, so perhaps it masks the taste of their food. The plaza below the Outer Gate contains the Tavern of Blood, which is the only tavern in Tchroth that outsiders are permitted to visit.”

“I assume,” said Mazael, “that you have a reason to visit other than drinking mushroom wine.”

“Yes,” said Azurvaltoria. She pointed at the dark shape of the Tower of the Spider. “That is the way to Mount Armyar and the Heart of the Spider.”

“It leads to Mount Armyar?” said Mazael.

“More precisely,” said Azurvaltoria, “it leads to the ruined temple housing the Heart of the Spider. Marazadra’s worshippers had rather greater engineering skill in ancient centuries.”

“The valgasts themselves clearly do not lack it,” said Mazael, looking at the dark shaft of the Tower of the Spider and giant stone spider crouching at its base. As he looked at it, he realized that the statue was hollow, that valgasts came and went through its yawning jaws. He supposed it was a temple or a cathedral of some kind.

“No,” said Azurvaltoria. “Unfortunately for our purposes, the Tower of the Spider is the most sacred site in Tchroth. Any humans entering it, even slaves, are put to death. Attempting to enter through the front doors would get us killed in great haste.” She smiled at Mazael. “Not even you could fight through that many valgast warriors and wizards.”

“I shouldn’t like to try,” said Mazael. “So what do you suggest? That we sneak our way into the temple?”

“We could try,” said Azurvaltoria, “but that has too many risks.” She gestured at the massive stalactites hanging from the cavern ceiling. “See those walkways?”

“Aye,” said Mazael. “There are hundreds of them.”

“And some of them,” said Azurvaltoria, “pass very close to the Tower of the Spider, do they not?”

“You’re saying,” said Sigaldra, “that you want to sneak onto one of those walkways and…jump over to the Tower of the Spider.”

“To the top of the Tower of the Spider,” said Azurvaltoria. “That is the key.”

“We don’t actually need to pass through the Tower of the Spider, do we?” said Mazael, intrigued by the idea. “We need to reach the entrance to Mount Armyar at the top of the Tower of the Spider. And if we can bypass the temple entirely, why not?”

“It’s…rather quite high, isn’t it?” said Sigaldra.

“Do you have a problem with heights?” said Azurvaltoria.

“No,” said Sigaldra. She paused. “I’ve just never been that far off the ground before.”

“If it makes you feel better,” said Adalar, “we are technically very far below the ground.”

Sigaldra snorted in amusement but fell silent. Mazael could tell the thought of climbing those high walkways troubled her a great deal, but she would not let it stop her, not when her sister’s life was at stake.

“I imagine,” said Mazael, “that the valgasts guard those walkways well.”

“They do,” said Azurvaltoria, “but not as well as the entrance to the Tower of the Spider. What shall we do about it?”

Mazael shared a look with Romaria. His wife rolled her eyes. Azurvaltoria had been a useful ally, but her flair for the dramatic did become tiresome.

“Let me guess,” said Mazael. “You know someone at the Tavern of Blood. Someone with authority, someone who owes you a favor or whom you can compel, and you will use them to gain access to the upper walkways.”

Azurvaltoria pouted, and Mazael blinked in surprise. The dragon was thousands of years old, and yet she was pouting like a frustrated child. The experience was so surreal that for a moment he wasn’t sure what to do.

“Was my plan that transparent?” said Azurvaltoria.

“Not at all,” said Mazael, “but it is clever. I just hope it is clever enough to work.”

“It should,” said Azurvaltoria.

“This…person who owes you a favor,” said Mazael. “A valgast?”

“Aye,” said Azurvaltoria, recovering her poise. “A valgast priest. A few decades ago, the valgasts tried to break into the Veiled Mountain to steal the Mask. They came well-prepared and well-armed – warriors, wizards, razormanes, motaylakars, all of their war creatures. Naturally, I killed them all, but I did spare one wizard who begged for his life. I permitted him to depart, in exchange for a favor to be named should I ever encounter him again.”

“Why?” said Mazael.

Azurvaltoria shrugged. “I’m not sure. Perhaps I was bored. Perhaps I was feeling merciful. Perhaps I thought I might have to come to Tchroth again and I would need assistance.” She scowled at herself, brushing at her red coat. “Though I did not think I would be locked in the form of a hairless ape the next time I came to Tchroth.”

“Surely it must be an improvement over the form of a valgast,” said Romaria.

“Somewhat,” said Azurvaltoria. “Humans do smell better. Marginally.”

“How flattering,” said Sigaldra. She seemed nonplussed by the conversation, though Azurvaltoria often had that effect.

“None of us have bathed for a while,” said Mazael. “So this valgast wizard you spared. What is his name?”

“Zanaxar,” said Azurvaltoria. “I fear the trauma of his escape from the Veiled Mountain left him a hopeless drunkard. He still retains the rank of a priest, but spends most of his time drunk in the Tavern of Blood.”

“That was the real reason you didn’t kill Zanaxar,” said Romaria. “You thought he might make a useful spy.”

Azurvaltoria shrugged again. “Perhaps. Even I can sometimes do a thing for more than one reason.”

“We can argue about it later,” said Mazael. They had almost reached the end of the bridge, the huge stone arch of the Outer Gate yawning before them. It was covered in the twisted characters Mazael had come to recognize as the valgast script. He wondered what the words upon the gate said. “Which way to the Tavern of Blood?”

“It is the building at the far end of the plaza,” said Azurvaltoria, “built at the foot of the stalagmite on the right.”

Mazael strode through the Outer Gate, the others following him.

The plaza beyond was large enough to hold a good-sized village, two massive stalagmites rising on either side, a stalactite hanging overhead, all of them dotted with glowing windows and doors. Market stalls and booths lined the plaza, but unlike the Shadow Market, all the merchants and the customers were valgasts. Mazael felt the creatures’ hard, suspicious stares as he crossed the plaza. If the valgasts wanted to attack, he would be happy to give them a fight they would not forget, but the creatures seemed content to let him pass.

Just as well. Here in the heart of Tchroth, there was no way he and the others could escape a fight. Mazael counted at least five hundred valgasts scattered throughout the plaza, and spotted a half-dozen soliphages standing here and there, motionless in their hooded black cloaks. Fighting five hundred valgasts would be difficult. Fighting that many valgasts with the aid of soliphage spells would be even impossible.

No, best to stick to the subterfuge for now.

Mazael did not cower before their gaze, but looked around with an air of scorn and contempt, one hand resting upon his sword hilt. It was the right response. The valgasts watched him with wariness, but none of them were willing to challenge him. Evidently, Vagenash’s decrees were backed by the chief authorities of Tchroth.

Mazael began to notice the subtle differences between the different classes of valgasts. The warriors were larger, standing nearly five feet tall, their hides a mottled greenish-yellow beneath their bone armor. The valgasts who served as merchants and craftsmen were shorter, and tended towards plumpness, unlike the muscular warriors. Some of the valgasts were shorter and wore only loincloths, their bodies adorned with spiraling black tattoos. They seemed to serve as laborers and porters, stacking merchandise and clay containers for the merchants or carrying supplies for the warriors. Mazael wondered if the tattoos were marks of shame, the way some lords on the surface branded cattle thieves and brigands.

As they drew closer to the stalagmite on the right, he had a better view of the Tower of the Spider. The giant stone spider stood in the center of a vast plaza. A large crowd of valgasts gathered around the base of the huge spider, and Mazael wondered if the Prophetess was already in the temple. Did she intend to address the valgasts as she had given a speech to the priests and priestesses of Marazadra in Armalast? He couldn’t imagine that the valgasts would appreciate a speech from a human sorceress. Yet if the valgasts followed Marazadra, and they believed that the Prophetess was the chosen of Marazadra, perhaps they would do anything she asked of them.

The slender mass of the Tower of the Spider rose from the back of the spider-shaped temple. At least, compared to the thick stalactites hanging around it, the Tower only looked slender. It was a massive construction of gleaming dark stone, reaching all the way to the ceiling of the cavern. If Azurvaltoria was right, the stairs within the Tower led to the slopes of Mount Armyar and to the Heart of the Spider itself.

Now it was just a matter of getting to those stairs.

Though unless Mazael missed his guess, at least three thousand valgasts were between him and the Tower of the Spider, with more filtering into the plaza below the temple with every passing moment.

“An assembly,” murmured Azurvaltoria. “The valgasts gather for war.”

“Do you think the Prophetess will speak to them?” said Sigaldra. Her hand kept twitching towards her bow, and Mazael hoped she kept herself under control.

“Most probably,” said Azurvaltoria. “I assume she is meeting with the high priests and the warlords of Tchroth and will address the warriors before she resumes her journey to the Heart of the Spider.” She tapped the hilt of the maethweisyr on her belt, just visible within her dark red coat. “I would cast a spell to confirm…”

“Don’t,” said Romaria.

Azurvaltoria grinned. “But the soliphages in the plaza would almost certainly detect it and kill us at once.”

“This Zanaxar who owes you a favor,” said Romaria. “Won’t he attend the assembly?”

“Probably,” said Azurvaltoria. “After he’s sufficiently drunk. The innards of the valgasts digest alcohol and other poisons more efficiently than the innards of humans, so it takes more to make them drunk. We’ll have a few minutes yet.”

“You know some odd things,” said Adalar.

Azurvaltoria turned towards the young lord, her smile stark and white in the purple-lit gloom of Tchroth, and Mazael remembered the dragon’s fangs in the caverns of the Veiled Mountain. “I’ve been quite bored for a long time, Lord Adalar. There has been little else to do.”

They crossed in silence to the Tavern of Blood at the base of the stalagmite.

Mazael had been in hundreds of taverns, inns, and wine houses scattered from Tumblestone to the Grim Marches and back again, and to his surprise, the valgast tavern felt the same as many of them. The Tavern of Blood was a large rectangular chamber hewn from the rock of the stalagmite. A long table ran along one wall, built not from wooden planks but the molded bone the valgasts used for their weapons and armor. Massive stone tubs of blood-colored liquid rested on plinths behind the table and tattooed valgast laborers drew out cups of the reeking stuff. More valgasts sat at stone tables scattered around the cavern. Most of them bore the tattoos of laborers, but some wore the robes of merchants and a few the armor of warriors. The valgasts looked up as they approached, their unblinking black eyes glinting in the light, and then turned their attention back to their cups of wine. Mazael suspected that this place did not draw the most fervent of Marazadra’s worshippers.

“Ah,” murmured Azurvaltoria. “There, in the corner. Hiding away from the world, just as I thought.”

In the corner was a large table, unoccupied save for a valgast wizard. Like all the valgast wizard-priests, this valgast had a bone-white hide adorned with scarred sigils that flickered with magical light. Unlike the other valgast wizards Mazael had fought and killed, this wizard was tremendously fat, so fat that Mazael wondered if he could walk without assistance. He had a staff topped with a human skull, similar to the one Timothy had claimed, but it leaned against the wall so both hands could grip his massive wine cup.

The valgast wizard looked up. The valgasts all had the same gleaming black eyes, and Mazael knew from experience that those eyes were as hard as diamond, impenetrable to any weapon. Consequently, he had never seen a valgast with bloodshot eyes, but there were dark circles beneath the valgast wizard’s eyes, and a faint sheen of sweat glittered upon his pale hide.

“Humans,” the wizard rumbled, setting down his stone cup with a clank. A bit of wine slopped over the edges and onto his clawed fingers. “I suppose humans are permitted within the plaza of the Outer Gate, but that does not mean I have to tolerate your presence. Be gone from my sight.”

Azurvaltoria smiled, lifted the skirts of her coat, and sat across from him.

“What impudence is this?” said the valgast wizard, a quiver of rage going through him. “You presume to address a priest of the great goddess Marazadra.”

“Oh, Zanaxar,” said Azurvaltoria. “Zanaxar, Zanaxar, Zanaxar. You’ve really let yourself go, haven’t you? How much do you spend on slaves to carry your bloated carcass from place to place? Probably not as much as you spend on wine, I imagine.”

“You dare!” said Zanaxar, slapping his meaty palms against the table. He started to rise so he could tower over Azurvaltoria, changed his mind and slumped against the stone bench once more. “You dare such impudence to a priest of Marazadra.” He started to reach for his staff. “I shall blast you to ashes! I shall rend the flesh from your bones. Or I shall take you and sell you to the slavers. Let us see if you can keep a haughty tongue once the slavers give you to their porters as breeding stock! I shall…”

“Oh, do stop posturing, Zanaxar,” said Azurvaltoria. “It wasn’t amusing in the caverns of the Veiled Mountain, and it’s not amusing here.”

When Azurvaltoria mentioned the Veiled Mountain, Zanaxar flinched as if she had jabbed him with a dagger.

“What did you say?” hissed Zanaxar.

“Forty years it has been,” said Azurvaltoria, folding her hands on the table and smiling her mad, white smile. “Before the haughty Prophetess was even born, I imagine. Forty years ago your high priest had a brilliant plan to defeat the guardian of the Veiled Mountain and bring the Mask of Marazadra back to Tchroth, to say nothing of the vast wealth and the ancient magical treasures piled in the caverns. It was such a brilliant plan that you went along with it, didn’t you? But it led you to nothing but death and dragon fire.”

Zanaxar shrank back, his huge eyes fixed on Azurvaltoria. “You…”

“The guardian killed your high priest, and all the other priests save you,” said Azurvaltoria. “And you threw yourself on your knees before the guardian and begged for your life, and she decided to spare you, in exchange for your help one day. I have good news for you, Zanaxar. It is time to discharge your debt. The day has come at last.”

Stark terror came over the valgast wizard’s face.

“It cannot be,” he whispered.

“Yes,” said Azurvaltoria. “You were much younger when we last met, Zanaxar. And, if I am honest, considerably slimmer. But you’re still a survivor, aren’t you? Right now you have another chance to survive if you repay your debt to me.”

“How?” said Zanaxar. “It is not possible…”

Azurvaltoria waved a hand in an airy, dismissive gesture. “I took human form to spare your mind. Should your people see me in my full glory, the terror of my majesty would shatter their minds like glass.”

Mazael kept himself from laughing. That was a grandiose way of admitting that she had been locked into human form and could not resume her true shape.

“It is not possible,” said Zanaxar.

“Don’t be an idiot,” said Azurvaltoria. “You saw me kill a high priest of the goddess and a dozen other priests, all of them potent wizards, and a hundred of your warriors. Do you really think I cannot do whatever I wish?”

Zanaxar swallowed. The expressions of the valgasts were alien, at least compared to human expressions, but the fear was nonetheless obvious.

“Then have you returned at last to slay me?” said Zanaxar. “To finish the work you began long ago?”

“What?” said Azurvaltoria. “I told you not to be an idiot. If I had wanted to kill you, I would have done it at the Veiled Mountain. I told you that someday you would do me a favor. That day has come.”

“Then what do you want from me?” said Zanaxar. “Will you ask me to defy the wills of the high priests and the warlords? Then you might as well kill me now. If I defy them, they shall slay me without hesitation.”

“I don’t want you to defy them,” said Azurvaltoria. “Once you have performed your little favor for me, you are free to continue drinking yourself into an early grave.”

Zanaxar shook his head. “I cannot. The high priests and the warlords have commanded an assembly of the warriors and the priests of Tchroth. The Prophetess of the great goddess has come, and it is said she has found the instruments for the rebirth of Marazadra. She will address the valgasts and then summon Marazadra to the world once more, and all the nations shall bow before the claws of the valgasts.”

“You might go to the assembly,” said Azurvaltoria, “but I wager you will slink into the corner of the great courtyard and continue drinking.”

Zanaxar gave a weak little shrug. “Then what do you want from me?”

“Nothing onerous or even difficult,” said Azurvaltoria. “Humans are forbidden from entering Tchroth, save for the Shadow Market and the plaza of the Outer Gate. We require entrance deeper into Tchroth.”

Zanaxar let out a wet laugh. “Easily accomplished. Sell yourselves into slavery, and you shall be permitted within the boundaries of Tchroth. Assuming your masters permit it.”

Azurvaltoria smiled, tapping one fingernail against the bone table. For some reason that made Zanaxar flinch, fresh sweat beading upon his pale hide.

“You can suggest a better solution, I hope,” said Azurvaltoria.

“Yes,” said Zanaxar. “Yes, yes, of course.” His leathery tongue darted over his needle-like fangs in nervousness. “There is another way. Another group of humans has been permitted to pass through Tchroth and enter the Tower of the Spider.”

Azurvaltoria frowned. “Who?”

“Skuldari humans,” said Zanaxar. “Priests and priestesses of the goddess. Only the valgasts are the true servants of Marazadra, of course, but the Prophetess has commanded that all followers of the goddess gather beneath her banner, and so we must march alongside them.” He scoffed. “Of course, in time the valgasts shall devour and enslave all of humanity.”

“Of course,” said Azurvaltoria in a dry tone. “Now. These human priests?”

“Yes,” said Zanaxar. “The easiest way for you to enter Tchroth is to disguise yourselves as priests of Marazadra. I suggest the two females disguise themselves as priestesses,” he turned an indifferent glance over Romaria and Sigaldra, “and that the two males act as their warriors. Several dozen such priests and priestesses and their bodyguards have passed through the Tower of the Spider to the Heart of the Goddess, there to witness the return of Marazadra.”

Mazael frowned. There were already priests and priestesses of Marazadra at the Heart of the Spider? That would pose a problem. Perhaps it was just as well he had sent Timothy and Earnachar and Basjun to summon aid from the Grim Marches.

“I believe,” said Zanaxar, “the king of the Skuldari humans is there as well.”

“Basracus?” said Mazael, anger flashing through him.

Zanaxar blinked. “Yes, that is his name. How humans tell each other apart, I’ll never know. He arrived just before the Prophetess and will join her for the assembly. Then they shall ascend to the Tower of the Spider.”

“I assume we shall require proof,” said Azurvaltoria. “Even human priests of Marazadra are not allowed to roam freely through Tchroth.”

“No,” said Zanaxar. “I shall give you my seal, the seal borne by all priests of the goddess in Tchroth.” He reached into his robe and produced a seal of dark stone adorned with a stylized spider glyph. Mazael blinked in surprise. He had seen a seal exactly like that in the cave of the soliphage who had taken Sigaldra captive.

Come to think of it, Mazael still had the damned thing in his pack. Perhaps it would prove useful after all.

“So long as you carry the seal, none shall question you,” said Zanaxar, “assuming you remain disguised as Skuldari priests.” He shrugged. “Of course, you shall be unmasked and killed, and then I will claim you took the seal from me by force.”

Azurvaltoria smiled. “Are you so sure your high priests can overcome me by force?”

Zanaxar shuddered again. “No. I am not. Perhaps you will prevail, or perhaps the goddess shall return. I do not care what happens, so long as there is mushroom wine to drink.”

With that, he joined word to deed, and lifted his stone cup to his face, making a slurping noise as he drank.

Chapter 10: Prophecy

Once again, Sigaldra disguised herself as a Skuldari priestess of Marazadra.

It was just as well that Romaria still had that blue face paint.

They ducked into a deserted side room of the Tavern of Blood. Mazael and Adalar guarded the door, while Romaria produced her jar of paint. With quick motions she painted Sigaldra’s face with the markings of a Skuldari priestess of Marazadra, drawing a stylized blue spider over her face, the legs sweeping over her temples and down her cheeks and jaw. The paint gave off an odd, sickly smell, like overripe berries, and felt cool against Sigaldra’s skin.

“Finished,” said Romaria, straightening up. “My turn.”

Sigaldra nodded and took the jar of paint, marking Romaria’s sharp-featured face with the symbol of the stylized spider. With her eerie blue eyes and long black hair, Romaria looked more like a priestess of Marazadra than Sigaldra did. It helped that she was taller, as well.

“I’ll need the disguise as well,” said Azurvaltoria.

“Can’t you cast an illusion spell?” said Mazael, watching the door to the tavern’s main room.

“Certainly,” said Azurvaltoria, “but the valgast wizards might become a trifle curious if I start walking around with an active spell. And if they happen to dispel it…well, that will mean awkward questions.”

“A good point,” said Mazael.

“I’ll do it,” said Romaria, much to Sigaldra’s relief. Azurvaltoria looked human, but the thought of touching the transformed dragon’s face made her skin crawl.

Fortunately, no one seemed to notice her hesitation, and Romaria painted Azurvaltoria’s face in a few moments.

“That smells vile,” said Azurvaltoria, blinking.

“It does,” said Romaria, “but it washes off quickly.”

“How do I look?” said Azurvaltoria.

“No more villainous than usual,” said Sigaldra.

“In other words,” said Mazael, “like a hairless monkey with a blue spider painted upon her face.”

“Splendid,” said Azurvaltoria. “Shall we?”

They walked through the door and back into the common room. Zanaxar still huddled in the corner over his massive cup of mushroom wine and did not look up as they approached. Neither did the rest of the valgasts, who appeared lost in their cups of mushroom wine. Mazael and Adalar led the way across the common room, with Sigaldra, Romaria, and Azurvaltoria following as if they were priestesses of Marazadra in truth. Mazael usually strode anywhere with perfect confidence, but now he swaggered, glaring at the valgasts as if daring them to attack. It was a fitting attitude for the guard of a Skuldari priestess, but Sigaldra hoped it didn’t get them killed. Adalar walked next to the older man, tall and quiet in his armor, an air of quiet menace around him. Sigaldra found she liked that. She also found her mind turning back to the mountain path, to the kiss that they had shared…

She rebuked herself. Now was not the time to think of such things, and she felt guilty for thinking of them while Liane was in mortal danger. Yet Sigaldra was walking into no less danger than Liane. If she was going to die, she would prefer to die while thinking of something pleasant. Sigaldra wondered if Liane had foreseen this with the Sight. She had kept talking about the rusted knight, and she had known of Adalar’s coming. Had she known that his path would cross with Sigaldra’s?

Sigaldra wondered what else Liane might have foreseen.

Their deaths, perhaps?

She tried to put that thought out of her mind.

They returned to the plaza below the Outer Gate, the air of the cavern cool and damp against Sigaldra’s face and neck. Fewer valgasts occupied the plaza, but the crowd at the base of the Tower of the Spider had at least doubled. The valgasts were assembling to hear the Prophetess of their goddess.

Another archway rose on the other end of the plaza, leading deeper into Tchroth. A half-dozen valgast warriors stood guard there, armored in cuirasses grown from bone, spears in their hands. Mazael made no effort to slow as he strode towards them, and the valgast warriors stiffened, raising their spears.

“Halt!” said one of the warriors. “Humans are not allowed in the sacred precincts of Tchroth!”

Mazael glared at them. “Three priestesses of the great goddess come to offer their devotions and hear the words of the Prophetess of Marazadra, who soon shall summon the goddess back to our world once more. You would presume to deny the will of the servants of the goddess?”

“Only the valgasts are the true servants of the goddess,” sneered the valgast warrior, tapping Mazael’s chest with the end of his spear. “When the goddess manifests, the valgasts shall rule all nations, and the humans shall be our cattle and our slaves.”

“Maybe you have it backward,” said Mazael. “Maybe the Skuldari shall rule the earth, and mouthy valgasts shall be used as beasts of burden.” The valgast warrior bristled, but Mazael kept talking. “Let us pass before I grow impatient.”

The valgast warrior snarled and jabbed the spear again. “Turn around, human, or else…”

Mazael punched him.

Sigaldra had never seen the hrould punch anyone before, but she had seen Mazael use his sword to take off an enemy’s head with a single blow, so it was no surprise that the valgast’s head jerked back with an audible snap. The valgast fell to the ground, blood pouring from his shattered nose and broken jaw, and Mazael flexed his fingers with a wince. The other valgasts raised their weapons, but Mazael lifted the black stone seal he had taken from the soliphage’s cave.

“I suggest,” said Mazael, “that you let us pass. Or we summon the priests and ask them why you will not permit the servants of Marazadra entry.”

Another valgast grunted. “You could have simply shown us the seal and saved yourself the bother, human.”

Mazael shrugged. “I was bored.” He gave the stunned valgast a kick in the ribs. “And I wager he’s a troublemaker.”

The valgast didn’t quite laugh. “Very well. Proceed.”

The valgasts parted, and Mazael strode over the unconscious valgast warrior without looking back. Sigaldra and the others followed him. Her shoulders itched, and she wanted to look back to see if the valgasts were pursuing, but she knew they would take it as a sign of weakness.

“How did you know?” said Sigaldra.

“Know what?” said Mazael.

“That the valgasts wouldn’t attack,” said Sigaldra.

“You can always tell a troublemaker,” said Mazael. “The second valgast? His helmet was more ornate than the others. That means he was in charge, but the first valgast did all the talking. Hence, troublemaker. If Earnachar was a valgast, he would look like the one I punched.”

Sigaldra started to laugh and then stopped herself. A Skuldari priestess would not demean herself by laughing. “So you did the valgast commander a favor.”

“Aye, I’m the very soul of generosity,” said Mazael. He stopped, looking around, and Sigaldra followed suit. Beyond the plaza stretched a pool of water, linking to the rest of the vast lake that filled the cavern of Tchroth. A wide causeway crossed the pool, leading to the massive plaza around the Tower of the Spider. Hundreds of valgasts crossed the causeway, joining the thousands filling the plaza around the base of the temple. If they realized who Sigaldra and the others really were, they would attack without mercy.

It was possible some of them had seen Sigaldra and the others before. Many valgasts had fled from the battle in the valley, and some of them might be only a few yards away.

“What do you think?” said Mazael in a low voice to Romaria and Azurvaltoria.

“We should not come any closer to the temple,” said Romaria. “Not for any reason. If the Prophetess sees us, we won’t make it a dozen yards before we’re overwhelmed.”

“No,” said Azurvaltoria. She pointed, the gesture making her red coat flare around her. Hopefully, the valgasts would not realize that Skuldari priestesses did not usually wear coats of red leather. “That stalagmite. Do you see?” It rose from the lake like a small mountain, and from its apex stretched a walkway that reached to a nearby stalactite. A dozen different walkways branched off from the stalactite, and one of those stone walkways passed within a few yards of the dark mass of the Tower of the Spider.

It had to be at least a thousand feet from that walkway to the courtyard at the foot of the Tower of the Spider. Sigaldra tried not to think about the potential for falling.

“Aye,” said Mazael. “We enter through there?”

“That stalagmite is called the Tower of Beasts,” said Azurvaltoria. “The valgasts train their razormane war beasts within, along with other creatures.”

“Splendid,” muttered Sigaldra.

“From the apex of the Tower of Beasts, that walkway leads to the Spire of Spells,” said Azurvaltoria, gesturing at the stalactite. “Valgast priests are trained in the rudiments of magic within. From there we can reach the walkway that runs alongside the Tower of the Spider, cross the gap, and then reach the Heart of the Spider.”

“You want us to enter a school filled with apprentice valgast wizards?” said Adalar.

“Of course not,” said Azurvaltoria. “That would be suicidal. All the valgast acolytes will gather in the plaza to hear the Prophetess’s address. The Spire of Spells should be deserted, and the Tower of Beasts nearly deserted, save for laborers assigned to watch over the war beasts. We should have little trouble overpowering any opposition.”

“Well, we’ve no choice but to find out,” said Mazael. “Azurvaltoria, stay with me. Romaria, Sigaldra, have your bows ready. We may need to fight our way clear in haste.”

###

The crowd of valgasts thickened around them, and Adalar fought the overwhelming urge to draw his sword.

Fortunately, the valgasts did not seem inclined to fight. Most of the valgasts around him bore the tattoos that marked those of common station. Again and again, he felt those hard, glittering black eyes turn towards him. When the valgasts saw the blue paint on the faces of the women or the seals of black stone in the hands of Adalar and Mazael, the valgasts lost interest.The disguise was working. As much as the valgasts loathed humans, they seemed unwilling to break the commands of the Prophetess and attack their allies.

“There,” murmured Azurvaltoria.

Mazael moved to the left, and Adalar followed him, Sigaldra and Romaria and Azurvaltoria coming after. The broke away from the main flow of traffic into the Tower of the Spider and headed for the base of the Tower of Beasts. Up close, Adalar saw hundreds of purple-glowing windows carved into the rough, gleaming stone of the stalagmite. Doors yawned in the higher levels, along with stone perches, and Adalar realized the doors and the perches were for the use of motaylakars. He had not yet seen one of the moth-creatures in the city. Perhaps the valgasts did not permit them to use the streets.

They came at last to a massive stone arch and a wide corridor that led into the depths of the Tower of Beasts. A sullen purple glow came from within, and valgast glyphs gleamed upon the walls. The air carried a heavy, strange stench, almost like the dung of horses, but unlike anything Adalar had ever smelled before. Perhaps it was the mingled odor of the razormanes and the motaylakars. Or perhaps it was the stench of some other beast, something even more powerful and dangerous.

A dozen different passageways led off from the dark tunnel. Any one of the passages could hold a mob of valgast warriors. Or perhaps the valgasts let their pets roam freely through the Tower of Beasts.

“Which way?” said Mazael.

“The central stairs,” said Azurvaltoria. “If we encounter any valgasts, bluff.”

“How reassuring,” said Sigaldra.

Azurvaltoria’s grin flashed in the purple gloom. “Better than starting a fight we cannot win.”

They strode forward, the purple glow brightening with every step. Adalar felt a warm, stinking breeze against his face, and he reached for his sword when he saw something moving in the shadows. The shape approached closer, and he saw that the creature looked a bit like a dog-sized ant with a red hide and bristling crimson fur, moving with a slow, skittering gait.

“Do not be alarmed,” said Azurvaltoria. “It’s a scavenger. It eats refuse much the same way pigs and dogs do in the streets of a human city.”

“Does it eat humans?” said Sigaldra, eyeing the creature.

“Just don’t play dead in front of it,” said Azurvaltoria.

The passageway ended in a large cylindrical room, a shaft running through the heart of the Tower of Beasts. A set of spiral stairs rose upwards, vanishing into the purple haze overhead. At every level, balconies jutted into the shaft, with more doorways leading into the Tower. The place was a maze, and Adalar hoped that Azurvaltoria knew where she was going.

A group of six valgasts made their way down the stairs, clad in the loincloths and elaborate tattoos of valgast laborers. Behind them came a trio of strange-looking creatures that resembled sheep-sized snails with insect legs. At first, Adalar thought the creatures were war beasts, but then he saw the baskets strapped to each of the curved shells. They were beasts of burden.

“What are humans doing in the Tower of Beasts?” rasped one of the laborers, black eyes reflecting the purple light. “Humans are not permitted in the Tower of Beasts…”

“Be gone from my path!” roared Mazael. “Do you impede the servants of the great goddess Marazadra?” He gestured at the women. “If you think to defy the will of the goddess, then you shall suffer for your impertinence.”

Azurvaltoria made an elaborate rolling gesture with her right hand, fire starting to crackle around her fingers. The valgast laborers looked at each other, and in unspoken agreement moved to the side, clearing the path. Mazael strode past them without a second glance, and Adalar and the others followed him. After a moment the valgast laborers continued on their way, grumbling to themselves.

“We’re not going to be able to bluff our way past everyone,” said Adalar. “Especially if we run into a valgast wizard.”

“I know,” said Mazael. “Keep your sword ready.”

They kept climbing. Soon Adalar felt the burn in his legs from the endless stairs. He glimpsed other passageways opening off the stairs, leading to rooms filled with steel cages like the ones they had seen in the Shadow Market, or rooms filled with barrels of food and drink. Still another room held armor made from the carcasses of dead razormanes. In one room Adalar glimpsed what looked like a nursery for razormanes, rows of glistening black eggs growing in pools of slime.

“Hold,” said Romaria, raising a hand.

“What is it?” said Mazael.

“Above us,” said Romaria. “Someone’s coming. I think they have magic.”

Azurvaltoria waved her hand through a quick spell. “They do. Six valgast wizards, I think. Hastening to the assembly in the plaza.”

“We won’t be able to bluff our way past them,” said Adalar.

“No,” said Mazael. “Likely they will stop to question us, and we’ll have to fight. Six wizards…” He shook his head and looked at Azurvaltoria. “Is there another way?”

“Yes,” said Azurvaltoria. “Probably.”

“Probably?” said Sigaldra.

“They may have renovated since my last visit,” said Azurvaltoria. “This way.”

They went up one more revolution of stairs and stopped at one of the landings. Azurvaltoria pointed at a doorway, and Mazael and Adalar stepped through it. The room beyond looked like an armory, though one equipped with weapons for handling dangerous beasts instead of human foes. Long spears with crosspieces lined one wall, and an elaborate array of harnesses adorned another. A table held dozens of crossbows, some of them in various stages of assembly. Fortunately, the armory was deserted, with no sign of any valgasts.

“That way,” said Azurvaltoria. A doorway stood at the far end of the armory, and Mazael headed towards it, Adalar and the others following him. The door opened into a narrow stairway, the slope gentle. From time to time they passed windows, and below Adalar saw the thousands of valgasts filling the plaza at the base of the Tower of the Spider. The stairs had to be just within the skin of the Tower of Beasts.

“What is this place?” said Romaria.

“A back way for the laborers to use,” said Azurvaltoria. “Lest they offend their betters with their stench and uncouth manners.” She laughed to herself. “Unless they have beasts of burden. Then they must use the main stairs.”

Ahead Adalar began to hear a rustling, creaking noise. It reminded him of leather flexing under strain…and also the sound the razormanes had made in their cages in the Shadow Market.

“My lord,” said Adalar.

“Aye, I hear it,” said Mazael. He glanced at Azurvaltoria. “Are you taking us into a razormane hatchery?”

“No,” said Azurvaltoria. “Just the main stable for razormanes.”

Sigaldra swallowed. “Truly? At least the razormanes will kill us more quickly than the soliphages.”

“The razormanes are caged,” said Azurvaltoria with some exasperation. “The stable occupies the top level of the Tower of Beasts. There will only be a few guards since most of the valgasts of the Tower will have gone to hear the Prophetess harangue them. If we cannot bluff the guards, we can kill them easily enough.”

“Very well,” said Mazael.

At last the stairs ended in another doorway which opened into a vast domed chamber that had to take the entire top of the Tower of Beasts. Nearly fifty steel cages lined the round walls, each one holding a single razormane. The black-armored creatures twitched and skittered in their cages, their bladed forelimbs sometimes sliding against the steel bars with a ringing noise. Adalar wanted to draw his sword, but he didn’t think the creatures could break free.

Each cage had a massive lock, the mechanism as large as a knight’s kite shield.

“Those locks,” said Romaria, her eyes narrowed. “There are spells on them.”

“Aye,” said Azurvaltoria. “The valgasts want to make sure their pets do not run amok.”

“I think,” said Romaria, looking at the seal Mazael carried, “I think those seals will open the locks.”

“Indeed?” said Azurvaltoria, and again she cast that sensing spell. “I believe you are correct. I would not recommend it, though.”

“No,” said Mazael with a snort. “If we want to kill ourselves, there are less painful ways to do.”

They crossed the chamber to the archway at the far end. A massive portcullis hung from the ceiling, but for the moment it was open. Beyond the archway stretched a broad stone walkway, perhaps fifteen feet wide, stone railings running on either side.

Five hundred feet below the walkway lay the plaza of the Tower of the Spider, filled with thousands of valgasts gathered to hear the word of the Prophetess.

“The Spire of Spells,” murmured Azurvaltoria, gesturing at the massive stalactite hanging at the end of the walkway. They were likely too far away from the assembled valgasts for anyone to hear them, but Adalar still felt the overwhelming need for stealth. “We will ascend to its top, and from there we can reach the Tower of the Spider from that walkway.” She pointed at one of the stone walkways leading from the Spire of Spells to the rest of the city. It passed close enough to the black shaft of the Tower of the Spider that a man could jump from the walkway and reach the Tower, assuming he did not slip and fall to his death a thousand feet below.

“Single file,” said Mazael. “Stay in the center of the walkway. Less chance anyone will see us. Don’t say anything until we reach the other side.”

Adalar nodded, and the others sorted themselves into a line. Mazael went first, followed by Romaria and then Azurvaltoria. Sigaldra walked behind the dragon, and Adalar brought up the back. He saw Sigaldra’s ragged blond hair, the delicate line of her neck, the way her leather jerkin and her trousers hugged the shape of her body…

Gods, he was infatuated, wasn’t he?

Adalar shook his head to clear it and followed the others onto the walkway.

They had gotten maybe a quarter of the way across when the voice thundered in his ears.

“Hear me!”

Adalar whirled, yanking the talchweisyr from its sheath in a silvery flash. He knew that voice. Celina du Almaine had taunted him in the hall of Greatheart Keep, had challenged them in the caverns of the Veiled Mountain.

The Prophetess of Marazadra had found them.

A thunderous roar rose from the valgast host below, and Adalar’s brain caught up with his alarm. The Prophetess hadn’t seen them. She had used a spell to augment her voice, making it loud enough to project across the plaza below.

Adalar looked over the railing. A small party stood on the steps leading to the doors of the Tower of the Spider. A dozen valgasts in elaborate armor stood there, flanked by a dozen wizards with pale hides and dark staffs in their clawed hands. Next to them waited a group of Skuldari clerics of Marazadra, men and women both, their faces painted with the same blue spider that Sigaldra and Romaria and Azurvaltoria bore. With them stood a man Adalar recognized as High King Basracus of Skuldar, his arrogant sneer visible even across the distance separating them.

A huge human male in black plate armor stood in their midst, his face hidden by a mask wrought from miniature sword blades. He was Rigoric, the Champion of Marazadra, and no matter how many times Mazael seemed to wound him, the man kept coming back to fight anew.

Next to Rigoric stood a slender girl in a green dress, her hands bound behind her. Adalar saw Sigaldra stiffen at the sight of her sister Liane.

Before both Liane and Rigoric stood Celina du Almaine, the Prophetess of Marazadra.

In the caverns of the Veiled Mountain, the Prophetess had been wearing a loose black robe. She had discarded the robe for some kind of close-fitting black armor and a dark cloak. From this distance, Adalar could not make out any details, but the armor looked almost like overlapping plates of chitin, similar to the natural armor of both the soliphages and the razormanes. The armor left a considerable portion of her chest exposed, which seemed a poor decision, but it did reveal the Talisman of Marazadra nestled between her breasts. Perhaps the Prophetess wanted to make sure the valgasts could see the Talisman, the proof of her authority from Marazadra.

“Valgasts of Tchroth!” said the Prophetess. “The hour has come at last. I am the Prophetess of Marazadra, her forerunner and her herald, the bearer of her Talisman of power. The Old Demon who bound you has been slain, and the old laws and the old covenants have been shattered. Behold, the goddess shall rise in glory and power once more, and you, her most faithful disciples, shall be there to witness her return. You shall be her emissaries as she sweeps across the world and brings all nations and all races under her dominion, and you shall teach men to fear!”

Again the valgasts cheered.

“After thirty centuries, I have gathered the tools to free our goddess and give her flesh once more!” said the Prophetess. “The Talisman of Marazadra, to draw and summon the power. The Mask of Marazadra, the vessel of her sleeping power. The blood of the goddess’s greatest enemy, to catalyze the spell.” She gestured at Liane, who stood watching the Prophetess with calm interest. “And the flesh that shall be honored above all others, the new body of the great goddess Marazadra!”

Again the valgast horde howled their approval.

“Your priests and your warlords shall ascend with me to the summit of Mount Armyar,” said the Prophetess. “There we shall enter the Heart of the Goddess itself. Once it was the site of her defeat, but soon it shall be the sanctum of her rebirth and resurrection. There the ancient Spider Guards shall submit to our authority, and you shall witness the coming of Marazadra herself, her advent and her return. All the faithful of Marazadra shall spread across the world and bring the nations beneath the authority of the goddess. All men shall bow before Marazadra…and you, the valgasts, shall be her favored servants and lieutenants.”

Again the valgasts cheered.

“Let’s go,” said Mazael. “If we wait too long, we’ll run into the Prophetess and her party just as they ascend the Tower of the Spider. I’d prefer to fight her on ground favorable to us, not the valgasts.”

There was nothing to be gained here by staring at the Prophetess. Adalar had heard her give the same tiresome speech at Greatheart Keep and again at Armalast. Liane was only a few hundred yards away, but there was no way they could fight past ten thousand valgasts to reach her. Adalar took a step forward, and a flash of light on metal caught his eye.

Something had moved in the plaza below.

Specifically, Rigoric’s masked face had moved. He stared up at the walkway, and Adalar felt the cold weight of the Champion’s gaze. Rigoric did not say anything, did not give any sign, but the Prophetess stopped in mid-sentence.

“What?” said the Prophetess, her voice thundering through Tchroth.

A murmur of surprise went through the valgasts.

“You!” roared the Prophetess, pointing a finger. “Impossible. Impossible! Warriors of Tchroth, the enemies of the goddess have come into your midst. Kill them now!”

As one, ten thousand valgasts looked up and saw them.

The high priests began casting spells. The Prophetess began casting a spell, and Rigoric sprinted forward, shoving aside the valgasts as if they weighed nothing at all.

“So much for stealth,” said Mazael.

Chapter 11: Hasty Departures

“Run!” shouted Azurvaltoria. “Haste is our only chance. Run!”

Mazael ran back towards the Tower of Beasts.

“Wait!” said Azurvaltoria. “Where are you going? Not that way!”

Romaria sprinted next to Mazael. She, at least, had grasped Mazael’s intent.

His Demonsouled blood started to boil within him, eagerly yearning for the battle to come. Mazael suspected there was about to be a great deal of killing, killing enough to sate his Demonsouled nature for a time.

But as much as he enjoyed fighting, he had no intention of dying here.

Mazael had survived a lot of fights. He had won most of them, and even those he had lost he had still survived, and he had done that by keeping his head clear and his wits about him. That was one of the reasons that he was still alive and the other Demonsouled he had faced, men like Amalric Galbraith and Corvad and Ragnachar, were not.

One of the chief aspects of keeping his head in a fight was to keep an awareness of his surroundings. Countless battles had been decided because the victorious army had seized better ground than the defeated army.

If they were going to get out of here alive, if they were going to reach the Tower of the Spider before ten thousand angry valgast warriors swarmed them, Mazael was going to need a distraction.

Fortunately, he had just walked past a perfect distraction. Over fifty of them, in fact.

He ran into the chamber at the apex of the Tower of Beasts, looking at the steel cages holding the razormanes. Romaria followed a half-step behind him, her Elderborn bow ready in her hand.

“Truly?” she said. “You’re going to let them out of their cages?”

“Aye,” said Mazael. “And you’re going to stand by that lever,” he pointed at a metal lever next to the archway, “so we can escape in haste once I open the cages.”

“This is a mad plan,” said Romaria, but she didn’t argue as she moved to the lever.

“It worked in Armalast, didn’t it?” said Mazael, hurrying to the first cage.

In truth, he suspected it might work quite well. The razormane that he had fought in the Shadow Market had been fast and deadly and strong, far stronger than a human or a valgast. If it had knocked Mazael to the ground, if he had stopped moving for an instant, it would have ripped his head off without hesitation. To control such a powerful creature in battle, the valgasts had to employ harsh spells of control.

Which meant, he suspected, that if given the opportunity, the razormanes would turn upon their valgast masters like a brutalized hound biting a cruel kennel master.

He pushed the stone seal into the lock of the cage and turned it. The lock released with a loud clang, the cage shuddering. Mazael did not open the door. Given how often the razormanes tested the bars of their cages with their scythe-like forelimbs, he expected the creature to figure it out before too much longer. He opened another lock, and then another.

Mazael had opened his eleventh cage when the razormanes figured it out.

“Mazael!” said Romaria.

Three of the cages burst open, the unlocked doors swinging open, and the razormanes skittered out. As they did, Mazael heard the sound of a distant explosion, a flicker of harsh orange-yellow light shining through the archway. Someone had brought a magical spell to bear. Azurvaltoria, most probably.

Mazael sprinted for the archway, yanking Talon from its scabbard and shoving the seal back into the pouch at his belt. Two more razormanes burst from their cages, their angular heads rotating back and forth as they sought prey.

Then, almost as one, they charged after Mazael.

Romaria yanked the lever and threw herself through the archway. The massive steel portcullis shivered, and Mazael forced an extra burst of speed from his legs. He hurtled through the archway just as the portcullis fell with a resounding clang, passing so close that he felt the breeze of its passage upon the back of his neck. Another half-second and the falling portcullis would have impaled the top of his head like a pumpkin speared upon a knight’s lance.

Mazael whirled just as three razormanes slammed into the portcullis, slashing with their forelimbs. Sparks flew from the steel, but the portcullis held. Mazael glanced to the side and saw Romaria raise her bow, taking aim at the creatures.

“No, don’t,” he said. “We need them alive and healthy. And I don’t think they can break through that portcullis.”

The sound of another explosion roared out behind him, accompanied by a flare of fiery light.

The three razormanes attacked the portcullis again, and then turned and moved with terrific speed into the Tower of Beasts.

“They’re going to go down in search of prey,” said Mazael. “We, meanwhile, are going to go up. Hopefully, the razormanes will distract the valgasts long enough for us to escape.”

Romaria nodded and lowered her bow, running after Mazael as he hurried to rejoin the others. He reached them just as Azurvaltoria raised her hands over her head and thrust out her arms. Fire burst from her fingers and knit itself into a rotating sphere. The sphere hurtled from her hands, tumbling towards the plaza below, and Mazael’s eyes followed its descent into the crowds of valgasts.

Again there was a flash of fire and a rumbling explosion, and Mazael saw a dozen valgasts go tumbling through the air, their bodies wreathed in flame, and a scream of fury and rage rang through the cavern. Hundreds of valgast warriors rushed towards the Tower of Beasts, weapons in hand. They would storm into the Tower in pursuit of their enemies, but Mazael hoped they would encounter the enraged razormanes instead.

“Down!” shouted Azurvaltoria.

She ducked behind the stone railing, and as she did, Mazael saw a blaze of fire on the steps to the temple. The Prophetess was casting a spell, and so were a dozen of the valgast wizards near her, blue and green and red fire snarling up and down their staffs as they joined their powers together for a single massive attack.

Taking cover seemed like a very good idea.

Mazael ducked behind the railing, Romaria crouching behind him, and an instant later the spells went off.

The stone walkway shook like a rope trembling beneath too much pressure, and for a moment Mazael feared it would collapse into the city below. Green and blue fire howled around the railing, seeming to crumble the stone like old cheese, and cracks spread through the floor beneath Mazael’s boots, a grinding, rasping noise filling his ears.

The fire winked out with a snarling hiss, the air smelling of smoke and ozone. The walkway hadn’t collapsed. Cracks riddled the entire structure, and Mazael felt a faint, disturbing tremor going through the stone.

“Another attack like that,” said Romaria, “and we’re all dead.”

“A dragon,” said Azurvaltoria, heaving herself to her feet, “should not die by falling from the sky!”

“We’re underground,” said Sigaldra.

“All the worse,” said Azurvaltoria. More fire burned at the doors to the temple, reflecting in the gleaming carapace of the giant stone spider. “Run!”

Mazael nodded and urged Romaria forward, and they raced across the shuddering walkway. Azurvaltoria shoved herself away from the railing and ran towards the Spire of Spells. Sigaldra started after the dragon and stumbled on one of the widening cracks in the walkway, and Adalar caught her arm. She nodded her thanks and kept running.

The walkway shook again, and Mazael ran faster as more light blazed below.

He ran into the archway at the bottom of the Spire of Spells, a half-step behind Romaria, and a thunderous crack echoed behind him. He turned just as the walkway fell from both the Spire of Spells and the Tower of Beasts, hurtling five hundred feet to smash against the plaza below.

Mazael hoped it killed a few of the valgasts.

He looked around, fearing that one or more of his companions had fallen to their deaths, but all of them had gotten off the walkway before it collapsed.

“Ha!” said Sigaldra, glaring over the edge. “The fools. Let us see if they can follow us now.”

“Likely there are other walkways that lead to the Spire,” said Mazael, his mind racing.

“They needn’t even bother,” said Azurvaltoria. “Behold.”

She pointed, and Mazael saw dark shapes swarming up the sides of the Tower of Beasts and the other stalagmites. Some of them were soliphages, clinging to the rock walls with ease as they climbed. Others were valgasts riding giant black spiders, similar to the ones the Skuldari warriors used during their raids against the Grim Marches. A distant flash of metal caught Mazael’s eye, and he spotted Rigoric climbing alongside the giant spiders, moving even faster than the soliphages. In addition to superhuman strength and healing, the Mask of the Champion evidently granted him the ability to climb walls like a spider.

And he was climbing them fast.

Mazael had beaten Rigoric twice before, once at Greatheart Keep and again during their duel in the caverns of the Veiled Mountain. Both times had been a close fight, and Mazael did not want to have to fight the Champion and the soliphages at the same time. He didn’t think he could win that fight.

“Go!” shouted Azurvaltoria. “Into the Spire! Hasten!”

They ran into the archway, a purple glow shining from the depths of the structure. The corridor opened into a large central shaft, similar to the one they had seen in the heart of the Tower of Beasts. A broad spiral stairway rose into the heights of the Spire, vanishing into the purple glow. Unlike the Tower of Beasts, dozens of stone tables stood in rings around the base of the stairs.

Each of the stone tables held a dead valgast.

Some of them looked freshly dead, blood still dripping from regular cuts upon their chests and stomachs where their organs had been removed. Others looked as if they had been dead for years, withered to husks of yellowed hide and bone.

Three valgast priests stood upon the stairs, holding staffs crowned with human skulls. Unlike the other valgast wizards that Mazael had fought and killed, these wizards had tattoos of black ink marked onto their pale hides. The tattoos made them look as if they wore their skeletons on the outside of their flesh.

In a flash, Mazael realized the purpose of those priests, even as Romaria spoke.

“They’re necromancers,” said Romaria.

“Intruders!” thundered one of the three priests. “Intruders in the sacred precinct of the Spire of Spells. Rise and slay!”

The priests gestured, green fire snarling up and down the dark lengths of their staffs, and the dead valgasts rose, symbols of necromantic fire burning upon their brows and chests and limbs.

“Defend yourselves!” shouted Azurvaltoria, fire burning around her fingers as the three priests began casting spells.

###

Sigaldra drew back her bowstring and released, sending an arrow speeding towards the valgast wizards upon the stairs.

It did no good. The arrow struck the wizard on the left, but the shaft shattered into a spray of splinters and rusted flakes. The three wizards had warded themselves against weapons of wood and steel. Perhaps Mazael’s sword or Adalar’s talchweisyr could harm the valgast priests, but Sigaldra’s bow and short sword could not.

Unfortunately, Mazael and Adalar were busy with the undead valgasts. Scores of the creatures rushed forward, green fire burning upon their foreheads and limbs. It reminded Sigaldra of the awful day of the Battle of Sword Town, the day that Ragnachar had been slain and that Lucan Mandragon had used the terrible secrets of Old Dracaryl to raise hordes of runedead.

Fortunately, these undead lacked the deadly power of the runedead, or their creators lacked Lucan’s driving willpower. The creatures were strong but clumsy, and Mazael and Adalar and Romaria tore through them like a storm. The dark blade of Talon flashed with golden fire in Mazael’s hand, the blade lopping off heads and limbs. The talchweisyr did not glow in Adalar’s hand, though the blade seemed to give off a peculiar vibration. Romaria had put away her bow and instead drawn her bastard sword, wielding it two-handed against the enemy.

Sigaldra feared that the wizards would strike them dead while they struggled against the undead. No doubt that had been their plan, but the valgast priests had failed to account for Azurvaltoria. The dragon stood wreathed in flame, her human form outlined against the snarling power of her magic. The valgast wizards unleashed an attack at her, volleys of green and purple fire, but Azurvaltoria crossed her arms over her chest, and the blasts of dark magic shattered against her fiery corona. As their attacks crackled out, Azurvaltoria struck back, hurling lances of howling flame at the valgasts. The wizards cast their own defensive spells, the fires breaking against their wards, but Azurvaltoria’s attacks hit them hard. The wizards staggered back, the stone stairs around them crackling and splintering.

For a moment Sigaldra felt useless in such a battle. She was not like Romaria, and could not wield her short sword alongside Adalar and Mazael, and her arrows could not penetrate the wizards’ defensive wards.

Nor could her arrows kill the undead creatures, but she realized they still hit with heavy force. Sigaldra loosed her arrows at the undead creatures’ legs, the shafts hammering into their limbs. The impact staggered them, and it took a few instants for the creatures to regain their balance.

When facing swordsmen like Mazael and Adalar, a delay of a few seconds was fatal. Sigaldra sent arrow after arrow at the undead, and Mazael and Adalar cut them down before they recovered. Fire snapped back and forth between Azurvaltoria and the valgast priests, and for a moment everything was chaos and fire and thunder. Part of Sigaldra urged her to hurry, to find a way from the Spire of Spells and escape before the soliphages and the spider-riding valgasts caught up with them. They were Liane’s only chance of rescue, and if they were killed here, the Prophetess would kill Liane.

The only way forward was to win this fight. Sigaldra shot another undead valgast, a withered thing that almost looked like a giant spider itself, and Adalar seized the opening to take off its head with a sweep of his curved Dark Elderborn blade.

Azurvaltoria’s voice rose in a furious scream, her fingers hooked into claws, the cords in her neck standing out with strain. For a moment Sigaldra was sure that the dragon was about to be slain, but it was not a scream of pain but a battle cry. Azurvaltoria thrust her hands, and blazing fire erupted from her palms and howled out to strike the stairs. The entire Spire of Spells shook with the impact, and one of the valgast wizards erupted into a fire so intense it left behind only a twisted, charred skeleton. The other two wizards fell to their knees as they clutched their staffs before them. Some instinct told Sigaldra that the wizards’ defensive spells had collapsed, and she shifted aim to shoot an arrow at the wizard on the left.

Her instinct had been true. The arrow slammed into the valgast wizard’s throat, snapping his head back, and he collapsed to the smoking stairs. The final wizard heaved himself up, leaning against the railing as he pointed his staff, and Sigaldra started to aim.

She needn’t have bothered. Mazael bounded up the stairs, taking them three at a time, Talon drawn back. The wizard started to turn towards him at the last moment, but it was too late. Talon hammered down, the blade shearing through the wizard’s neck. Both the pale head and the spindly body collapsed down the steps, staining the stone with dark blood.

Sigaldra looked around, fearing the undead would rush her, but the battle was almost over. Adalar, Mazael, and Romaria had cut down most of the undead, and only a few creatures remained on their feet. Azurvaltoria made a complicated rolling gesture with her right hand, and the remaining undead caught fire and collapsed to the floor.

Silence fell over the chamber, but through the archway leading back to the destroyed walkway, Sigaldra heard the shouts and cries of the enraged valgasts and the tapping noise of the legs of the giant spiders and the soliphages against the rock.

Azurvaltoria waved her hand in front of her face with irritation. “The only thing that smells worse than a burned valgast is a burned undead valgast.”

“Then let’s get away from both,” said Mazael, beckoning towards the stairs. “Come!”

They ran up the stairs, weapons at the ready, and the steps gave an alarming shudder beneath Sigaldra’s boots.

Yet they were the only way out, so she kept climbing.

###

Adalar kept his talchweisyr raised, his eyes scanning the gloomy, purple-lit shaft for any sign of enemies. At every landing, a slender balcony encircled the shaft, and those balconies offered perfect vantage points for archers. Romaria had also realized the danger and had her Elderborn bow ready. Adalar wouldn’t have thought it possible to use such a large bow while running, but he had seen Romaria’s near-supernatural skill with the bow on many other occasions.

“How much farther?” said Mazael.

“There,” said Azurvaltoria, pointing at a balcony perhaps two-thirds of the way up the shaft. They were only four or five levels below it. “We…”

“Down!” said Romaria, raising her bow.

Adalar ducked, looking up as he did, and the dark shape of a valgast warrior appeared on one of the balconies overhead, arm outthrust to hurl a spear. Mazael twisted with blurring speed, Talon flickering around him, and the spear struck his sword and bounced away. Romaria’s bow twanged, and the valgast warrior went rigid as an arrow sprouted from his throat. Azurvaltoria cast a spell, and flames engulfed another valgast.

“Look out!” said Sigaldra.

A shadow reared up behind the burning valgast, a huge black spider the size of a small horse, similar to the ones the Skuldari raiders had ridden upon the surface. A valgast warrior in heavy bone armor sat upon the back of the spider, a mace ready in his hand. Romaria shot another arrow, but the shaft bounced off the warrior’s cuirass and clattered against the balcony.

The spider crouched at the railing and then leaped, hurtling down the thirty feet from the balcony to the stairwell. It landed with a crash in their midst, its legs bending, and the valgast warrior raised his mace.

Unfortunately, either the valgast had overestimated the strength of the stone stairs, or they had been damaged by the furious exchange of magic between the priests and Azurvaltoria. A shudder went through the steps, followed by a loud cracking noise, and the section of stairs beneath the giant spider collapsed. The spider fell, the valgast warrior shrieking, and struck the next level of stairs. The spider’s abdomen hit the edge of the stairs and burst open with a spray of yellowish slime, while the valgast warrior flipped over his saddle and tumbled to his death against the floor far below.

The jump had left a gap a dozen yards wide in the stairs, and Sigaldra teetered at the edge, flailing for balance. Adalar grabbed the back of her belt, pulling her back, and she fell against him. He and Sigaldra stood at the bottom edge of the broken gap in the stairs.

Mazael, Romaria, and Azurvaltoria stood at the top edge of the stairs.

“It’s too far to jump,” said Adalar.

“Can you use your magic to bring them over?” said Mazael.

“Not without setting them on fire in the process,” said Azurvaltoria. “Lord Adalar, heed me! Look to your left.” Adalar complied, looking at the balcony to the left. To his left he saw a purple-glowing archway that led deeper into the Spire. “Go down that corridor. The fifth door on the left leads to a stairway that encircles the Spire of Spells. Climb six levels, and exit onto the first walkway you see. That will pass right beneath the walkway where we will enter the Tower of the Spider, and we can pull you up.”

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

Adalar nodded, but he knew the grim truth. He and Sigaldra would have to make haste. If they tarried too long, the valgasts might catch and kill them. Or they might overwhelm Mazael and the others on the upper walkway.

“Go!” said Adalar. “We’ll catch up with you.”

Mazael nodded. “Good luck.” He turned and ran up the damaged stairs, Romaria and Azurvaltoria following him. Adalar met Sigaldra’s gaze. He could tell she was frightened, but she did not waver.

“We had better hurry,” said Sigaldra.

Adalar nodded and led the way into the gloomy corridor.

###

The stairs ended, and Mazael found himself in a library.

At least, it looked like a library. The room was large and round, the walls lined with shelves. Instead of books, the valgasts had rows of scrolls that looked as if they had been made from the hide of some creature or another, likely the motaylakars. Desks stood in rings throughout the room, holding scrolls in various stages of completion, their surfaces marked with rows of valgast glyphs.

Two valgast priests whirled, both holding staffs and both began casting spells.

Mazael sprinted forward as Romaria drew back her bowstring and released. An arrow slammed into the valgast on the right, and the wizard twitched from the impact. Before the priest could recover, Mazael swung Talon with all his strength and momentum behind the blade. The valgast wizard’s head hopped off his head in a burst of dark blood. The second wizard had turned, purple fire snarling up his staff, but Azurvaltoria made a flipping gesture with her left hand. A howling blast of flame slammed into the wizard. The burning wizard collapsed the floor in a rain of scrolls. Mazael expected the scrolls to catch fire, but apparently they were fireproof.

“Good shot, both of you,” said Mazael, stepping over the valgast wizard he had beheaded.

“A pity my arrows don’t explode on impact,” said Romaria in a dry voice.

“I could teach you,” said Azurvaltoria, following Mazael and Romaria. “As half-Elderborn, you have a certain amount of inborn magical aptitude. You could…”

“Later,” said Mazael, crossing the library.

The archway on the far end opened into another stone walkway, one high over the city. The teeming valgasts below were so far away they seemed like ants. Mazael saw dozens of soliphages scaling the stalagmites, along with dozens more valgasts mounted on the back of giant spiders. A flicker of motion caught his eye, and he glimpsed a half-dozen motaylakars soaring over the plaza below the Tower of the Spider. The razormanes might have blocked off the approach from the Tower of Beasts, but the lack of access would not slow the valgasts for long.

But Azurvaltoria’s plan had worked. The walkway crossed over the heart of Tchroth and passed within a half a yard of the dark, cylindrical mass of the Tower of the Spider. It would be easy to jump from the walkway to one of the balconies jutting from the side of the Tower, and from there they could ascend to Mount Armyar and reach the Heart of the Spider before the Prophetess.

Though Mazael saw no sign of the Prophetess in the furious chaos. Perhaps she had decided to depart for Mount Armyar at once. They might intercept the Prophetess and Rigoric as they ascended the Tower of the Spider. Fighting the Prophetess’s magic in the confined space of the Tower would be suicidal, but perhaps they could snatch away Liane and flee before the Prophetess and the Champion reacted.

“How long will we wait for the others?” said Azurvaltoria.

“As long as we can,” said Mazael. He had absolutely no intention of abandoning Adalar and Sigaldra in this horrible place. He would fight to hold the walkway as long as possible, though he recognized that they might have no choice but to flee…

A dark blur vaulted over the railing ahead, interposing itself between Mazael and the Tower of the Spider.

Rigoric, the Champion of Marazadra, raised his greatsword in both hands.

His bloodshot eyes glared through the mask of swords he wore over his face, veins of steel seeming to thread from the mask and into the skin of his shaved head. He wore plate armor of black steel over black chain mail, a different set since Mazael had destroyed his previous suit of armor during their duel in the Veiled Mountain.

The Champion planted himself before Mazael and did not move, his greatsword ready.

“You again,” said Mazael, lifting Talon. “How many times have I beaten you? Perhaps you ought to lie down and die already.”

Rigoric let out a rumbling, hissing noise. The Mask had taken his power of speech, but nonetheless, the hissing noise conveyed his full contempt for Mazael.

“Care to back that up?” said Mazael. Romaria stepped to his left, drawing her bow, and Azurvaltoria stepped to his right, fire dancing around her fingers.

Again Rigoric let out a contemptuous hiss, spinning the massive, razor-edged greatsword as if it was a light branch.

“He doesn’t have to kill us,” said Azurvaltoria in a low voice. “He only has to delay us until the Prophetess and the high priests arrive to finish us off.”

“Well,” said Mazael, “we’re waiting for Adalar and Sigaldra anyway, aren’t we? This will help us pass the time. Now!”

Romaria loosed her arrow, and Azurvaltoria flung her spell. Romaria’s arrow slammed into Rigoric’s right shoulder, but the chain mail deflected the razor-edged head. The fire of the dragon’s spell struck Rigoric in the chest, the cuirass glowing cherry-hot for a moment, but the Champion did not seem to even notice the attack.

His greatsword blurred at Mazael’s head. Mazael ducked and struck back, the blade of dragon talon in his hand clanging against the black steel plate.

###

Sigaldra and Adalar ran through the gloomy corridor. Adalar led the way, both hands grasping the hilt of his Dark Elderborn sword. So far the rest of the Spire of Spells had seemed deserted, but Sigaldra knew that would not last. Even through the walls of thick stone, she heard the distant cries of alarm echoing through the city. All of Tchroth had been roused and was coming for them. She intended to fight to the death rather than allow herself to be captured by the valgasts.

There was a noise ahead.

“Ready yourself!” said Adalar, his talchweisyr snapping up in guard.

Two valgasts with the tattoos of laborers burst from the side door, both of them gripping clubs. Sigaldra released her bow, her arrow shooting past Adalar’s shoulder to slam into the stomach of the nearest valgast. The valgast laborer staggered with a shriek of rage, its fang-lined mouth yawning wide, and Adalar killed the valgast with a quick sweep of the silvery blade. The second valgast charged at Adalar, hammering with the bone club. They were too close together for Sigaldra to take a shot, but it didn’t matter. The valgast was strong and quick, but it had obviously not been trained as a warrior. Adalar parried once, twice, three times, and then whipped his blade around in a sideways swing. The sword sank into the valgast’s neck, and the creature fell to the floor.

“Are you hurt?” said Adalar, wrenching his sword free from the dying valgast. He did not bother to clean the blade. No doubt there would be fresh blood upon it soon enough.

“I’m fine,” said Sigaldra.

Adalar nodded, and they hurried through the passageway. Sigaldra kept an arrow set to her bowstring, watching for any more valgasts. They reached the end of the corridor without incident and found the stairwell that Azurvaltoria had described. It was a narrow corridor that wound its way upward, the stairs broad and shallow.

“We had better run,” said Adalar. “Those stairs must circle all the way around the Spire at least five or six times. I don’t know how far we’ll have to climb to reach six levels up.”

“Splendid,” said Sigaldra, catching her breath. Her legs ached a little from all the running and fighting they had already done today, her heart hammering against her ribs. Still, she was Jutai, the daughter and descendant of hroulds and warriors, and pain was simply something to be endured. “Lead on.”

They started running up the stairs, boots slapping against the stone floor. Tall, narrow windows rose on her right, showing Tchroth far below in its alien glory. They passed another archway, one that opened into another dim corridor with doors on either side. Sigaldra supposed that was the first level. They passed the second level without encountering anyone, and then the third, and a flicker of hope came to life in her chest…

“Watch out!” shouted Adalar.

On reflex, Sigaldra threw herself against the curved wall, which was the only thing that saved her life. A spear of bone hurtled past her head, so close that it scraped her hair. A valgast warrior sprang around the curve, yanking a short sword from its belt. Adalar killed the warrior with a quick thrust of the talchweisyr, and two more valgasts came loping down the stairs.

By then Sigaldra had managed to recover her balance, and she snapped her bow up and sent an arrow flying at the valgasts. All the practice over the last few weeks must have paid off because her arrow hit a valgast throat with a wet tearing noise. The valgast fell, and Adalar attacked the second warrior, the talchweisyr stabbing against the warrior’s short sword and shield of bone. Sigaldra lined up a second arrow and released, shooting the warrior in the hip. The creature stumbled, and Adalar split its skull with an overhand blow.

Before it even fell dead to the floor, he turned and ran back towards her.

“Shouldn’t we keep going up?” said Sigaldra.

“Can’t,” said Adalar. “They’re coming. Run!”

She opened her mouth to ask a question and then heard the noises echoing down the stairwell. The clatter of bone weapons and the harsh rasp of valgast voices came to her ears. The valgasts were coming, and in the narrow stairs, they would be trapped.

“Where can we go?” said Sigaldra, running after Adalar.

“Back to the third level we passed,” said Adalar. “I think we’re high enough that we’re past the damage on the main stairs. We can take the main stairs and catch up to Mazael and the others.”

That assumed they were high enough to bypass the damage, or that the valgasts hadn’t sent forces to take control of the Spire's central stairs, but Sigaldra could not think of anything better, so she kept running.

They descended to the third level, and Adalar swung around the archway, leading with the talchweisyr. Sigaldra followed him, raising her bow, and skidded to a horrified halt.

Their death awaited them in the corridor.

A soliphage stood just a few yards away. The creature looked like a human female of stunning beauty, though its entire body was covered in overlapping plates of blood-colored chitin. Six additional eyes gleamed in its forehead over the usual two, and all eight eyes glowed with a harsh white light. Additional legs rose from its flanks like barbed spears, and its fingers ended in long, serrated claws. Those claws came up in the throes of a magical spell, burning bright with purple fire, and there was nothing Sigaldra or Adalar could do to stop the creature before it finished its spell.

Yet no one had bothered to tell Adalar that.

He leaped forward like a lion springing upon its prey, the talchweisyr swinging in his hands. His first blow ripped deep into the soliphage’s chest, the blade flashing with gray light, and the soliphage staggered and went to one knee, still trying to finish its spell. Before it could, Adalar reversed his grip on the sword and drove the blade down, ramming it home into the soliphage’s flesh.

He had killed the powerful creature in less than two seconds. It had been a magnificent feat of swordsmanship.

It had also been all for naught.

At the far end of the corridor, charging from the central stairwell, sprinted a mob of at least thirty valgast warriors. After them came a half-dozen soliphages, all of them casting spells. Perhaps Sigaldra and Adalar together might have been able to take a dozen valgast warriors.

Against that many valgasts aided by the dark magic of the soliphages, they were finished.

###

Rigoric’s greatsword hammered down with enough force to knock stone chips from the railing, and Mazael realized something about his opponent.

The Champion of Marazadra had become stronger.

Perhaps the Mask of the Champion had rebuilt him so many times that it had made him stronger. Perhaps possession of the Mask of Marazadra had allowed the Prophetess to unlock greater power within the Mask of the Champion. Whatever the reason, Rigoric had become far stronger, and Mazael had no doubt that the Champion could use that massive greatsword to cut him in half from head to crotch without slowing down.

Fortunately, Mazael was equal to the fight.

He circled around Rigoric, hammering at the weak points in the Champion’s armor. Mazael never stayed in one place for more than a few instants, never stopped moving, never slowed long enough for Rigoric to land a strike. Even with his superhuman speed, it took Rigoric time to line up blows with his massive sword, and Mazael exploited those brief instants, landing hit after hit on Rigoric’s armor.

The constant interference of Romaria and Azurvaltoria aided Mazael. Both women hung back from the duel, striking whenever they could. Romaria’s arrows landed with the uncanny skill of the Elderborn, hitting the weak points in Rigoric's armor and causing steel threads to erupt from the Mask of the Champion. Azurvaltoria did not bother with finesse but instead hurled bolts of magical fire. The flames splashed against Rigoric with little effect, though it did leave spots glowing red-hot for a moment on his armor.

Mazael hammered at those spots. Talon had once been the claw of a mighty dragon, and fire meant nothing to the curved sword. His blows began to warp and deform Rigoric’s armor, damaging it bit by bit. In time, Mazael was certain, he could breach the armor and land a killing blow on the Champion of Marazadra.

Unfortunately, he did not have that time.

The noises from the cavern were growing louder, and any moment he expected the motaylakars or the spider-riding valgast warriors to join the fray. Or perhaps the Prophetess and the high priests would decide they didn’t need the current Champion of Marazadra and would combine their powers to blast the walkway to sand. That would probably kill Rigoric, and it would certainly kill Mazael, Romaria, and Azurvaltoria.

He had to find a way to kill Rigoric, and he had to find a way to do it now.

###

Adalar stared at the charging valgasts, his mind racing.

He should have been alarmed, should have been bracing himself to take as many of the valgasts and the soliphages with him as he could in death. Or he should have looked at Sigaldra, and perhaps dared one last kiss before they both died.

Instead, the entirety of his mind focused on the strange sensation coming from the Dark Elderborn sword in his right fist. The sword’s peculiar vibrations had become stronger, and it was giving off an odd white light. In fact, the light almost looked like the glow of a soliphage’s eyes.

He remembered what Azurvaltoria had told him. Had the sword drained off a portion of the soliphage’s power?

They were only seconds from death. It was time to gamble.

“Come on!” shouted Adalar, urging Sigaldra towards the stairs. They ran back into the stairs, heading downward as the sounds of charging valgast warriors echoed after them.

“What are we doing?” said Sigaldra as Adalar returned the talchweisyr to its sheath.

“This,” said Adalar, and he jumped, slapping his palms against the stone.

And then hung there, suspended only by the contact of his palms against the rock wall.

“What?” said Sigaldra. “How are you doing that?”

“The talchweisyr,” said Adalar. “The dragon was right. It’s holding some of the soliphage’s power…”

“Including its power to climb walls,” said Sigaldra, and then her eyes widened in sudden realization. “Oh, ancestors and gods! Do you mean to climb…”

“Either that or we stay here and die,” said Adalar, putting a foot in one of the narrow windows. “Climb onto my back.”

She gaped at him, muttered something that might have been a curse or a prayer, and then stepped forward. Her arms wrapped around his chest, and she jumped up, coiling her legs around his waist, her chin tapping against the top of his head. Under other circumstances, Adalar would have very much enjoyed the feeling of her taut body wrapped around him.

Right now, he was only terrified.

The sounds of pursuit grew louder.

It was now or never.

Adalar swung over the edge of the window, Tchroth yawning below him, his muscles straining as he carried Sigaldra’s weight. He slapped his hands against the rough surface of the Spire and felt his palms grip the rock.

It was a long way down. If he was wrong, at least the fall would kill them in a heartbeat.

He jumped off the sill…and his palms still gripped the Spire.

It was the oddest sensation. He wasn’t gripping anything, but his hands remained fixed on the stone as if he had dipped them in potent glue. Despite the unnatural grip, he felt himself start to slide and slapped his boots against the wall. They, too, gripped the stone, and Adalar remained as motionless as if he was gripping the rungs of a ladder.

“Ancestors save us,” said Sigaldra, her voice quavering a little.

More noise rose from the window they had just exited. If they didn’t hurry, the soliphages and the valgasts would realize what had happened. Adalar started climbing the wall of the Spire of Spells as fast as he could manage. Despite the strength of his sticking grip, it took no effort to pull his hands and feet from the rock. By an act of will he could release the gripping power and renew it as he climbed, and he moved with speed.

“Dear gods,” said Sigaldra, her fingers digging into his chest. “If this wasn’t so terrifying, it might be enjoyable. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone climb anything so fast.”

“Aye,” grunted Adalar, sweating from the strain of climbing with Sigaldra on his back. He had spent a lot of time climbing ropes and siege ladders during the wars in Mastaria, and this was easier by far. It would have been an exhilarating feeling, had he not been conscious of the thousand-foot fall from the side of the Spire.

“How long will the magic last?” said Sigaldra.

“I…don’t know,” said Adalar. Azurvaltoria hadn’t mentioned that.

Even as he spoke, he slapped his left hand against the wall. It gripped…but he thought it didn’t grip as tightly as it had before. The talchweisyr might be holding a portion of the soliphage’s power, but perhaps the power drained away after a few moments.

And if Adalar did not have solid ground beneath his boots when the power dissipated, he and Sigaldra would plummet to their deaths.

He slipped a little against the slick stone of the Spire of Spells.

“Adalar,” breathed Sigaldra.

“Hang on,” said Adalar, and he started climbing as fast as he could manage, his arms and legs screaming with the strain.

###

Again Rigoric’s greatsword hammered down, and again Mazael danced to the side, avoiding the sweep of the massive blade. Another of Romaria’s arrows sprouted from the Champion’s side. Rigoric flinched from the impact but showed no other sign of discomfort. He continued his implacable advance, attacking Mazael again and again.

And as he did, Mazael realized how he could defeat the Champion once more.

He caught Azurvaltoria’s eye, and she nodded. She, too, had seen the weakness in the Champion’s attacks.

Mazael wheeled to the side, the railing on his right. Rigoric attacked again, and Mazael had to dodge, putting the railing to his back and limiting his room to maneuver. The Champion raised his greatsword and brought the massive weapon hammering down, and Mazael had no choice but to raise Talon to block. The sword of dragon talon deflected the greatsword, but the raw power of Rigoric’s strike knocked Mazael to his knees.

He hit the ground hard, and Rigoric loomed over him for the kill.

Azurvaltoria’s blast of magical fire hit Rigoric’s back with the force of a ballista bolt. The blast lifted Rigoric from his feet and slammed him into the railing, flipping him over. At the last minute, Rigoric grabbed the railing with an armored hand, but Mazael surged to his feet and brought Talon down, hammering the pommel into Rigoric’s wrist.

Bone cracked, and Rigoric lost his grip and fell from the walkway, tumbling to the plaza below.

Mazael looked over the railing and saw Rigoric fall into the crowds of valgasts streaming through the plaza, disappearing in their midst. Even from several hundred feet up, he still heard the clang as Rigoric hit the ground.

“Think that killed him?” said Romaria, coming to his side.

“Probably not,” said Azurvaltoria. “The Mask of the Champion bestows considerable power upon its bearer. The only way to permanently kill Rigoric would be to chop off his head and physically remove the Mask from contact with his flesh. Otherwise, the Mask will regenerate almost anything.”

“If he wants to try again, he’s welcome,” said Mazael, stepping back from the railing and looking for new foes. So far, no one else had managed to get this high, not even motaylakars. If they started running now, right now, they ought to reach the Tower of the Spider before anyone could stop them.

Yet there was still no sign of Adalar and Sigaldra. Mazael intended to wait as long as possible, but if they waited too long, they would get overwhelmed by waves of valgast warriors or the Prophetess’s magic…

“What?” said Romaria, as surprised as he had ever heard her.

Mazael turned and saw Adalar and Sigaldra climbing up the side of the Spire of Spells.

Without the benefit of a rope.

###

Sigaldra resisted the urge to grip Adalar as tightly as she could. She felt his chest expand and relax with the rapid draw of his breath, felt the quick drumbeat of his heart as he labored. His face had turned red from the effort of climbing, and she wished she would have done something to help him.

She couldn’t, though, so she held him as loosely as she could, which was all the more terrifying as his hands began to slide against the stone. The trapped magic of the dead soliphage was fading, and once it vanished, they would fall to their deaths in Tchroth below.

At least it would be quicker than whatever the valgasts would do to them.

“There!” said Adalar, and Sigaldra looked up. A walkway stretched from the Spire of Spells, and she spotted Mazael, Romaria, and Azurvaltoria atop of it, all three of them running closer. Adalar grunted and managed to make himself climb faster, and then his hands and feet started to slip against the wet stone.

The magic had almost about failed.

They were so close.

“Jump!” shouted Sigaldra, and she reached for the stone railing, catching it in her hands. Adalar followed suit and caught the railing, his feet kicking as his scrabbled for purchase. Her shoulders screamed with pain as she strained with all her strength to lift herself, but she could not quite manage to do it. The stone of the railing was too slick, the weight of her armor and weapons too heavy, and her arms were tired from all the archery she had done today. Sigaldra screamed as she felt herself start to slip…

Hard hands closed around her wrists and yanked, and Romaria pulled Sigaldra over the railing and onto her feet. Sigaldra caught her balance, breathing hard, and saw Mazael pull Adalar onto the walkway.

“How the devil did you do that?” said Mazael as Adalar regained his balance.

“Talchweisyr,” said Adalar, trying to catch his breath. “Azurvaltoria explained. I killed a soliphage. The talchweisyr took some of its magic…”

“Ah, clever,” said Azurvaltoria. “The sword temporarily granted you the soliphage’s power of climbing a sheer wall. You timed it quite well. The power dissipated completely the moment you jumped from the side of the Spire of Spells.”

Sigaldra let out a shaky breath and managed to smile at Adalar. He smiled back.

“I never want to do that again,” said Sigaldra.

“No,” said Adalar. “I think under other circumstances, it might have been…”

“We can discuss it later,” said Mazael. “Run!”

They sprinted towards the dark mass of the Tower of the Spider. The walkway passed close to one of the Tower’s balconies, so close that Sigaldra could have reached out and touched the black stone.

Jumping over to it was a trivial matter. They scrambled onto the railing and jumped, and Adalar caught Sigaldra, helping her over.

“This way,” said Azurvaltoria, heading towards the narrow doorway on the far side of the balcony.

The door opened into a narrow, steep stairwell. Sigaldra supposed it climbed all the way to the peak of Mount Armyar and the Heart of the Spider itself.

“I can hear them coming,” Sigaldra said. The shouts and battle cries of valgast warriors echoed up the stairwell. The Prophetess or the high priests must have realized their plan and sent their warriors to block the Tower of the Spider.

“Let me worry about that,” said Azurvaltoria, flexing her fingers as fire blazed to life around her hands. “Start running. I’ll catch up to you in a few moments.”

“Very well,” said Mazael. “Come on!”

They ran up the spiral stairs. Symbols of purple fire glittered upon the wall, casting their eerie glow over the stairs of black stone. Did the chambers of the Tower’s upper levels hold enemies, or were they deserted?

She also wondered what Azurvaltoria intended to do to slow down the approaching valgasts.

The answer arrived a moment later.

The entire Tower shook, trembling like a rung bell, and a roaring, rushing sound filled Sigaldra’s ears. She lost her balance, hit the curved wall, regained her feet, and looked back just as a hot wind howled up the stairs, tugging at her clothes. A blaze of orange-yellow light seemed to fill the stairwell, and for a moment Sigaldra feared the fire would erupt through the entire Tower and kill them all.

Yet the light did not climb any higher, though the hot wind grew stronger.

A moment later Azurvaltoria came into sight, running fast and breathing hard.

“What did you do?” said Mazael.

Her white smile flashed. “I set a few things on fire.”

“It’s what you do best,” said Sigaldra, and Adalar coughed out a laugh.

“We all have our talents,” said Azurvaltoria. “Suffice it to say that I used a spell of sufficient power that even the Prophetess and the valgast high priests, working in tandem, shall take some time to unravel it.” The white smile widened. “That is the delightful thing about a confined space, you see. It focuses heat so marvelously.”

“It is getting warm,” said Mazael. “Do we need to flee before we cook alive?”

“Certainly not,” said Azurvaltoria. “Well. I do not. You might find it uncomfortable before too much longer, though.”

“Then let us be on our way,” said Mazael, and they hurried up the steps.

Sigaldra felt a wave of fresh hope. For the first time since they had begun this mad chase, they were ahead of the Prophetess. Always before they had been forced to react, forced to respond to her plans. Now they had gotten ahead of her, and they would block her path.

At last Sigaldra and the others the chance to set an ambush for her, rather than the other way around.

Her hand clenched into a fist as they climbed.

At last, she would have the opportunity to rescue Liane.

Chapter 12: Spider Guard

They climbed the stairs for hours.

At first, the stairs circled through gleaming black rock, the substance of the Tower of the Spider. The air grew hotter and hotter from the fire raging further down the stairs, and Mazael wondered if Azurvaltoria had miscalculated. From time to time they passed sealed doorways in the stone walls, their surfaces glowing with purple glyphs, and Azurvaltoria urged them to leave the doors alone.

“What is behind the doors?” said Mazael.

“The tombs of soliphages,” said Azurvaltoria. “They usually live forever, but sometimes something kills them.”

“Like us,” said Romaria.

“Precisely,” said Azurvaltoria. “The valgasts, you will remember, regard the soliphages as sacred messengers of their goddess. So when they happen to find a dead soliphage, they take the carcass and entomb it here. Simply by walking through the Tower, we are blaspheming upon sacred ground.”

Sigaldra quite deliberately spat upon the floor, and Mazael laughed.

“But do not touch the doors,” said Azurvaltoria. “Sometimes the spells upon the Tower raise the dead soliphages as undead creatures. As undead, they are even more dangerous.”

Sigaldra shuddered, no doubt remembering her brief imprisonment in the soliphage’s cave.

“We won’t touch the doors,” said Mazael. “We can’t afford to linger.” Sooner or later Azurvaltoria’s fire would end, and the valgasts would swarm after them in pursuit. Or the fire would keep raging and cook them in the stairwell like an animal trapped in a chimney.

The walls changed from the gleaming black stone of the Tower of the Spider to the familiar gray rock of the mountains of Skuldar. The air grew cooler with every step from the Tower they took, and Mazael felt the sweat on his forehead grow chill.

“How far does this stairwell climb?” said Sigaldra.

“All the way to the slope of Mount Armyar,” said Azurvaltoria. “At least another mile, I expect. The Heart of the Spider is atop Mount Armyar, and Tchroth is rather deep underground.”

“At least we will be ahead of the Prophetess for once,” said Adalar.

“About that,” said Romaria, glancing back at Azurvaltoria. “Are you sure this is the only way to the Heart of the Spider?”

Azurvaltoria shrugged. “It is the fastest way I know.”

“That’s not the same thing as being sure this is the only way,” said Romaria.

“No,” said Azurvaltoria. “The Prophetess could take the foothill paths, but they are slow and steep. It is possible the valgasts dug another tunnel to Mount Armyar. I would not put it past them. It is the sort of thing they would do.”

Sigaldra scowled in frustration. “You mean she still might be ahead of us?”

“Possible, but not probable,” said Azurvaltoria. “However, I am certain this is the fastest route to the Heart of the Spider.” She pointed at the ceiling. “There is no more direct route than a straight line. I expect we shall either arrive slightly before the Prophetess or almost at the same time.”

“That doesn’t give us much time to lay an ambush,” said Mazael.

“No,” said Azurvaltoria. “So I suggest we keep climbing.”

The purple glow faded, and soon Azurvaltoria had to summon a spinning ball of yellow-orange light to illuminate the stairs. On and on the steps went, circling ever higher. None of the others spoke, as they had no breath left for speech, their whole effort bent towards climbing. Mazael’s hips and knees burned from the effort, but he ignored the discomfort, Talon ready in his fist. He feared that the Prophetess would find a way through the dragon’s fire and storm up the stairs to attack, but he also feared what they would find on the slopes of Mount Armyar itself. Based on what the Prophetess had said in her speech to the valgasts, it sounded as if some of the soliphages or the valgast priests had already gone to the Heart of the Spider to prepare the way.

He didn’t know what they would face on the slopes of Mount Armyar, but he intended to be ready.

He hoped that Timothy and Earnachar and Basjun had found their way back to the Grim Marches, that Molly and Riothamus had received the message and understood.

Several hours later, Mazael blinked, holding up one hand in the flickering glow of Azurvaltoria’s light.

“A breeze,” he said. He felt the cold air against his face and whispering past his ears.

“I am not sure,” said Romaria, “but I think I see light ahead.”

“You do,” said Azurvaltoria, dismissing her light. Sudden darkness flooded the stairs, but in that darkness, Mazael saw the faint glow of daylight. “Be ready. We are almost to the surface. It is possible the Prophetess or the valgasts left someone to await their coming.”

Mazael nodded and raised Talon, while he heard the creak of Romaria’s bow and the rasp of metal as Adalar drew his talchweisyr.

Then an idea came to him.

“Wait,” said Mazael. “Azurvaltoria, call the light back for a moment.”

He heard the creak of her leather coat as she shrugged, and then the light shimmered back into existence over her fingers. In the fiery light, he looked at her face, with its black eyes and sharp features.

At the blue spider painted over her features.

Both Romaria and Sigaldra still had the blue spiders painted upon their faces. The spiders had blurred a little from the sweat of the fighting and running and climbing, but they were still visible.

“What is it?” said Romaria.

“You’ve still got the blue spider painted on your face,” said Mazael.

“Do you think to bluff the valgast guards?” said Sigaldra. “Surely they will know that we escaped from Tchroth.”

“Will they?” said Mazael. “There hasn’t been time to send messengers.”

“No,” said Sigaldra, comprehension coming over her face. “No, there hasn’t.”

“Can they communicate through magic?” said Adalar.

“Some of them can,” said Azurvaltoria. “Though given the chaos we have left in our wake, it is possible no one has thought to warn the valgasts already at the Heart of the Spider. I think it is worth trying to bluff our way through any guards.”

“I’m glad you approve,” said Mazael, “because that is what we’re going to do. Dismiss the light.”

Azurvaltoria made the light disappear, and Mazael resumed climbing, taking careful steps in the dim glow. Step by step the light ahead got brighter, and the cold breeze against his face stronger. Soon Mazael had no difficulty seeing, and he also heard the snarling rasp of valgast voices raised in argument.

He took a deep breath, went around the final revolution of the stairs, and stepped into the daylight.

After the gloom of Tchroth and the dark caverns of the underworld, even the overcast morning seemed dazzlingly bright. Mazael found himself standing upon a terrace carved out of the slope of a mountain, the mountains of Skuldar spreading away to the south. Heavy gray clouds hung low overhead, flashing with lightning from time to time. A dozen tall standing stones encircled the stairs in a wide ring, their tops carved in the shapes of spiders, their sides adorned with both Skuldari and valgast glyphs. Mazael had seen hundreds of similar shrine stones scattered through Weaver’s Vale and the city of Armalast itself.

A half-dozen valgast warriors in bone armor stood guard, overseen by a pale-skinned valgast wizard holding a skull-topped staff. The valgast warriors hissed in alarm, drawing swords or leveling spears, and the valgast wizard’s expression tightened. Mazael kept his stance loose and unconcerned, though he did not relax his grip upon Talon. The others came after him, stepping onto the terrace, and the valgasts’ confusion seemed to increase at the sight of the blue spiders upon the faces of the women.

“What is this?” said the valgast wizard.

“We are the emissaries of the goddess,” said Azurvaltoria in an imperious tone, “come to witness her resurrection and rebirth in the mortal world…”

“The humans were not to come yet,” said one of the valgast warriors. “You…”

“Silence!” said Romaria in a fair imitation of Azurvaltoria’s commanding voice. “Do not presume to question the emissaries of the goddess, warrior. We have come to witness the return of the goddess. Some of our fellows from Armalast have come to the Heart of the Goddess already.”

Mazael risked a glance upward. At the peak of the barren mountain, far above, he saw towering walls of massive stone, similar to the construction of the mighty outer walls of Armalast. He had never been here, but he had seen those ruins before when Marazadra herself had appeared in his dreams.

They had found the Heart of the Spider at last, the place where Mazael’s father had tricked and defeated Marazadra…and the place where Celina du Almaine would summon her back if Mazael did not stop her.

“You will clear our path, warriors,” announced Azurvaltoria in that imperious tone. “We shall join our fellows in the Heart of the Goddess, and await the return of our glorious goddess.”

The valgast wizard said nothing for a moment, his clawed fingers tapping against the dark length of his staff.

“No,” said the wizard. “No, we heard the noise of an explosion within the stairs of the Tower of the Spider. Something has gone wrong in Tchroth, though I know not what. The vile enemies of the goddess are ever cunning. Perhaps this is part of some stratagem. Perhaps you speak the truth. Either way, you shall wait here until the Prophetess of the goddess and the High King of the Skuldari arrive.”

“Our business brooks no delay,” said Romaria with disdain.

The valgast wizard shrugged, ghostly flames starting to burn around his staff. “If you speak the truth, the Prophetess shall confirm your truth, and it shall be a glory to you. If you are filled with falseness, your treachery shall taint you like…”

“Oh, do shut up,” said Azurvaltoria. “I weary of these speeches.”

She made that flipping gesture again, the same one she had used against Rigoric, and a howling lance of flame erupted from her fingers and slammed into the valgast wizard. The priest had not seen the attack coming, and the spell blasted a smoking crater into his chest and flung him to the ground, his limbs twitching as he died.

For a shocked instant, the valgasts gaped at them.

“Hell,” muttered Mazael, lifting Talon.

A valgast warrior rushed at him, spear coming low to strike at his legs. Mazael blocked the thrust, twisted, and jabbed Talon between the warrior’s ribs. As the valgast toppled to the ground, a second warrior came at him, but one of Romaria’s arrows punched into his throat, killing the warrior before he could even attack.

Mazael turned to aid the others as Adalar fought against two of the valgast warriors, the talchweisyr snapping back and forth as he deflected their thrusts. Sigaldra sent an arrow into one of the valgasts, and Adalar killed it with a quick thrust of his curved sword. Mazael attacked the second valgast warrior. It had a shield of bone upon its left arm, and it blocked Mazael’s first two swings. The valgast wasn’t quite fast enough to deflect his thrust, and Talon skidded over the edge of the shield and opened a gaping wound in the valgast’s collar. The valgast screamed in rage and pain, and Mazael’s next thrust found its heart.

The surviving two valgast warriors retreated, preparing to flee. Romaria shot one through the chest, her arrow punching through a gap in its armor and bursting through its back, while Azurvaltoria loosed another lance of blazing flame. This time, her spell blasted the top half of the valgast’s skull to smoking coals, and the creature joined the others upon the ground.

Mazael let out a long breath and looked around. “Anyone hurt?”

“I do not believe so,” said Sigaldra.

“I thought,” said Mazael, looking at Azurvaltoria, “we were going to talk our way past. Not that I ever object to a good fight.”

The dragon looked almost embarrassed. “I have heard that same tiresome speech about Marazadra hundreds of times over the centuries. I fear I simply became exasperated.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Romaria in a quiet voice, collecting her arrows from the dead valgasts. “They weren’t going to let us pass. They would have tried to hold us here for questioning, and we would have had to fight our way free.”

“True,” said Mazael. “Azurvaltoria. Do you know the way to the Heart of the Spider from here?”

“Of course I do,” said Azurvaltoria, gesturing at the ruined temple crowning the mountain’s peak. “If we follow this terrace, a causeway cuts back and forth along the slope leading to the main gate. I suggest we avoid that path since we will likely encounter Skuldari priests and valgast wizards. There are other paths up the side of the mountain. Steeper, true, but we are less likely to be discovered.”

“Very well,” said Mazael.

“I would also suggest,” said Azurvaltoria, “that we find a discreet place and rest for a few hours.” She grimaced again. “I have worked a great deal of magic in the last few hours, and the human form is not as robust as the form of a dragon. Some rest would…not go entirely remiss.”

Mazael could tell that the admission cost her some pride.

“But we’re so close,” said Sigaldra. “The Prophetess will likely arrive at any moment.”

“Not for a few hours,” said Mazael. His Demonsouled strength did give him stamina beyond the others, but even he felt the drag of fatigue at his limbs. “If she takes the Tower of the Spider, she will have to wait a few hours for the fire to burn out. If she takes one of the other paths to the mountain, it will add a few hours to the journey. A few hours’ rest will not harm us, and we’ll need our wits about us to rescue Liane and defeat the Prophetess.”

Sigaldra started to protest again, only for a powerful yawn to interrupt her sentence. “You…may have a point.”

“First, let us cover our path,” said Azurvaltoria. “Valgasts prefer to hunt by scent, but we can make that unpleasant for him. Best to get outside of the circle of shrine stones.” She gestured, and fire started to crackle around her fingers once more.

They walked further down the terrace, outside of the circle of spider-topped stones, and Azurvaltoria started casting spells, flinging small bolts of blazing-hot flame. The bursts struck the dead valgasts, setting muscle and skin aflame and wreathing their gaunt bodies in fire. Soon all seven of the dead valgasts burned, plumes of greasy black smoke rising from their corpses. The smell was hideous. Burning humans smelled disturbingly like roast pork, as Mazael knew from past battles, but burning valgasts just smelled vile.

“There,” said Azurvaltoria with satisfaction. “That ought to throw them off our trail for a while. We cannot hide that violence took place here, but it will take them some time to track us through the stench.”

Sigaldra frowned and waved her free hand in front of her face. “Certainly I wish I could not smell that.” Adalar nodded in agreement.

They left the terrace and made their way up the mountain’s jagged, boulder-strewn slope. Mazael saw the broad causeway that Azurvaltoria had mentioned, and he remembered the common admonition of Amathavian priests that the broad and gentle way led to destruction. Certainly, the trail they had chosen was neither broad nor gentle, but instead steep and uneven, and they advanced in single file.

After an hour they reached a small ledge, and Azurvaltoria announced that it ought to be safe to rest for a while. Mazael had her cast the spell to track the presence of the Prophetess. According to the spell, Celina du Almaine had not yet left Tchroth. Likely she was still dealing with the aftermath of their escape from the city.

Which meant they were still ahead of her.

Romaria volunteered to take the first watch, and Mazael made no objection. Sigaldra and Adalar lay down, wrapping themselves in their cloaks against the chill mountain air, and Mazael sat against a boulder, closing his eyes for a moment.

He fell asleep.

###

And in his sleep, Mazael dreamed.

It was a dream he had dreamed before.

Again he stood in the Heart of the Spider.

The sky overhead boiled and churned, bands of black clouds swirling, bolts of crimson lightning jumping from thunderhead to thunderhead. The air was cold and dry and harsh, a bitter wind blowing past him and tugging at his clothes, just as it did in the waking world.

The Heart of the Spider rose over him, silent and grim.

The stones were massive and rough-hewn and looked as if they had been carved and piled by the hands of giants. Mazael strode through what had once been a vast nave. The roof had collapsed long ago, piles of broken stone standing in jagged heaps, but the megalithic pillars still stood, 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, variations of the same image over and over again.

Spiders beyond count.

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. In hindsight, Mazael realized that these were images of Marazadra, that the ancient creatures who had built both Armalast and the Heart of the Spider had carved those images to reflect her glory.

He kept walking, Talon in his hand, knowing that his enemy would await him.

The nave 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 courtyard. In the center of the courtyard rose a hill, its sides dotted with more spider-carved menhirs. Atop the hill rested a massive altar of rough stone, and above the altar was the Heart of the Spider itself, the place where the Old Demon had defeated Marazadra and banished her from the mortal world.

It looked a great deal like the mistgates that Corvad’s Malrag warlocks had conjured before the Great Rising. It was a curtain of gray mist ripped and torn by flickering fingers of violent lightning, snapping and crackling. It should have made a tremendous noise, but it was silent, utterly silent. Even in the dream, Mazael felt the power radiating from the thing.

He took a step towards the hill, looking around. Eight different naves stretched off from the round courtyard, and viewed from the vantage point of the sky, no doubt the entire complex looked like a single colossal spider.

“So you dream of me once more, Mazael Cravenlock.”

Mazael whirled, Talon coming up in guard.

The Prophetess stood at the base of the hill a dozen paces away. She wore the same style of armor that she had worn in Tchroth, overlapping plates of black steel that fitted closely to the curves of her body, a black cloak flung over her armored shoulders. Her eyes were like green gems, and over her red hair, she wore a spiked diadem like a crown of black iron. Up close, Mazael saw that the armor was more decorative than practical. Yet it made her look cold and dark and beautiful, and it exposed enough of her chest that he saw the Talisman of Marazadra nestled between her breasts, its legs encircling her torso to sink into her flesh.

It was only appropriate. The image of the woman standing before Mazael was not the Prophetess, not Celina du Almaine, but rather a creature that chose to employ her image to communicate with him.

“And you dream of me once more,” answered Mazael. “Marazadra.”

Marazadra laughed at him. “Do not presume to flatter yourself, mortal. I did not summon you here.”

“Nor did I summon you,” said Mazael. “I suspect we have very little to discuss.”

For a moment Marazadra regarded him with flat, unblinking eyes, and then she laughed again.

“An accident, then,” said Marazadra.

“I doubt that,” said Mazael.

“You have your father’s paranoia,” said Marazadra. “You also have his blood, blood that contains the power of a dark god. You are approaching the place of my power, and like calls to like. The connection happened without our conscious will. In a way, I suppose you and I are distant cousins.”

“Fitting, that,” said Mazael. “I never really got along well with most of my family.”

“Appropriate words from the man who slew his father, his son, and several of his half-brothers and half-sisters,” said Marazadra.

“Given that you are already dead,” said Mazael, “perhaps you have little to fear at the moment.”

“Indeed not,” said Marazadra. “For soon you shall be dead, and I shall be resurrected to rule over this world.”

Mazael said nothing, considering his options. He had no need to speak with Marazadra. He already knew what the Prophetess intended, and he had the full details of her plan. And yet perhaps something could be gained here. It was always dangerous to assume that he knew everything about his enemies. Perhaps he could learn something useful…or perhaps he could feed false information to Marazadra.

One of Molly’s favorite tactics popped into his mind.

She liked to annoy people and see how they reacted.

“Your armor,” said Mazael, “is one of the most ridiculous things I have ever seen.”

Marazadra sneered at him and cocked her right hip to the side. “It is, is it not? More ceremonial than practical, to be sure. In ancient days, when the Skuldari were at the height of their power, my priestesses wore this ceremonial armor to battle. My emissary has revived the tradition, donning the ancient armor of the priestesses of Marazadra as she prepares to summon me and conquer the world in my name.”

“It looks good on her,” said Mazael.

“Does it?” said Marazadra, smirking. “Is that what your lustful heart desires, child of the Old Demon? She can be yours. I can make her give herself to you if that is what you desire. Any woman you wish can be yours. Or the barbarian girl? I can make her submit to you. You can make them both kneel before you, and take them in the same bed if you wish it.”

“That’s very tempting,” said Mazael, “but I don’t need the help of a giant dead spider to seduce a woman, and even if I did, I’m married.”

“I know what you want,” said Marazadra, stepping towards him. For a moment the image of the Prophetess seemed to waver, and Mazael caught a glimpse of the hideous reality of Marazadra behind the illusion of the dream, the spider larger than a mountain, ghastly and towering and powerful beyond comprehension. “It is the same thing your father wanted. Power and dominion and conflict. I can give you all of these things. You desire battle? This world is mine, but it must first be conquered, and a thousand cities and strongholds must be laid low. You can be the one to destroy them, child of the Old Demon, and you can bathe in the blood of a hundred nations and kingdoms.”

“I could,” said Mazael, “or I could fight you and your emissary and your servants. You said I crave battle? I cannot deny it. How thoughtful of you to provide me with all the battle I might wish.”

She bared her teeth at him, and for an instant, the white teeth of Celina du Almaine flickered into something like the crimson fangs of a soliphage. “Such proud, boastful words. You shall regret them. You shall regret them bitterly. Your father fell in ruin and defeat, and you shall follow in his footsteps.”

Mazael grinned at her. “My father fell in ruin and defeat because I killed him, and he defeated you first.”

“You presume to challenge a goddess?” said Marazadra.

“No,” said Mazael. “You’re dead, and your power is bound within the Mask of Marazadra. I instead presume to challenge your emissary, and she’s not entirely sane. Didn’t you realize? Lady Celina du Almaine is an angry and bitter woman. The Prince of Travia cast her aside, and she’s going to take out her rage upon the world. She thinks that fear of you will inspire virtue and righteousness in men. As well set fire to a house to kill the spiders within it.”

Marazadra laughed at him. “My emissary is my most devoted mortal servant. What you call madness I call clarity of vision. She desires vengeance, and I shall grant her more vengeance than she can possibly imagine.”

“No, you won’t,” said Mazael.

Again the contemptuous sneer returned, the image of the colossal spider flashing behind the scowling face. “You cannot stop me.”

“I know exactly how to stop you,” said Mazael. “There’s no mystery left. The Prophetess took the Mask of Marazadra from the caverns of the Veiled Mountain. The Mask holds your power. She will use Liane as the vessel for your spirit and power. My blood trapped in the maethweisyr will empower the spell, and if she brings together all three elements in the Heart of the Spider, you will be reborn in Liane’s body. Then the Prophetess will sound the Horn of Doom and Fate and summon legions of your faithful dead to serve as your army and conquer the world.”

“You think you know everything, prideful boy?” said Marazadra. “Fool.”

“I know enough,” said Mazael. “All I need to do is kidnap Liane and return her to the Grim Marches. Let the Prophetess and the Skuldari and the valgasts bring their armies to get her back. I’ll raze Armalast and send Tchroth crashing into ruin just as I did to the Dominiars and the Justiciars and Ragnachar and the runedead.”

“You will not live to reach the Heart of the Goddess,” said Marazadra, her anger growing. “You think to measure yourself against the feeble foes you have broken? Thrice-blinded fool! Already my Spider Guards hunt for you. You will not live to face the Prophetess again. She will find your poisoned, bloated corpse, and…”

“The Spider Guards?” said Mazael. “Some sort of guardian of the Heart of the Spider, I assume? I do thank you for the warning. Most sporting of you.”

Marazadra hissed in rage, drawing herself up. The illusion of the Prophetess vanished, and the huge spider reared over Mazael, its armored body like a hill, its legs like tree trunks, its eyes burning like molten coals, its sword-like pincers dripping with poison that spat and hissed against the ground.

Then the Heart of the Spider vanished around him, and Mazael found himself standing in a lightless void.

Liane stood a few paces away, looking at him.

Sigaldra’s sister had the same blond hair and blue eyes, though she was thinner, her features more delicate. Sigaldra looked hale and strong, features that Mazael had always found attractive in a woman – Marazadra’s taunt had carried at least that much truth. Liane, by contrast, looked ethereal, almost wispy.

Her ghostly blue eyes fell on Mazael.

“The lord of war,” said Liane in her soft voice. “I knew you would come. You come with the rusted knight and the lady of the wolves and the chained dragon. You come with my sister.”

“Yes,” said Mazael. “How are you talking to me now?”

“The Sight showed me your dream,” said Liane. “Tell my sister that the time is almost here. Tell her that she must sound the Horn of Doom and Fate or all is lost.” The pale eyes stared unblinkingly into Mazael. “You must wake. An old spider comes for you. Be ready to fight, lord of war.”

The dream shattered around Mazael.

###

Mazael’s eyes snapped open.

For a confused, disoriented instant, he could not remember where he was or how he had gotten there. Why was it so damned cold? Had the fire gone out? Then his mind snapped back into focus, and he remembered Skuldar and Armalast and Tchroth and everything else that had happened in the last few weeks.

He remembered the dream of Marazadra and the warning of Liane.

“Something’s coming,” said Romaria.

Mazael got to his feet, yanking Talon from its scabbard. The others scrambled to their feet, Sigaldra with her bow, Adalar with his sword, and Azurvaltoria with magical fire already crackling around her fingers.

“What is it?” said Sigaldra. “I don’t see anything.”

“Something magical?” said Adalar.

“Aye,” said Romaria. “The Sight. But I’ve never seen anything like this before. It’s almost like a soliphage, but…older, somehow.”

“Older?” said Azurvaltoria, startled. “The soliphages are older than humanity.”

“Can you detect anything?” said Romaria.

“Not in this limited form,” said Azurvaltoria, waving a disdainful hand at her human shape. “Once it gets closer, perhaps, but until then…”

“No need,” said Romaria, setting an arrow to her bowstring. “It’s coming closer.”

Mazael started to answer, and then he heard the noise.

It was a strange creaking sort of noise, like leather under stress, and it reminded him of the noise a man in leather armor made while walking. Yet the noise sounded wrong for that, and even as the thought crossed his mind, a peculiar musty smell came to his nostrils. It smelled like the dusty odor of the soliphages, overlaid with a smell like rotting flesh, or perhaps the stomach-turning odor of pus from an infected wound.

“Gods and ancestors,” said Sigaldra, wrinkling her nose. “What is that?”

“Ah,” said Azurvaltoria, blinking in surprise. “They’re still alive? I didn’t think it possible.”

Adalar frowned at her. “Who? Who is still alive?”

The answer came to Mazael in a flash. “A Spider Guard.”

Azurvaltoria swore. It was the first time he had ever heard her do that.

“What is a Spider Guard?” said Sigaldra.

“That, I assume,” said Mazael as a dark shape came into sight, limping around a boulder.

At first, he thought it was an old man wearing patchwork armor fashioned out of ragged plates of black and red steel. Yet as the man drew closer, Mazael saw something that looked similar to the Talisman of Marazadra resting against his chest, a spider of black metal with its fangs and its legs sinking into his sides and between his ribs. The smell of rotting flesh and poisoned blood came from the wounds in his torso, the wounds that never seemed to heal.

The armor was not steel but chitin like the carapace of a soliphage or a hunting spider, and the man wasn’t wearing it.

It had grown from within his flesh, erupting from his skin, and Mazael saw the ragged tears in the flesh where armor had ripped its way free.

Blood trickled from the tears in the skin. The man had to be in tremendous pain, and his gaunt face was locked in an agonized rictus, his bloodshot eyes wide, his thin lips peeled back from his yellow teeth.

“Trespassers,” croaked the man, stopping a dozen yards from them. “Trespassers in this sacred place.” He tilted his head to the side, mouth twitching, a vein throbbing in his forehead. “Yet the women bear the signs of the goddess upon their cheeks and brows. Many have come in these late days, preparing for the goddess and the wrath of her return.”

“We have come to worship the goddess and prepare for her return,” said Mazael. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to fight this strange creature. The old man looked as if he was in too much pain to stand, let alone to fight, yet his movements were sure and steady, and his eyes did not blink. Mazael never liked to fight unless he understood his opponent, and until he understood this Spider Guard, he didn’t want to fight him.

Not unless he had to.

“Yes,” croaked the old man. “Yes, you are here because of the goddess’s return, are you not?”

“You speak truly,” said Azurvaltoria, returning to her imperious mode of speech. “Now, at the hour of the goddess’s return, all her faithful must gather to execute her will. Let us pass, ancient and honored servant of Marazadra, and we shall…”

“You,” said the Spider Guard, “are a dragon.”

Azurvaltoria stumbled over her next word, caught off guard. It was the first time that Mazael had seen her taken aback.

“You,” said the Spider Guard, pointing a clawed finger at Mazael, “have a taint about you.” Spines jutted from the side of his forearm, like ragged, serrated blades that had cut their way loose from his body. His pointing finger shifted to Romaria. “You have Elderborn blood. None of you are here to praise the goddess. You are her enemies, come here to hinder her return. You shall perish for your impudence.”

“Try it,” said Mazael, “if you can.”

The misshapen creature shrugged and pointed at him.

Before he could react, faster than he anticipated, a blast of purple fire burst from the Spider Guard’s outstretched hand and slammed into Mazael’s chest. Pain exploded through him, and the impact threw him into a nearby boulder. He grunted and collapsed to the ground, trying to recover his breath and the strength to stand.

The Spider Guard charged in a blur.

###

Adalar had not expected the withered old man to move so fast, but the Spider Guard moved like lightning. He already had his talchweisyr ready, the hilt grasped in both hands, and that was the only thing that saved his life. The old man attacked, whipping his forearms like clubs, the razor blades jutting from their sides stabbing towards Adalar’s face.

Adalar parried, and the raw power of the Spider Guard’s blow knocked him back, and he had to make a hasty dodge to avoid another sweep of the razor-lined forearms. Both Romaria and Sigaldra loosed arrows. Sigaldra’s arrow bounced off the black armor jutting from the old man’s right leg. Romaria’s arrow struck him in the chest. Adalar had seen her Elderborn bow drive arrows even through plate armor, but her shaft deflected from the metal spider on the old man’s chest. The metal spider seemed to ripple in displeasure and pain, its fangs and legs sinking deeper into the Spider Guard’s torso.

Azurvaltoria cast a spell, throwing a burst of flame into the old man. The Spider Guard rocked back, hissing in pain and fury. His flesh sizzled and burned on his right arm and side, and even as Adalar looked, the burns started to heal, the flesh restoring itself.

He stabbed the talchweisyr as hard as he could manage. The tip of the silver blade slipped into the Spider Guard’s ribs, jabbing between the legs of the metal spider, and the sword’s vibration increased as it siphoned away some of the Spider Guard’s magic.

The old man roared in fury, his left arm coming up for a punch, and Adalar ducked, ripping away the talchweisyr. He avoided the Spider Guard’s blow by perhaps half an inch, retreating as the old man advanced. The burns from Azurvaltoria’s spell had healed completely, and while the Spider Guard did not look healthy by any means, he looked no worse than he had when the fight had begun.

“The talisman!” shouted Azurvaltoria, casting another spell. “The talisman is his weak point. Destroy the talisman!”

Adalar had no idea how to accomplish that, and he had no time to think on it. The Spider Guard came at him again, both hands raised for a hammer blow, and Adalar could not find the proper footing to dodge. He had no choice but to raise the talchweisyr in a parry. The Spider Guard’s fists came hammering down, and Adalar expected to blow to drive him to his knees, perhaps even to break his shoulders with its force.

Instead, he held the parry against the Spider Guard, and for a moment the old man’s rictus of rage and pain softened with bafflement.

The talchweisyr had absorbed some of the Spider Guard’s unnatural strength, temporarily granting it to Adalar.

He shoved, knocking the old man back, and chopped the talchweisyr down. The blade bit into the metal spider, which writhed again with pain, and the old man screamed in anger.

###

Mazael heaved himself back to his feet, pain pulsing through him, but his rage matched his pain and started to swallow it. Demonsouled fury burned through his blood, and he felt it healing the injuries the Spider Guard’s magic had inflicted upon him. It also poured molten rage through his heart and mind, and he badly wanted to kill something.

Fortunately, an enemy was near at hand.

Adalar and the Spider Guard wheeled around each other, silver talchweisyr and black-armored fists flashing in a dance of violence. The young knight was holding his own against the Spider Guard, thanks to his excellent skill with the sword, though no doubt the talchweisyr had absorbed some of the Spider Guard’s strength. Romaria and Sigaldra stood side by side, shooting arrows at the Spider Guard whenever the opportunity presented itself, though the arrows seemed only to annoy the old man.

Azurvaltoria stood on the other side of the fight, casting spells. Her fiery blasts hit the Spider Guard, and the impact of the burning bolts knocked the old man back. That gave Adalar an opportunity to land a hit, thought the Spider Guard seemed capable of regenerating any injuries almost at once.

“The talisman!” shouted Azurvaltoria, catching Mazael’s eye. “Destroy the talisman! That is the only way to kill the Spider Guard!”

He broke into a run, intending to aid Adalar.

Adalar struck, again and again, hammering at the metal spider on the old man’s chest. That enraged the Spider Guard, and the old man continued his furious attack. At last Adalar stumbled, and the old man’s armored fist clipped the side of Adalar’s head. The young knight lost his balance and fell on his back, and the Spider Guard loomed over him for the kill.

“No!” shouted Sigaldra, and her next arrow plunged deep into the Spider Guard’s exposed side. This time, the arrow hit hard enough that the Spider Guard grunted in pain, and the old man whirled, his bloodshot eyes narrowed with hate. Azurvaltoria hit him with a blast of fire to the back, but the Spider Guard ignored it. His right hand came up, purple fire crackling around his fingers. There was no way either Romaria or Sigaldra could get out of the way in time.

So Mazael stepped into the path of the spell.

It hit him with as much force as the first spell, but he was ready for it, and the killing rage was already in him. Pain exploded through him, but Mazael spun with the impact, keeping his feet, and charged at the Spider Guard. He just had time to see shock flicker across the old man’s face, and he swung Talon with both hands, chopping the sword into the Spider Guard’s chest. The blade of dragon claw bit deep into the metal spider, and the talisman jerked as if trying to crawl away from the danger. Mazael ripped Talon free as the Spider Guard stumbled, and by then Adalar had regained his feet, the talchweisyr coming around in a shining arc. His sword carved another gash into the metal spider.

Mazael struck again with Talon, and his sword cut the talisman in half. The Spider Guard stumbled with a scream of pain, eyes wide, and the metal legs ripped free from his torso, lashing back and forth like ropes caught in a storm. The Spider Guard collapsed to his knees, and Mazael drew back his arms and swung.

Talon took off the old man’s head, the armored corpse slumping to the ground. The smell of the poisoned blood was ghastly. Mazael stepped back, breathing hard, and Azurvaltoria took three quick strides forward. She held out her hands in a fan shape, and a jet of fire burst from her fingers, washing over the Spider Guard’s corpse. The dead man took flame, and the chitinous armor started to burn. Azurvaltoria nodded to herself, dismissing the fire.

“Best to make sure,” she said. “Sometimes they can heal themselves even if their talisman is destroyed.”

“Why didn’t you warn us?” said Mazael, fighting back his rage. His rage pointed out that Azurvaltoria had failed to warn them of the Spider Guards, that perhaps she had plotted to betray them all along…

“Because I thought they had all died centuries ago,” said Azurvaltoria. “I didn’t think the damned things would have lived this long.”

Mazael took a deep breath. “What are they, exactly?”

“They used to be priests of Marazadra,” said Azurvaltoria, looking at the twisted corpse. “Skuldari priests. A millennium ago one of the high priests had the clever idea of making talismans in imitation of the Talisman of Marazadra and charging them with power. You can see the result. That clever high priest made himself a little army and attacked the Veiled Mountain with his Spider Guards. I had to kill them all, of course. Destroying their talismans with dragon fire was really the only way to do it. I thought I had gotten them all.”

“Evidently not,” said Romaria.

“No,” said Mazael, his rage cooling.

“Perhaps the survivors withdrew here,” said Sigaldra, “to await the return of Marazadra.”

“That seems likely,” said Azurvaltoria, “given that the Spider Guards seem to have the Sight. Maybe they saw a vision of the future and withdrew here to await Marazadra.”

“The Sight?” said Mazael. “How did you know that?”

“He knew I was Elderborn,” said Romaria. “He also realized that Azurvaltoria was a dragon, and there is no obvious way to see that.”

“Other than my natural magnificence, of course,” said Azurvaltoria.

“He said you were…tainted,” said Sigaldra, frowning.

Mazael snorted. “I haven’t bathed in a while. And the gods know I’ve been hit by enough spells in my life. Likely that was what he sensed.”

Sigaldra still frowned, but she nodded. She was a clever woman when she wasn’t blinded by intense hatred, and he hoped she would not figure out that he was Demonsouled. Here, in the midst of their enemies, was not the time for such a discussion.

“So if the Spider Guards have the Sight,” said Romaria, “they will be able to track us.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Azurvaltoria.

“Then they will find us wherever we can go,” said Sigaldra.

“Oh, the situation is not so dire as all that,” said Azurvaltoria.

“Really,” said Mazael. “Convince me.”

“For one, I can work a spell to mask us from the Sight,” said Azurvaltoria. “It will take some time to do properly, but once it is managed, the Spider Guards will have to be right in front of us before they can detect us. Additionally, the arrival of the Skuldari priests and the valgasts will hold the attention of most of the Spider Guards. I expect that one simply found us by accident. It was headed in the direction of the stairs to the Tower of the Spider when it stumbled across us.”

“It is bad enough that we must fight the Skuldari and the valgasts,” said Sigaldra. “Now we must contend with those Spider Guards as well? The Prophetess has so many allies that I do not see how we can overcome her in battle.”

“We don’t have to overcome her in battle,” said Mazael. “We just have to kidnap your sister. And maybe steal the Mask of Marazadra while we are at it.” He glanced to the east, wondering if Molly and Riothamus had gotten his message.

“Easier said than done,” said Sigaldra.

“Agreed,” said Mazael. “So we had better start, hadn’t we? Azurvaltoria, your spell.”

Chapter 13: Barbarian Nations

Sigaldra waited as Azurvaltoria worked her magic, threads of fire dancing around her fingers.

Hope and despair and rage warred through Sigaldra. Just one of the Spider Guards had been a terrible foe. How would they fare against a dozen of the creatures? Against a hundred? Again she felt the hopelessness that had gnawed at her since the soliphage’s cave.

And yet…

They had escaped Veiled Mountain, hadn’t they? They had escaped Tchroth. Surely they should have died in both places. Certainly, Sigaldra and Adalar should have died in the Spire of Spells. If not for Adalar’s boldness and quick thinking, they would have died.

On impulse, she stepped next to him. His talchweisyr rested in his right hand, but she reached down and squeezed his left hand. He blinked, and then smiled at her, and Mazael turned a startled glance in her direction. Once that would have embarrassed her, but they had been through too much together for her to care.

“Are you hurt?” said Adalar in a low voice.

“No,” said Sigaldra. “I’m not wounded. I’m exhausted and frightened, but I’m not wounded. I just…thank you, Adalar.”

He blinked, puzzled. “For what?” For a moment she thought he was feigning puzzlement, but then she realized he really was baffled. There was such a thing as feigned modesty, but it was not in Adalar Greatheart. He neither denigrated himself nor put undue stress upon his accomplishments.

It was an excellent quality in a man.

“For getting us out of the Spire of Spells,” said Sigaldra.

Adalar laughed a little. “I can hardly take credit. I took a gamble and it did not end with us splattered across the cavern floor. Simply surviving is thanks enough, I think.”

“I would prefer to survive and be victorious,” said Sigaldra.

“Yes,” said Adalar. “I cannot argue with that.”

“And thank you, hrould Mazael,” said Sigaldra.

“Eh?” said Mazael, looking up from his thoughts. He seemed to be brooding on something. “For what?”

“You stepped into that spell,” said Sigaldra. “That bolt of purple fire the Spider Guard threw at us. It would have killed both Romaria and me.”

Mazael snorted. “I couldn’t very well let some twisted old spider-monster murder my wife.” He smiled at Romaria, his gray eyes glinting like sword blades. “I’ve done far worse to people for threatening her.”

“How sweet,” said Romaria, but she smiled back.

“How did you survive that?” said Sigaldra. Now it was her turn to be puzzled. “That spell hit you full-on twice.”

Mazael shrugged. “I can’t rightly say. I think it only clipped me. And I’m too old and mean to die.”

Sigaldra snorted. “No question there.” But she did wonder. She had been traveling near Mazael Cravenlock for weeks, and she had come to notice many strange things about him. He had far greater stamina than she would have expected in a man his age, and he seemed able to shrug off blows and exertions that should have killed him. Perhaps that was only to be expected from a man who had defeated the runedead and forced the Tervingi and the Marcher folk to dwell in peace.

Or perhaps he had some sort of magical ability he kept secret. Something the Guardian had given him, perhaps, or something that he had acquired during his travels as a young man. That might explain his unusual resilience, and it might also explain the terrifying rages that came over him in battle, rages that she could see he struggled to control.

Still, she would not complain. If any two men in the world could help her rescue Liane, they would be Mazael Cravenlock and Adalar Greatheart.

Though she seemed to have caught Mazael’s attention. The gray eyes had focused on her, and he was frowning.

“What?” said Sigaldra. “Would you prefer that I not thank you when you save my life? I can be churlish and sour if you wish.”

“I can only imagine what Earnachar would say to that,” said Mazael. “No. Your sister…”

“Liane?” said Sigaldra. “What about her?”

“I think she spoke to me in a dream before the Spider Guard attacked,” said Mazael. “Using her Sight.”

Sigaldra blinked. “Is…that even possible? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“I have,” said Romaria in a quiet voice. Next to her Azurvaltoria continued toiling as she cast her spell. “During the Great Rising, before the final battle at Knightcastle. Using my Sight, I spoke to Lucan Mandragon across a great distance, and tried to convince him to turn from his path.” She shook her head. “I failed, obviously.”

“But you needed the guidance and help of Riothamus to do it,” said Mazael.

Romaria shrugged. “The Sight manifests in different ways in different people. Mine is not particularly powerful. Riothamus’s is stronger but less intuitive. Liane is young, and perhaps the ordeals of the past weeks have caused her own Sight to awaken to greater power.”

“So why would she speak to you?” said Sigaldra. A flicker of hurt went through her. Why would Liane speak to Mazael instead of her sister? But Mazael’s next words put that pain to rest.

“She had a message for you,” said Mazael.

“What was it?” said Sigaldra.

“She told you to sound the Horn of Doom and Fate when the moment came,” said Mazael.

Sigaldra felt her frown deepen. Liane had told her the same thing at Veiled Mountain. In fact, she had all but shouted it as the Prophetess and Rigoric had fled the impending collapse of the cavern.

“Why?” said Sigaldra.

Mazael started to answer, but Azurvaltoria grunted and flung out her hands, fires crackling around her fingertips. A wave of heat rolled through Sigaldra, and for a moment she felt feverish, but the heat soon subsided.

“There,” said Azurvaltoria, rolling her shoulders as if she was recovering from a heavy labor. “We should be impervious to the Sight for some time now, perhaps at least as long as a day. What were you talking about?”

“The Horn of Doom and Fate,” said Mazael.

“What about it?” said Azurvaltoria.

“My sister used the Sight to speak to Mazael,” said Sigaldra, growing impatient. She wanted some answers. More to the point, she wanted her sister back. “She said I needed to sound the Horn of Doom and Fate when the time came.”

“I see,” said Azurvaltoria, looking back and forth between Mazael and Sigaldra.

“Why would she tell me that?” said Sigaldra. “The Horn would summon up an army of the dead bound to Marazadra, yes? Why would I do that?”

“Actually,” said Azurvaltoria, “I am not at all sure what would happen if you sounded the Horn, save that it would likely be fatal.”

“Will sounding the Horn kill the Prophetess?” said Sigaldra.

“Alas, likely not,” said Azurvaltoria. “The Horn summons shades of the dead, remnants created in the spirit world by the passage of souls to the next life. Consequently, its power is most likely necromantic in nature. Celina du Almaine is a wizard and knows how to shield herself from the backlash of its power. You would have no such protection. Furthermore, she bears of the Talisman of Marazadra, and all the faithful of Marazadra are compelled to obey her. Even the dead ones. Were you to sound the Horn, I have no idea what would happen, but I do not recommend it.” She shrugged. “Save as a creative way to commit suicide.”

“If the Prophetess is dead,” said Mazael, “it doesn’t matter what happens to the Horn. Let’s go. We have an ambush to plan.”

###

As it turned out, Azurvaltoria chose an excellent path. The path was rocky and narrow and steep, but the boulders concealed them from view while the height permitted them to have a view of the causeway. So far, no one had emerged from the stairs on the terrace, save for the few wisps of greasy smoke still rising from the dead valgasts that Azurvaltoria had set aflame.

Mazael considered their options as they climbed the steep slope, the massive stones of the Heart of the Spider drawing ever closer. He didn’t see anyone on the causeway leading to the ruined temple atop the mountain, and nor did he see anyone within the Heart of the Spider itself. From his dreams, he knew that eight separate fanes led into the central courtyard. Each of those fanes was huge, as large as the great cathedrals in the cities to the west, capable of holding thousands of people. There was no way that the Spider Guards and the valgasts and the Skuldari priests could guard each fane, especially since their roofs had collapsed and the rubble lay in untidy heaps, providing ample cover for anyone wishing to enter the Heart unseen.

It was possible the valgasts, Skuldari priests, and Spider Guards had set watch over each of the fanes. It was also possible that they had failed to realize any threat could reach them here, and had congregated in the central courtyard around the altar hill to await the return of their goddess. If that had happened, Mazael and the others could enter one of the deserted fanes with ease and set an ambush for the Prophetess. The causeway led directly to the southern fane, and almost certainly the Prophetess would enter the Heart through that fane.

Perhaps it would be better to snatch Liane away and flee, though the Prophetess and all her minions would pursue. If they returned to the Grim Marches, the army of the Tervingi and the Marcher lords would teach the valgasts and the Skuldari a sharp lesson. Mazael nonetheless thought it would better to kill the Prophetess and have done with it. The Skuldari and the valgasts and the motaylakars and the soliphages were all natural enemies, and only the Prophetess held them together. If she was killed, they would turn on each other in short order, and the threat to the Grim Marches would collapse.

Of course, that was easier said than done. Mazael had tried to kill the Prophetess before, and she had escaped every single time. Of course, he had escaped her as well.

But this time, he knew, only one of them would walk away from the Heart of the Spider.

In the end, he could not make a proper plan, not until he had seen the layout of the ground inside the Heart of the Spider and taken disposition of the enemy forces. Perhaps that was just as well. A commander of men needed a resilient mind in combat, able to change and adapt as circumstances demanded. Rigid thinking would result in a swift and overpowering defeat.

And Mazael remembered Basjun and Earnachar and Timothy and thought of ways he might cause chaos within the Heart of the Spider.

They remained on watch as they climbed the path, watching for any sign of Spider Guards or of motaylakars flying overhead. Yet the side of the mountain remained clear of any foes, and as the sun started to sink beneath the peaks to the west, they reached the foot of the massive outer wall.

It rose nearly a hundred feet above them, wrought from the same massive blocks of stone that had been used to build the outer wall of Armalast. Unlike the outer wall of Armalast, Mazael saw the carvings he remembered from his dreams, the reliefs showing spiders feasting upon humans.

“The soliphages have wretched taste in artwork,” said Romaria.

“They stole the style from the San-keth,” said Azurvaltoria. “This is the eastern fane, and the Prophetess will likely enter the Heart through the southern fane. How shall we proceed?”

“Romaria,” said Mazael. “Scout ahead, please. Can you move through the fane without drawing attention?”

She smiled at him. “Drunk with a blindfold tied around my head.”

Had they been alone, he would have responded with a raunchy joke. “Take a look around and let us know what you find. We’ll wait here.”

Romaria nodded and took two steps forward, her body blurring and melting into the form of the great black wolf. She loped ahead with silent speed, darting through the tall archway into the fane, and vanished from sight.

“I am envious,” said Azurvaltoria. “She can change shape when I cannot.”

“She paid a steep price for it, though,” said Adalar.

“Oh?” said Azurvaltoria.

“She died,” said Adalar. Mazael remembered the flash of fire in the Old Demon’s hand.

“At least she can wear her true form,” said Azurvaltoria with some annoyance.

“That’s the difference,” said Mazael. “Her human form is her true form, as is her wolf form. They’re both her true form. Unless one of your parents was human, this isn’t your true form.”

Azurvaltoria sniffed. “A human parent? What a scandalous thing to suggest, Mazael Cravenlock.”

“Look,” said Sigaldra.

Mazael turned. Far below, he could still see the terrace with the circle of shrine stones. A dark mass rose from the stairwell. A large group of valgast warriors had emerged from Tchroth. They began to march in good order from the terrace, hastening up the causeway towards the southern fane of the Heart of the Spider.

“Hell,” said Mazael. “Looks like the Prophetess finally found the way past your fire.”

“Indeed she did,” said Azurvaltoria. She shrugged. “We knew it was only a matter of time until she broke the spell. Fortunately, we are still ahead of her.”

“It’s not much time to prepare an ambush,” said Adalar.

“No, it isn’t,” said Mazael. “But we would have to improvise anyway. Your father always said that no plan of battle ever survives the first crossing of the swords with the enemy.”

“He did,” said Adalar.

“My father said that, too,” said Sigaldra. “Though he said that plans of battle never survived the first crossing of axes with the foe.”

Adalar frowned. “Why axes?”

Sigaldra shrugged. “He preferred the axe. So did all my brothers, ere the Malrags cut them down.” She sighed. “I would have used the axe in battle, though I am not strong enough. Hence, the bow.”

“Not strong enough?” said Adalar. “I’ve seen you use the sword.”

“The axe has to be driven through steel and flesh,” said Sigaldra. “Otherwise it just bounces off. I might as well use a club. Easier to use a bow. Requires less raw strength, but it’s just as deadly.” Her blue eyes turned towards Mazael. “Though I’ll never be as good an archer as Romaria.”

“She has some natural advantages,” said Mazael, looking towards the archway of the ruined fane. He wondered if he should go in after her, and how much longer he should wait before he did. “She paid for them, though. I don’t think you would want to pay the price she did.”

“No,” said Sigaldra, shuddering a little. “You’re both enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“I’m sorry?” said Mazael.

“You and Romaria both,” said Sigaldra. “You…like to fight. The way other men do not.”

Azurvaltoria raised her dark eyebrows, looking back and forth between Mazael and Sigaldra. The dragon looked amused, damn her.

“Romaria isn’t a man,” said Mazael.

“That’s not what I meant,” said Sigaldra.

“I know,” said Mazael. He shrugged. “Aye, I like to fight. Maybe more than I should.”

“Why?” said Sigaldra.

He knew perfectly well why.

“Because,” said Mazael, “all men have their strengths, and fighting is mine. So I decided to use it to bring order and peace to the Grim Marches. That’s why I’m here, is it not? The Jutai are sworn to me, and the Prophetess stole your sister, subverted one of my vassals, and roused the Skuldari and the soliphages and the valgasts to make war upon my people. So they’re going to pay for it. I’m going to kill the Prophetess and smash her plans in ruin, and if the Skuldari and the valgasts persist, I’m going to inflict such a defeat upon them that they won’t dare to leave their mountains and their caves for a thousand years. If I like to fight, I’m going to try to do something useful with it.”

Sigaldra blinked. Her eyes had gotten a little wide during his speech, and she managed to nod. He supposed some of his anger must have drifted into his voice as he spoke.

“So we’re going to get your sister back,” said Mazael, “and make the Prophetess regret it.”

“Thank you,” said Sigaldra, her voice a little hoarse.

“We wandered rather afield,” said Adalar, “as to why you wished to use an axe.”

Sigaldra blinked, and then smiled at him. “To honor my father, of course.”

“I understand that,” said Adalar, tapping the scabbard slung over his back. It was too large for his talchweisyr, but he had adjusted the scabbard to hold the shorter blade. “That was why I carried a greatsword. To honor the memory of my father, who was a better knight than I was.”

“A noble gesture,” said Sigaldra.

Adalar shrugged. “That, and it was a supremely useful weapon against spearmen. Their longer reach means little when you lop off the heads of their weapons. And I could break through shields with it. The enemy always looked so surprised when I did.”

“I imagine they did,” said Sigaldra. “I always wondered why you did not fight with a shield.”

“There are times when it slows you down,” said Mazael, who for years had fought with a longsword in his right hand and a Mastarian war hammer in his left. “Of course, the trick is not to get hit in the first place. Which isn’t always possible. You need…”

He fell silent as a black wolf loped from the entrance to the fane. It came to a stop before him and blurred back into the form of Romaria.

“Find anything interesting?” said Mazael.

“I went to the other end of the fane and back,” said Romaria. “As far as I can tell, it’s deserted. It absolutely stinks of soliphages and those Spider Guards, though. At the other end is another archway that opens into this big round courtyard, just like you described. There are already quite a few soliphages, Spider Guards, and Skuldari priests in the courtyard, looking at that rift on the hill.”

“How many?” said Mazael.

“About a hundred and fifty, all told,” said Romaria. “Only a dozen of those Spider Guards.” She looked at Azurvaltoria. “You might have indeed killed almost all of them.”

“Alas, that’s still not the same as all of them,” said Azurvaltoria. “Were I clothed in my true form, I could burn them to cinders from the air. In human form, I can only access a small portion of my powers. A dozen Spider Guards together would make for a formidable challenge.”

“How can we fight our way through so many?” said Sigaldra.

“We might not have to,” said Romaria. “Not yet, anyway. They’re all gathered around the altar hill. I think they’re casting…preparatory spells, readying the way for the Prophetess to summon Marazadra back. The Skuldari clerics and the soliphages are working the spells together.”

“The Prophetess must have sent them ahead to do the preparations,” said Mazael.

“Most likely,” said Romaria. “The Spider Guards are standing watch, but they seem more interested in the spells than remaining vigilant. I don’t think they’ve realized that we’re here. There are a lot of shrine stones and lots of heaped rubble in the central courtyard. If we’re careful, we can conceal ourselves and set up an ambush for the Prophetess.”

“Very well,” said Mazael.

Sigaldra was not reassured. “How can we fight so many?”

“We can’t,” said Mazael. “So we’ll have Azurvaltoria hit the Prophetess with as much fire as she can muster. While she’s distracted, we’ll grab your sister and hopefully the Mask and run as fast as we can. And if the Prophetess is distracted by fighting off Azurvaltoria’s fire, maybe one of us can land a killing blow.”

“Or I can just shoot her through her lying throat,” said Sigaldra.

“That works,” said Mazael. “Romaria, lead the way.”

She nodded, adjusted her Elderborn bow, and set off into the fane. Mazael followed her, Talon ready in his fist, Azurvaltoria and Sigaldra behind him, while Adalar brought up the back.

They crossed the archway and entered the ruined fane.

At the height of its glory, it must have been an intimidating structure. Even as it lay half in ruins, it still had a dark grandeur. Once a double row of massive pillars, each as thick as an elderly oak tree, had supported the ceiling high overhead. Now the roof had fallen into shattered rubble, and half the columns had toppled to the floor, creating a maze of wreckage. Romaria had been right. It would not be difficult to pass unseen through the piles of broken stone. Mazael wondered what had destroyed the Heart of the Spider. His father had tricked and defeated Marazadra here, banishing her spirit from the mortal realm. Had the backlash of power shattered the huge temple?

They passed closer to one of the walls, the massive blocks of its surface covered with countless reliefs. Mazael passed scene after scene showing spiders triumphing over humanity, or a woman-headed spider reigning over groveling human slaves. The scenes were chilling, but he nonetheless felt a flicker of amusement. They did indeed resemble the reliefs he had seen in San-keth temples, and it was amusing that the San-keth had stolen their artistic style from the soliphages. It was almost a pity that Mazael had purged the San-keth from the Grim Marches. Else he might have been able to turn the serpent priests and the soliphages against each other and let them fight it out while the men of the Grim Marches watched.

Romaria picked her way around a fallen column, stepping over a carved image of Marazadra, and came to a sudden stop.

“What is it?” said Mazael.

She opened her mouth to answer, and then whirled, raised her bow, and shot an arrow into the air. Mazael looked up just in time to see the arrow pierce the wing of a motaylakar circling overhead. The arrow pinned the creature’s left wing to its carapace, and the motaylakar let out a horrid shriek, its remaining wing flapping like a banner caught in the wind. The moth-like creature crashed to the ground again the stone column, the iridescent colors starting to flare along its carapace.

Before it could mesmerize them, Mazael stepped forward and took its head off with a sweep of Talon. The head bounced away and rolled to a stop at the foot of the relief-carved wall.

“Was that the only one?” said Mazael.

“No,” said Romaria with an irritated shake of her head. “No, there were two. One kept flying towards the courtyard, but the second hovered and saw us. When they realize that the motaylakar went missing, they’ll start searching, and we’ll have a fight on our hands.”

“One we cannot win,” said Sigaldra in a tight voice. “If we try to fight against that many at once, we’ll lose.”

Mazael opened his mouth to answer, and then Romaria spoke again.

“The sky to the east,” she said. “Look.”

Mazael raised his hand to shade his eyes. Far to the east, over the broken wall, he caught a glimpse of a distant shape of white and gold circling. He saw it only for a second, but that was more than long enough to recognize the shape.

It was a griffin, one most likely ridden by a Tervingi skythain.

“Molly got the message,” said Mazael, smiling. “Timothy and Earnachar and Basjun came through.”

“Then help is on the way?” said Sigaldra.

“Yes,” said Mazael, calculating the new possibilities. Molly herself would have come with the skythains, and she was almost as dangerous as Mazael in a fight. Riothamus would have accompanied his wife, and the Prophetess had fled the last time rather than face the Guardian of the Tervingi. Timothy would have returned, and he would have brought as many of the wizards of the Grim Marches as the griffins could carry, knowing they would face magical battle.

The plans had changed. This was no longer an ambush.

It was going to be a battle to the death. The Prophetess could not flee, not from here, not from the place she needed to summon her goddess. She would stand and fight…though with the Talisman of Marazadra and the powers of the soliphages, the Spider Guards, the valgast wizards, and the Skuldari priests, she might well prevail.

“All right,” said Mazael. “Time for a new plan. We’re…”

Right about then the enemy proved Nathan Greatheart and Theodoric of the Jutai correct.

No plan of battle ever survived the first crossing of swords with the enemy.

A dark blur soared overhead, and Mazael heard the furious scream of a motaylakar. Romaria struck at once, her arrow pinning the creature’s left wing to its carapace. The creature screamed again, louder than before, and Azurvaltoria cast a spell. A burst of fire slammed into the motaylakar’s head and abdomen, and the creature erupted into flame and crashed into the wall. Cries of alarm echoed through the ruins. If the motaylakar’s piercing scream had not drawn the attention of the enemy, then the fire and the smoke certainly would have.

Fortunately, they would also draw the attention of the sharp-eyed Tervingi skythains.

“You were saying?” said Azurvaltoria.

“New plan,” said Mazael. “We stay here until help arrives. Defend yourselves!”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the first of the foe arrived.

A Skuldari hunting spider sprang into sight, leaping over one of the fallen columns, its jagged legs clicking and tapping against the ancient stones. A Skuldari warrior sat atop the spider, clad in chain mail, a spear in his hand. The Skuldari warrior flung the spear, and Mazael swept Talon before him, sending the missile tumbling away. Both Romaria and Sigaldra loosed arrows, but the spider moved too quickly, leaping from the back of the column to land in front of Mazael. The spider’s mandibles snapped, and Mazael dodged, avoiding the poisoned blades as the spider raised its forelegs to stab at him.

Adalar attacked from the side, stabbing his talchweisyr into the black spider’s side. The creature reared back, mandibles snapping, and Mazael dashed forward and jumped. His left boot came down on top of the spider’s head, and he swung his sword. His footing was off, and his angle was wrong, but he nonetheless dealt a fatal blow to the side of the Skuldari warrior’s neck. Mazael jumped off the back of the spider as the dying warrior slumped in his saddle, and the spider started to turn, intending to pursue him, slime leaking from the wound that Adalar had carved into its side.

Azurvaltoria turned the spider’s head to cinders. The bulbous body shuddered, the black legs thrashing, and the creature collapsed to the ground. The dead warrior fell off the side.

Mazael did not have time to catch his breath. A mob of Skuldari warriors charged after the slain spider on foot, axes and spears in hand.

###

Sigaldra loosed arrow after arrow, drawing them from her rapidly emptying quiver as fast as she could manage.

Mazael had led them to a defensible position, a mostly flat area atop one of the piles of rubble. They would have been vulnerable to archers there, but fortunately, the Skuldari seemed to have no bowmen.

The fighting fell into a familiar pattern. Mazael and Adalar faced the charging valgasts and Skuldari warriors, their curved swords flying. Adalar was the younger man, but Mazael was more skilled and fought with a vicious savagery that Adalar could not quite match, laying waste around him. Adalar nonetheless held his own, cutting down any valgast or Skuldari warrior that drew near to him.

Sigaldra, Azurvaltoria, and Romaria stood behind the two knights. Sigaldra and Azurvaltoria loosed arrows at the enemy, and soon Sigaldra barely had to even aim. So many valgasts and Skuldari warriors swarmed up the hill that she merely had to pick a direction and loose her shaft. Romaria was a blur of motion, her hands moving so fast that Sigaldra could barely follow the motions, her arrows slamming into the flesh of valgasts and Skuldari both, or shifting upward to shoot a motaylakar that strayed too close. Azurvaltoria cast spell after spell, fire crackling around her. At first, she unleashed her fire at the warriors, keeping them at bay or killing them outright.

Then the valgast wizards and the soliphages joined the fray, and the dragon had to turn her attention to them. Magic snarled back and forth as Azurvaltoria contested against the worshippers of Marazadra, her fire struggling against their magical power.

They were losing.

Step by step, the valgast warriors drove Adalar and Mazael back. They left a trail of dead in their wake, the Skuldari scrambling over valgast corpses, but there were too many of the creatures. Mazael had said that he saw the Tervingi skythains approaching, and it was the first time Sigaldra would ever have been happy to see the Tervingi skythains.

Yet the sky remained empty, save for the occasional motaylakar. They no longer came too close, having learned to fear Romaria’s arrows and Azurvaltoria’s spells.

Unfortunately, the rest of their enemies were bolder. More and more valgasts swarmed into the ruined fane, and Azurvaltoria looked increasingly strained. If they did not receive any help, they were finished.

Yet Sigaldra saw no help coming.

Mazael must have been wrong. No help was coming, and they were all going to die. A wave of tearing regret went through Sigaldra. She had come so far and so close to rescuing Liane, but she would die within reach of her sister.

Sigaldra saw Adalar dodge beneath a valgast’s spear, his talchweisyr flickering out, and a different kind of regret went through her. She had hoped that if they were successful they might spend more time together. Sigaldra had never thought she would even contemplate taking a husband outside of the Jutai nation, but Adalar Greatheart had changed her mind.

And now it seemed they would die together. More to the point, Adalar was going to die for her. He had no stake in this fight. He had no blood kin amongst the Jutai. Adalar had no reason at all to be here, but he had followed her nonetheless.

A valgast darted past Adalar, racing up the hill, spear in hand.

Sigaldra reached for her quiver and found nothing.

Her quiver was empty. She had used the last of her arrows.

The valgast charged at her, drawing back its spear, and Sigaldra cursed and yanked her short sword from its scabbard. She managed to get the blade loose in time to parry the valgast’s first thrust, knocking the weapon aside. Sigaldra deflected two more thrusts, her arms screaming with the effort as she clutched the hilt of her weapon. The valgast drew back its weapon for a fourth thrust, and Romaria shot it through the neck. She did not even wait to see the creature fall, but turned and kept sending arrows at the valgast warriors.

Romaria, too, was almost out of arrows and Adalar and Mazael were about to be overwhelmed.

Four more valgasts scrambled towards Sigaldra, and she gripped her sword and braced herself for the end.

A black blur shot past her, accompanied by the baying snarl of a furious hound. One of the valgasts went down, squealing as it clutched at a torn throat, and a second valgast fell, hamstrung by the snapping jaws of the biggest, ugliest black dog that Sigaldra had ever seen…

“Crouch?” she said.

A familiar voice came to her ears, a harsh, braying voice that belted out a Tervingi battle hymn without the slightest hint of musical ability. Sigaldra turned just as Earnachar son of Balnachar, headman of Banner Keep, charged into battle. The Tervingi headman raised his mace and smashed the skull of a valgast warrior with a gleeful swing. After him came Basjun, axe in hand, and Timothy, his black coat flaring around him as he ran up the hill, the valgast staff burning with fire in his hand. He unleashed a blast of magical fire, setting a Skuldari warrior afire.

Shadows swooped overhead as scores of griffins flew past, the Tervingi skythains upon their backs shooting arrows. The griffins had the bodies of lions, yet somehow possessed the heads and vast wings of giant eagles, and they soared over the battle with ease.

Hope quenched the despair within Sigaldra. Mazael hadn’t been wrong. Earnachar and the others had indeed summoned help.

“You came back,” Sigaldra heard herself say.

“Of course!” said Earnachar, wrenching his mace from the collapsed ruin of a valgast’s skull. “The rivers shall run dry and the sun shall turn to ice before Earnachar son of Balnachar fulfills not his word!”

It was so absurd Sigaldra had to laugh, and then she saw a swirl of shadow next to one of the valgast wizards.

###

Mazael whipped Talon down in a parry, deflecting the axe of a screaming Skuldari warrior. Around him the enemy reeled in chaos, falling back in shock before the attack of the skythains. Likely neither the Skuldari nor the valgasts had seen griffins before, and would not know how to fight the creatures. The griffins each carried one of the court wizards of the lord and knights of the Grim Marches behind their skythains, and the wizards summoned blasts of fire or strokes of lightning at the unprepared valgasts.

The valgast priests and the soliphages rallied, preparing to send their spells skyward, but a pillar of swirling shadow twisted behind them. A young woman stepped from the writhing shadows, slim and muscular, clad in chain mail and dark leather armor, a slender sword in her right hand and a dagger made from a dragon’s tooth in her left. She had gray eyes and brown hair the same color as Mazael’s own, and she was smiling a mad, gleeful smile that Mazael understood all too well.

Molly Cravenlock flourished her weapons and killed three valgast wizards in as many heartbeats, sending their corpses falling to the ground. The remaining valgast wizards and soliphages whirled to face the new threat, and Molly smirked at them and vanished in a swirl of darkness. She reappeared a dozen yards away, killing a soliphage with a double stab of her weapons, and vanished once more.

White mist swirled over the battle, hardening into a jagged shard of ice the size of a horse. The shard stabbed down, crushing two valgast priests and a soliphage. One of the griffins swooped low over the battle, and Mazael glimpsed the golden fire sheathing the staff of the Guardian of the Tervingi as he rode behind Toric son of Torvmund.

The soliphages and the valgast priests and the Skuldari had seen enough, and fled back towards the central courtyard, no doubt hoping the power of the Prophetess and her Champion would stand against the new enemies.

Mazael lowered his sword, breathing hard, and hurried back up the hill. Adalar trudged after him, and they rejoined Romaria, Sigaldra, and Azurvaltoria.

“It seems your cunning has paid well, Lord of Castle Cravenlock,” said Azurvaltoria.

“Let us hope so,” said Mazael.

“They came back,” said Sigaldra. She sounded stunned.

“Aye,” said Mazael.

“Was that your plan all along?” said Sigaldra, blinking at him. “To have them arrive here at the last minute?”

“No,” said Mazael. For a moment he heard the memory of the Old Demon’s mocking voice. “The key is to set up multiple paths to victory. This is but one, and it is by no means assured. But if we’re going to fight the Prophetess, we’re going to do it on a more even footing. Let’s find Molly and Riothamus and plan.”

Chapter 14: Battles

“Basjun!” called Mazael.

The black-bearded young man hurried over, bloody axe in hand. Crouch loped after his master, his tongue hanging over his teeth. The ugly dog looked almost friendly at the moment, which was a startling contrast from the way he looked while ripping out valgast throats.

“Yes, sir?” said Basjun.

“Good work,” said Mazael. “Another few minutes and things might have become challenging.”

Adalar laughed a little, shaking his head. “Challenging. Yes.”

Basjun nodded. “We were able to move in haste. Fortunately, most of the warriors have gathered in either Armalast or the eastern end of the Weaver’s Vale. Getting past them was a challenge…”

“But I was able to masquerade as a priest of Marazadra effectively,” said Timothy, walking to join Basjun, Earnachar following after him. “Then we joined Lady Molly’s camp. Lady Molly was…ah…”

“She threatened to kill me several times,” said Earnachar.

“Yes,” said Timothy. “Fortunately, I was able to persuade her that we had acted in good faith. Your signet ring helped with that, my lord. The Guardian and Lady Molly decided that the danger was great enough to strike at once, so every available skythain set out for Mount Armyar.”

“It was a remarkable experience,” said Basjun, looking at the griffins. The skythains were beginning to land, their mounts spiraling towards the ground. “I never thought to fly above the ground as the birds do. Truly, sir, I have seen many amazing things since my father sent me with you. A dragon locked in human shape, and now flying upon the back of a griffin.”

“You find my human shape as remarkable as flying upon a griffin’s back?” said Azurvaltoria with a smile. “How very flattering.”

Basjun’s face reddened behind his black beard.

“Come,” said Mazael. “Let’s find Molly and Riothamus. If we don’t hasten, we might all see the rebirth of a goddess before the sun sets.”

“We shall not,” said Sigaldra, her voice like iron.

Mazael led the way towards the fane’s entrance. The ancient structure was more intact there, which left enough space for the griffins to land. Nearly fifty of the creatures had landed, some of them fluffing their wings with their beaks, some of them raking at the ground with their claws, and some of them lying down to rest until their skythains called them back to battle. Each griffin wore a saddle holding a Tervingi skythain. Many of the griffins also carried a wizard of the brotherhood, each man clad in a long black coat, some of them holding metal tubes or wooden wands or crystal staffs or the other tools of their magical trade.

Darkness swirled next to Mazael, and Molly stepped out of the swirling shadows, carried there by the power in her Demonsouled blood.

“Father,” said Molly.

“Daughter,” said Mazael.

“What a lovely gift you’ve given me,” said Molly, grinning.

“Eh?” said Mazael.

“A battle,” said Molly, rolling her shoulders. “I haven’t had a proper fight since we killed those Skuldari raiders on our way to the camp.”

“I’m glad you’re pleased,” said Mazael, though he understood her dark glee. Keeping his Demonsouled rage in check required endless self-discipline, and to relax that self-discipline with a clear conscience was a splendid feeling. “Don’t worry, daughter. We’ll have enough killing to satisfy even you by the end of the day.”

“Mmm,” said Molly. “I hope so. I can imagine quite a lot of killing.” She grinned at Earnachar, who was looking at her with bemusement. “Greetings again, Earnachar. In hindsight, I’m glad I didn’t kill you at Greatheart Keep.”

“I am in full agreement, daughter of the hrould,” said Earnachar.

“You’re his daughter,” said Azurvaltoria, looking back and forth between Mazael.

“So I’m told,” said Molly.

“Remarkable,” said Azurvaltoria. “I’d never thought that two of you could cooperate without killing each other…”

“Two of what?” said Sigaldra.

“Human nobles,” said Mazael. “We tend to fight.”

“Truly,” said Molly, peering at Azurvaltoria. “A dragon in human form? I’ve seen a lot of strange things but never that.” She looked at the sky. “My husband will want to meet you.”

“Your husband?” said Azurvaltoria. “Some hulking scarred old warrior like your father?”

Molly laughed. “Not quite.”

Another griffin circled out of the sky and landed. The griffin carried two men. The first was Toric son of Torvmund. He was a lean, wiry man, his face leathery from much time in the sun, and he had been at Gray Pillar when the valgasts had first attacked.

The second man was the Guardian of the Tervingi.

Riothamus son of Rigotharic dropped from the saddle, legs flexing a little to absorb the impact. He was tall and strong, with thick black hair and hard blue eyes. He wore chain mail and leather, and in his right hand he carried a long staff of bronze-colored wood, its surface already flickering with sigils of golden fire. The ancient staff of the Guardian had been passed from bearer to bearer to centuries, with the Guardian defending the Tervingi nation from all threats of dark magic.

“Hrould,” called Riothamus, walking closer.

“Guardian,” said Mazael. “We’ve got a…”

“A Guardian?” said Azurvaltoria, astonished.

They all looked at her. Riothamus regarded her with calm blue eyes.

“Your barbarian nation has a Guardian of the High Elderborn?” said Azurvaltoria. "You mentioned a Guardian, but I did not think it was a true Guardian..."

“In ancient days, when mighty Tervingar led the Tervingi nation to freedom from the tyranny of the Dark Elderborn,” announced Earnachar, “the Guardian helped free our people and assisted mighty Tervingar in his deeds of valor. The Guardian has watched over the Tervingi ever since.”

“Indeed,” said Azurvaltoria. “Master Basjun, you were correct. We have seen remarkable sights. I have not encountered a Guardian for a very long time.”

“Nor have I,” said Riothamus, “ever encountered a dragon bound in human form.”

“Ah,” said Azurvaltoria. “Yes. The Sight. You are a Guardian, so you must possess it.”

“You’re bound to the Mask of Marazadra,” said Riothamus. “That’s how the Prophetess locked you in your current form. She exploited the binding the Old Demon placed upon both you and the Mask. So long as she is alive and wielding the Mask, you cannot change form.”

“Well.” Her smile showed white teeth. “There is a simple way to fix that.”

“Simple, but not easy,” said Riothamus, looking at Mazael. “The Prophetess has gathered great power around herself.”

“Aye,” said Mazael.

“Guardian,” said Sigaldra. “You said that if we brought an army into the mountains, we would guarantee the Prophetess’s victory. That was why the hrould, Lord Adalar, Lady Romaria, Timothy, Earnachar, and I went alone into the mountains. By calling for aid…have we guaranteed the Prophetess’s victory?”

The fear on her face was stark, and Adalar moved closer to her.

“No,” said Riothamus. “The vision of the future was clear. If the host of the Grim Marches and the Tervingi invaded Skuldar, we would face certain defeat, and Marazadra would rise in power. Yet recently the vision changed with great force. Based on what Timothy and Earnachar and Basjun told me, I believe the vision changed the moment the Prophetess attacked the dragon with the Mask and you took a maethweisyr charged with the Prophetess’s blood.” He looked at Mazael. “All the paths of the future were going one way, but your actions that day altered all possible destinies. Previously, I saw only two potential futures – Marazadra rose in power and glory and devoured the world or an unknown future.”

“And now?” said Mazael.

“Chaos,” said Riothamus. “The future is in flux. I see a thousand potential futures through the Sight, more than I can comprehend. In some of them the Prophetess and Marazadra are victorious, and in others, we prevail. Yet I know this. This day is the critical point. Whatever happens in the next few hours will decide all of our fates and the fates of countless others.”

Silence answered him. Sigaldra swallowed, and then nodded.

“Lovely,” said Molly. “Well. The sooner we starting killing valgasts and Skuldari, the less chance the enemy will have to write the future in their favor.”

“Yes,” said Mazael. “Toric!” The skythain dropped from his saddle and jogged over. “What have the griffins seen?”

“A large band of valgasts and soliphages were coming up the causeway towards the ruins,” said Toric. “They were marching towards the southern fane. Likely they have reached it by now.”

“The Prophetess and the Champion move with them,” said Riothamus. “They blaze like dark stars to my Sight. The Prophetess carries the Mask of Marazadra as well.” He looked at Sigaldra. “Your sister is with them. She is still alive and safe for now. Her Sight has awakened to greater power, and it is calling out.”

“Will they stand and fight in the fane, Guardian?” said Earnachar. “It is a defensible position.”

“No,” said Mazael. “No, the Prophetess won’t wait. She has come too far and waited too long. She will begin the spell as soon as she can reach the rift at the Heart of the Spider.”

“That is my thought as well,” said Riothamus. “Likely she shall order her followers to defend her.”

“Then we will have to fight our way to her,” said Sigaldra.

“Maybe,” said Mazael. “Maybe not. We have more allies now. We don’t need to ambush her.”

“We need to distract her,” said Molly, nodding.

“Aye,” said Mazael. “I expect the valgasts and the soliphages and the others will set themselves at the southern end of the central courtyard. An attack is most likely to come from that direction. So we’ll fulfill their expectations. Molly. Riothamus. Attack the southern end of the courtyard with everything we have. Get their attention.”

Molly grinned. “I think we can manage that.”

“Will you accompany us?” said Riothamus.

“No,” said Mazael. “While you attack, I will sneak into the courtyard, surprise the Prophetess, and kill her.”

“She will be a powerful foe,” said Riothamus. “Stronger now that she carries the Mask and can draw upon its power.”

“I know,” said Mazael.

“You won’t go alone,” said Romaria.

“I will come as well,” said Sigaldra. “I will not leave my sister to such a horrid fate.”

“I will come with you,” said Adalar, but he looked at Sigaldra as he said it.

“My father would wish me to aid you,” said Basjun.

“I have business with the Prophetess as well,” said Azurvaltoria with that white smile, “and a debt I demand from her.”

“I would see this to the end, my lord,” said Timothy, “if you are willing.”

“Earnachar son of Balnachar shall face the Prophetess one last time as well,” announced Earnachar. “She has tainted my honor, and I can gain satisfaction only by taking her lying head. That, and it was funny to call her a whore to her face.”

“She did become quite angry, sir,” said Basjun.

“Well, the truth hurts,” said Sigaldra with vicious contempt.

“Very well,” said Mazael. “We have a plan.” In truth, he was not happy about taking them all into battle, and he would have preferred to have faced the Prophetess alone. But he knew that path would lead to defeat. He could not defeat the Prophetess without help. For that matter, even if Molly and Riothamus drew off the rest of the Prophetess’s defenders, Rigoric would remain with her, and Mazael knew he could not fight the Champion and the Prophetess at the same time. At least he wished he could have left Romaria behind until the fighting had finished.

Well, what was done was done. Either Mazael would walk away from the Heart of the Spider, or the Prophetess would. There was no other option.

“Then let’s begin,” said Mazael.

Chapter 15: The Heart of the Goddess

Adalar brought up the back as the others crept through the ruined fane, making their way from column to column. From time to time a motaylakar darted overhead, skull-faced wings flapping, but the moth-like creatures avoided the eastern fane. The griffins were impervious to the mesmeric effect of the creatures’ power, and the skythains had killed a score of motaylakars over the Heart of the Spider. Between that and Romaria’s arrows and Azurvaltoria’s magic, the motaylakars had learned to stay well away from the enemy.

“Hold for a minute,” said Romaria, watching a flying motaylakar. Mazael nodded, and they came to a halt, waiting for the flying creature to move out of sight.

Adalar found himself watching Sigaldra instead.

His shoulders and arms and back ached from the effort of so much fighting, and his knees hurt from bracing himself against blows. He was tired, and he wanted to lie down, close his eyes, and not get up again for a long time.

Yet he kept going.

Adalar knew that terrible things were at stake. If the Prophetess succeeded in resurrecting Marazadra, not only would Liane die, her flesh consumed to summon the goddess back, but the valgasts and the Skuldari and the soliphages would march across the face of the world, enslaving every nation in the name of Marazadra. It would be a tide of darkness and death like the runedead, and the runedead had left Mastaria barren and desolate. Adalar had seen that kind of destruction once before, and he had no desire to ever see it again. If he could stop it, even at the cost of his life, he would not hesitate to do so.

All that was important, he knew, more important than any single person.

Yet even in the face of death, his thoughts kept returning to Sigaldra.

He wondered what she would do if he asked her to marry him once this was over.

Adalar could have been married a dozen times in the last few years. He had wide lands in Mastaria around Castle Dominus, making him a great lord. Any number of noblewomen or knights’ daughters would have wished to wed him, but he had been too busy helping Lord Malden’s and Sir Tobias’s campaigns in Mastaria. After the defeat of the runedead, his lands had been laid waste, but he had still been a powerful lord, and he could have found a wife with ease. Adalar had been too sunk in despair, too exhausted and weary, to even think of it. The past had been filled with ruin, and the future seemed without hope.

Now he was thinking about the future again, about what might happen if they were victorious.

Perhaps Sigaldra would refuse him. She was the last holdmistress of the last remnant of the Jutai nation. Maybe their customs were too different, too alien for them to wed. Perhaps she would refuse to wed anyone save a man of the Jutai, though from what Adalar had seen at Greatheart Keep, there were no men of suitable age and rank for her.

For that matter, her first loyalties were to her sister and her nation. If she did wed him…could she really bring herself to leave the Jutai and return with him to Castle Dominus and Knightcastle? Certainly, he would not be able to abandon Castle Dominus and return to the Grim Marches. Adalar was a vassal of Lord Gerald Roland, and he could not abandon his vows to his lord. Had he not agreed to help Sigaldra find Liane, he would have returned to Knightcastle and then to Castle Dominus weeks ago.

And the Jutai were dying.

Earnachar, for all his crass greed, had not been lying. Without Mazael’s iron hand to shield them, the remnant of the Jutai would not last long. Sooner or later some bold neighbor might dare Mazael’s wrath and try to seize the lands of the Jutai, presenting the Lord of the Grim Marches with a done deed. Even Mazael Cravenlock was not immortal, and when he died one day the lords of the Grim Marches might seize Greatheart Keep before Molly could exercise her authority.

Adalar saw no other way around it. The Jutai were doomed if they remained in the Grim Marches.

A flicker of hope burned within his chest as he thought of it.

The Jutai could not remain in the Grim Marches, but there were empty lands in Mastaria. Lord Gerald had been offering lands and estates to knights and nobles who swore to his service and settled in the ravaged lands of Knightreach. Adalar could do the same to the lands around Castle Dominus. If he invited Sigaldra and the Jutai to make one last exodus, to settle in the deserted lands of Castle Dominus, would they accept?

Adalar didn’t know. He wanted to find out.

“All right,” said Romaria. “Keep going.”

Adalar rebuked himself, forcing his attention to their surroundings. It would be a dire end indeed if he got himself killed by a valgast because he had been daydreaming about Sigaldra. He could only imagine what his father would have said.

But he was certain that Nathan Greatheart would have approved of Sigaldra.

###

Adalar followed Romaria’s guidance, watching for any sign of enemies.

The enemy had abandoned the fane, and it was deserted save for the slain valgasts and Skuldari warriors, the scent of blood coloring the air. Step by step they moved through the silent fane, and beyond the damaged columns and heaps of rubble, Adalar saw the opposite wall.

He also saw the archway leading into the central courtyard, along with the occasional flashes of harsh purple light from the rift atop the hill.

They were almost there.

“Stop here for now,” said Romaria. They ducked behind a column that leaned drunkenly against one of the walls.

“Very well,” said Mazael. “We’ll wait here until Riothamus and Molly begin their assault. If anyone finds us, we’ll have to kill them before they can escape to warn the others.”

“Agreed,” said Romaria, setting one of her arrows to the string of her Elderborn bow. Sigaldra had run out of arrows during the battle, and Romaria had almost run out, but fortunately the Tervingi skythains had brought enough arrows to resupply them. Sigaldra was a good archer, and she was competent enough with a sword, but she lacked the raw strength and the reach to be a good hand-to-hand fighter.

Fortunately, Adalar had both, and he would do his utmost to protect her.

“How will we know when the Guardian and Lady Molly begin their assault, sir?” said Basjun.

“You will know, young Basjun,” said Earnachar. “After the battle of the Northwater, it should be obvious.”

“I was not at the battle of the Northwater,” said Basjun. “Until two days ago I had no idea where the Northwater even was.”

“Oh,” said Earnachar. Adalar saw Sigaldra smile briefly at Earnachar’s look of consternation, and he stifled a laugh.

“It was a great battle,” said Mazael. “The lords of the Grim Marches fought against a horde of runedead and the corrupted Justiciar Order.”

Adalar remembered the ranks of runedead, their foreheads shining with glyphs of green fire, remembered the cold sneer on the face of Grand Master Caldarus, a man that Adalar had once respected, as he promised to slaughter every living soul in the Grim Marches.

And now a new evil of equal scale threatened the world.

To his surprise, Adalar found that heartening. Caldarus and the runedead had threatened to devour the world, and Mazael had smashed them. Perhaps they could do the same to the Prophetess and her followers.

“Riothamus unleashed the full extent of his powers on that day,” said Mazael. “We wouldn’t have won the battle without his help.”

“What did he do?” said Basjun.

“He froze the river, young Basjun,” said Earnachar.

“How did that help win the battle?” said Basjun.

“The Justiciars and their runedead were lined up along the banks of the river,” said Mazael. “I had sent the Tervingi war mammoths ahead. When the Guardian froze the river, the war mammoths crossed the river and smashed into the runedead, breaking their lines.”

“I have seen the war mammoths, sir, at Lady Molly’s camp,” said Basjun. “A hundred of them together would be a formidable force.”

“The ground shook,” said Adalar. It had been the single largest battle he had ever seen.

“Then we are to be the war mammoths, then?” said Basjun.

“Eh?” said Earnachar.

“Lady Molly and the Guardian will provide the main force,” said Basjun. “When they attack the enemy, we shall strike from the rear.”

“Yes,” said Mazael. “More or less.”

Adalar wondered if they could strike with as much force as a hundred Tervingi war mammoths. It didn’t seem likely. Yet they had Mazael Cravenlock, and Adalar had seen the Lord of Castle Cravenlock’s fury. They had Azurvaltoria and her burning magic, and Romaria’s bow and Sigaldra’s bow and Earnachar’s mace and Basjun’s axe and Timothy’s spells. Perhaps that would be enough to defeat the Prophetess and her allies.

Or maybe Crouch would bite out her throat. The big dog certainly seemed fearless.

“Anyway,” said Mazael. “We’ll know when…”

There was a flare of brilliant light from the southwest.

###

Mazael turned his head as golden fire erupted over the southern fane, followed by a ringing thunderclap.

Riothamus had unleashed his power, and a storm of icy shards fell upon the southern fane, each as sharp as a dagger and as heavy as an anvil. The Guardian could not use his powers to kill or wound living mortals, but both the soliphages and the valgasts were creatures of dark magic, and the Spider Guards probably qualified as well.

Griffins swooped back and forth over the fane, the skythains shooting arrows or flinging javelins. The wizards behind the skythains brought their spells to bear, and unlike the Guardian, they had no restrictions upon their magic. They hurled bolts of fire and forks of lightning and invisible blasts of psychokinetic force or conjured creatures from the spirit world to attack their foes. The familiar sound of a battle came to Mazael’s ears, accompanied by the stranger sounds of magical combat, the roar of fire and the crack of lightning and the howl of summoned winds.

“As I said, young Basjun,” said Earnachar, “you will know when the Guardian unleashes his power.”

“I should say so, sir,” said Basjun, blinking at the unleashed magical fury. Crouch tilted his head to the side, scratching at his ear with one leg.

“Let’s go,” said Mazael. “If Molly and Riothamus are acting as the anvil, then it is time for us to become the hammer.”

The others nodded, lifting weapons or preparing spells. Mazael strode past the columns and into the main aisle of the fane, watching for any sign of foes. Through the archway at the end of the fane he saw the vast inner courtyard of the Heart of the Spider, familiar from his dreams. Hundreds of shrine stones dotted the courtyard, interspersed among the crumbling ruins of small temples. A large hill rose from the center of the courtyard, its rocky sides covered in more shrine stones. A stone altar rested atop the hill.

The strange rift, the death site of the goddess Marazadra, snarled and crackled above the altar.

Mazael had never seen anything quite like it.

The thing looked like a mistgate, yet somehow deeper and darker. Arcs of purple lightning snarled through it, pulsing with flickering light, and sometimes the lightning looked like veins of purple flame. Mazael had no magical ability whatsoever, but even he was able to feel the raw power of the thing. Those among his companions with magical ability or the Sight had an even stronger reaction. Romaria lifted her hand to her eyes as if trying to shade her Sight from an intolerable light. Azurvaltoria grimaced as she looked at the rift, while Timothy frowned and cast a detection spell with his free hand.

“Behold, Lord of Castle Cravenlock,” said Azurvaltoria. “The true Heart of the Spider, the place where the Old Demon tricked and defeated her long centuries past.”

“Garish thing,” muttered Sigaldra.

Another thunderclap rang out, louder than before, and a faint vibration went through the ground beneath Mazael’s boots.

“The battle intensifies,” said Azurvaltoria. She cast a detection spell, similar to the one that Timothy had used. “I think the Prophetess is using the power of the Mask and the Talisman against your vassals…”

Even as she spoke, a shaft of purple fire erupted from within the southern fane, lashing at the sky like a glowing dagger.

“So she is,” said Mazael. “Let’s head to the altar and lay in wait for her.”

He walked into the edge of the vast round courtyard, the rough ground crunching beneath his boots. Five shrine stones stood in a loose semicircle near the archway, not far from a collapsed building that looked like a small temple. Here and there small bushes and tough little trees rose from the ground, sinking their roots into the rocky soil of the Heart of the Spider.

As Mazael looked, two dark shapes moved from behind the ruined temple.

The eastern entrance had not been left entirely undefended after all.

A pair of Spider Guards moved forward with slow, deliberate strides. They looked a great deal like the Spider Guard that Mazael and the others had fought on the slope of the mountain.  The creatures had the same gaunt, withered bodies, the same metallic spiders resting upon their chests, the same chitinous black and crimson armor that had burst from their flesh and wrapped around their bodies like malignant growths. The places where the armor erupted from their skin looked infected, and the same stench of poisoned blood and diseased flesh came to Mazael’s nostrils.

“Trespassers,” said one of the Spider Guards in a rasping voice. “Trespassers upon the sacred precincts of the goddess.”

“What are those devils?” said Earnachar.

Mazael started to answer, but Basjun spoke first. Likely the young man knew the Skuldari lore surrounding the creatures.

“The Spider Guards, sir,” said Basjun. “In ancient times it is said that the priests of the goddess took her power into themselves. It gave them strength and power and immortality, but at the cost of constant agony and eternal madness…”

“Foolish boy!” thundered the second Spider Guard. “Bow before the servants of the goddess. Her glory will soon be made manifest.”

“We, too, escort the servants of the goddess,” said Mazael, gesturing at the blue paint still upon the faces of Romaria, Sigaldra, and Azurvaltoria. Perhaps he could bluff them. The first Spider Guard had possessed the Sight, but these two might not have the same ability. “We come to…”

“Lies,” said the first Spider Guard. “The woman is a dragon bound in human form. You are not worshippers of the goddess. You are…”

“All right, then,” said Mazael. “I tell you who I am. I’m going to kill the Prophetess, and I’m going to send your filthy spider of a goddess howling back into oblivion for another ten thousand years.”

They gaped at him. Likely it had been centuries since someone had spoken to them so bluntly.

“Diplomatic,” said Azurvaltoria.

“You’re one to talk,” said Mazael.

“Blasphemy!” howled the Spider Guards in unison, and they surged forward in dark blurs. One of them raised bladed forearms to strike, and the second began to cast a spell, purple fire snarling up and down his arms.

Mazael raced to meet them, letting his Demonsouled rage fill him with strength and speed. The first Spider Guard struck at him, and Mazael ducked under one of the lashing arms, falling back to parry the second blow. The second Spider Guard pointed at Mazael, preparing to fling one of the furious bolts of purple fire that had caused him such pain in the previous battle, but Azurvaltoria and Timothy struck first. The wizard and the dragon threw fire into the Spider Guard, and the creature reeled with a scream, the smell of roasting flesh rising from its withered body. Already the Spider Guard’s burns started to regenerate, and Timothy cast another spell, a blast of invisible force that knocked the Spider Guard back long enough for Azurvaltoria to strike again.

“The talismans!” roared Mazael as Adalar and Earnachar and Basjun rushed to join him, Sigaldra and Romaria loosing arrows. “Aim for the talismans on their chests! That’s the only way to kill them!”

The Spider Guard bellowed, and Mazael ducked under the bladed forearm. This time, he was too slow, and the limb hammered into his chest, driving him to the ground.

###

Adalar leaped into the fray as Mazael stumbled under the Spider Guard’s enraged assault. The Spider Guards were unearthly quick, faster than anything that large should be, but even the Spider Guard could not turn fast enough to avoid Adalar’s thrust. The tip of his talchweisyr sank into the metallic spider on the Guard’s chest, and the ancient creature reeled back with a scream of fury and pain.

The sword’s vibrations intensified in Adalar’s hand, and as before, he felt suddenly stronger. The ancient Dark Elderborn sword had absorbed some of the Spider Guard’s magic, allowing Adalar to use that strength.

The Spider Guard came at him, clawed fingers stabbing for his throat.

Adalar sidestepped, swinging with all his strength, and brought the talchweisyr chopping down.

The Dark Elderborn sword sheared through the Spider Guard’s wrist, sending the creature’s hand to the ground. The Spider Guard screamed, a new hand already starting to grow from the stump of the wrist. But the blow had knocked the creature off-balance, and that gave Earnachar an opening. The Tervingi headman had his axe over his head, and he chopped it down with a ferocious bellow, driving the blade forward. The axe’s blade sank a good two inches into the Spider Guard’s talisman, and both talisman and Spider Guard jerked as if they had been burned. Two arrows slammed into its torso as Romaria and Sigaldra loosed their bows, and Adalar hit the Guard twice more, aiming for its talisman. The first blow struck the metallic spider, but the second ripped a gash down its side at the Spider Guard retreated from the furious attacks.

It was already healing the wounds, but Adalar had noticed something. The Spider Guard’s talisman could heal anything, but it could only heal so many wounds at once. The more wounds that were on the Spider Guard, the slower it healed.

Adalar went on the attack, hammering at the Spider Guard again and again.

###

Mazael regained his feet and charged, joining Adalar and Earnachar and Basjun as they fought the wounded Spider Guard. The three men had fallen into a pattern, Adalar striking at the Spider Guard’s talisman, while Earnachar harried the creature from the right and Basjun struck from the left. The Spider Guard was quick and strong, but the three fighters divided its attention in too many directions, and it could not respond to all the threats at once.

And Mazael brought a new threat.

He sprinted around the melee, spun, and whipped Talon down in a low strike. He had spotted a gap in the chitinous armor covering the creature’s legs, and Talon’s blade ripped across the back of the Spider Guard’s knee. The Spider Guard bellowed, dropping to one knee as its leg collapsed, and Adalar struck.

The talchweisyr stabbed through the talisman and sank into the creature’s withered chest. The Spider Guard’s eyes bulged, its mouth falling open in a bloody scream, and Mazael swung Talon. On the second blow, he took off the Spider Guard’s head, and its armored body collapsed to the ground.

Mazael did not pause but ran towards the second Spider Guard. So far Timothy and Azurvaltoria had kept the creature at bay, hitting it with blast after blast of magical fire. Flames danced and curled around Azurvaltoria’s fingers as she called her fire, while the valgast staff burned in Timothy’s hand, his face tight with concentration. Their attacks had kept the Spider Guard from joining the battle, but they had done the creature little harm. Its burns kept healing, and the talisman seemed impervious to magical fire.

Fortunately, the talisman was not impervious to brute force, and Mazael had a great deal of brute force.

“Timothy!” he shouted as he ran towards the Spider Guard. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed Timothy’s nod. The fire vanished, and the Spider Guard shook itself, recovering from the attack. It started to turn towards Mazael, but Timothy hit the creature with a burst of invisible force. It rocked back, trying to recover its balance, and Mazael struck.

Talon sank deep into the Spider Guard’s talisman, and the creature roared in rage. Earnachar, Adalar, and Basjun all closed around the Spider Guard, landing blow after blow, and Mazael wrenched Talon free and struck again. This time, he chopped the talisman in half, and the metallic spider curled up as if it had been made of living flesh.

Earnachar’s mace collapsed the side of the Spider Guard’s head, and the ancient creature fell to the ground in death.

“By the bones of the ancestors,” grunted Earnachar, shaking the slime from his mace’s head. “Those devils put up a fierce fight. I hope we do not have to face any more of them.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Mazael. “We probably will.”

Chapter 16: A Goddess Reborn

Sigaldra followed Romaria as they hurried through the maze of shrine stones and ruined temples littering the central courtyard. Mazael led them on a weaving course through the courtyard, drawing ever closer to the hill and its altar and the wavering rift standing atop it.

Dread and hope warred within Sigaldra’s heart. There was nowhere left for the Prophetess to run, nowhere she could escape. Celina du Almaine had no choice but to stand and fight here. But the Prophetess had brought powerful and deadly allies.

There was every chance that Sigaldra and the others might meet defeat and death atop Mount Armyar.

But she faced that possibility without flinching. Sigaldra was ready to die to save her sister. More, she was ready to die to save her people. If the Prophetess finished her spells and summoned Marazadra, the world would be enslaved, and the remnant of the Jutai would be swept aside in the carnage. Perhaps the Jutai were indeed destined to die, but if so, Sigaldra preferred that they die naturally, rather than slaughtered by the mad servants of a cruel goddess. She felt a twinge of contempt as she thought of the Prophetess, prepared to destroy the world all because a powerful nobleman had rejected her as a lover.

Sigaldra was ready to die, but she hoped that Adalar would not die with her.

Her eyes strayed to him as he walked alongside Mazael and Earnachar. Adalar’s face was smudged with dust and soot and blood, his armor spattered with blood and whatever substance pumped through the veins of the soliphages, the Dark Elderborn talchweisyr ready in his hand. He was clearly just as tired as she felt, but he did not waver, did not turn back, did not complain.

Truly, he would have been a worthy hrould of the Jutai nation, had the circumstances of his birth been different. Sigaldra wished she could have met him in a different time and place, that they could have met without conflict and battle around them. Yet perhaps that had been a kindness, as the conflict around them had shown her his strength and his determination.

For a moment her thoughts flitted to the future. Would he want to see more of her? He was the lord of lands a long distance from the Grim Marches, and he would have to return to attend to his liege lord. Maybe Sigaldra and Adalar had only been thrown together by their trials and their shared enemies. If they were victorious, perhaps Adalar would go to Castle Dominus, and Sigaldra would return to Greatheart Keep, and she would never see him again.

She did not like that thought at all. But Sigaldra had a great deal of experience accepting things that she did not like. If they survived this battle, perhaps they would never see each other again, and that would be that. If Liane and Adalar walked away from this battle alive, Sigaldra would be content.

For a wild moment, she fantasized about leaving Greatheart Keep, about leaving her responsibilities behind and going to Castle Dominus and Mastaria with Adalar…

No. She could not abandon her people. Sigaldra had her duties, and Adalar had his duties, and that was that.

“Mazael,” said Romaria, gesturing with her bow. “Look. There, along the slope.”

Sigaldra watched as Mazael took a few steps forward, scowling at the hill. They were about halfway across the courtyard, not far from the base of the rocky hill. As they drew closer, Sigaldra saw that the hill looked like a cairn, a vast heap of boulders someone had piled over the carcass of some massive dead thing…

With a chill, Sigaldra realized that was exactly was the hill was.

It was the burial cairn to the dead goddess Marazadra. Sigaldra wondered if there was a colossal dead spider buried beneath the boulders, and decided that she did not want to know.

The sight might have been too horrible to bear.

The cairn had been there so long that the centuries had deposited soil upon its sides. More of those tough little trees and bushes clung to the patches of earth, and shrine stones dotted the sides of the hill. The rift blazed with purple light above the altar, throwing its harsh glare over the ground. Sigaldra wasn’t sure, but she thought the light had gotten brighter.

“There’s only one path to the top,” said Romaria. “Along the side.” Sigaldra saw that someone had made a ramp of piled earth and rocks along the side of the slope. It was the only way to the crown of the hill. Sigaldra supposed anyone could climb the sides, but the path would be far faster.

“It widens about two-thirds of the way up,” said Mazael. There was a ledge there wide enough to support a ring of shrine stones.

“It’s perfect for an ambush, isn’t it?” said Romaria.

“It is,” said Mazael. “It is likely the best we are going to find.” He turned, glancing south. “It looks like the Prophetess hasn’t fought her way here yet. Let’s hurry.”

###

Mazael jogged up the path, listening to the thunderclaps and roars coming from the fane to the south. From time to time, one of the thunderclaps was loud enough to make the ground vibrate. Riothamus and the wizards of the Grim Marches were putting up a ferocious fight against the valgast priests and the soliphages, and no doubt Molly was enjoying herself as she carved a bloody path through their ranks.

After another moment of climbing, they reached the terrace.

The ground was dead and dusty, and nothing grew in the shadow of the dozen spider-topped shrine stones. So close to the apex of the hill, the purple light was harsh upon the slope, casting long black shadows from the shrine stones.

There was not as much cover as Mazael might have wished, but it was as good as they were likely to find.

They would have one chance to strike at the Prophetess.

“We shall ambush the Prophetess here?” said Earnachar.

“Yes,” said Mazael. “Take cover behind the stones. There and there.” He pointed with Talon. “If all goes well, the Prophetess will be alone with Rigoric and Liane. Timothy, as soon as she steps into the center of the circle, cast a spell of dispelling at her. Try to knock down any defensive wards protecting her.” Timothy nodded and stepped behind one of the shrine stones, preparing his spell. “Azurvaltoria, when Timothy knocks down her warding spells, hit her with every bit of fire you can muster. Romaria, Sigaldra, once the spells are down, shoot her.”

“With the greatest of pleasure,” said Sigaldra.

“Sigaldra,” said Romaria. “Those two shrine stones, there and there. That will give us the best chance of hitting her.”

Sigaldra nodded and ran to the stone that Romaria had indicated, while Romaria hid behind a shrine stone on the other side of the circle.

“What about the rest of us?” said Adalar.

“We’ll try to deal with Rigoric,” said Mazael. “If he’s given a free hand, he’ll kill us all and let the Prophetess reach the summit of the hill. But if it is safe to do so, ignore Rigoric and try to land a killing blow on the Prophetess. And if it looks as if we are going to be defeated, try to get Liane and run for the southern fane. The Prophetess may not be powerful enough to challenge the Guardian, at least not yet. If you can get the Mask away from her, or the maethweisyr she carries, well and good. She cannot summon Marazadra without either of them.”

“Then we shall go into great battle together,” said Earnachar, “as mighty Tervingar and his swordthains did in the deeps of time against the Imperium of the Dark Elderborn, and…”

“Yes,” said Mazael. Now was not the time to listen to one of Earnachar’s long-winded speeches. “Take cover. Do not move until you see Timothy and Azurvaltoria cast their spells. Good luck!”

Earnachar, Adalar, Basjun, and Azurvaltoria scattered to take cover behind the standing stones. Mazael moved to the nearest stone and ducked behind it, putting its bulk between him and the path. From here he would have a good view of the courtyard, and hopefully, anyone coming up the path would not be able to see him until it was too late. The circle of standing stones was about twenty yards across, and if Mazael and his companions struck with overwhelming force and speed, they might be able to overpower and slay the Prophetess before she brought her magic to bear.

A voice caught his ears, distant and faint. He knew the Prophetess’s voice by now, so arrogant and full of confidence, though now she sounded waspish and irritated. A second voice rumbled after hers, a man’s voice but just as arrogant.

A man’s voice? The Mask of the Champion had taken Rigoric’s power of speech. Had the Prophetess found new allies?

Four shapes came into sight.

###

Sigaldra waited, heart hammering against her ribs. She felt as she did in the final instant before she shot an arrow, her whole mind and body and spirit focused upon the target.

She gripped her bow, her hands steady.

The Prophetess of Marazadra came into sight.

She wore the same close-fitting armor that she had worn during the assembly in Tchroth, the overlapping plates of metal fitted close to the shape of her body, a dark cloak flung back from her shoulders. It left more of her chest exposed than Sigaldra thought useful in armor, no doubt to display the Talisman of Marazadra between her breasts. The metallic spider seemed somehow awake and alive, as if it was surveying its surroundings. The Horn of Doom and Fate hung from the Prophetess’s right hip, and the sheathed maethweisyr and the Mask of Marazadra from her left.

The Champion of Marazadra walked at her side, a silent tower of black armor. Rigoric seemed to have recovered from his duel with Mazael and showed no sign of injury and pain. He wore a new suit of black plate armor, likely because his previous armor had been destroyed in the fall. Like his old armor, this suit had been adorned with elaborate reliefs of spiders. Unlike his old armor, symbols of purple fire glowed upon the plates of black steel. No doubt the armor had been strengthened with magic.

To Sigaldra’s alarm, a second man walked behind the Prophetess and Rigoric.

She did not recognize him at first. He was tall, with a long, thin face, thick black hair, and an arrogant sneer upon his features. From the corner of her eye, she saw Basjun flinch behind his shrine stone, and the memory came to Sigaldra. This man was Basracus, the lord of Armalast who had claimed the title of High King over all of Skuldar, his ambitions backed by the Prophetess’s power.

The Prophetess had transformed him into a Spider Guard.

One of those metallic spider talismans nestled against his muscular chest, its legs encircling his torso. Growths of armor had erupted from his flesh, sheathing most of his body in overlapping plates of chitin. Unlike the older Spider Guards, Basracus did not seem to be in any pain. He carried a huge black sword in his right hand, the edge gleaming razor-sharp.

Liane walked in their midst. She wore a clean green dress and leather boots, and Sigaldra was once again relieved to see that the Prophetess had not mistreated her sister. Though, of course, the Prophetess needed Liane alive and healthy to reach the Heart of the Spider. Liane’s wrists had been bound in front of her, and her expression was calm, even serene, and she looked around with wide blue eyes.

Sigaldra’s hands tightened against her bow. She would find a way to free her sister. She would!

Basracus was speaking.

“I still think it best that we wait until further priests arrive from Tchroth,” said Basracus. Suddenly Sigaldra understood the source of the Prophetess’s irritation. “The wizards of the Grim Marches are strong, but they will not be able to stand against the assembled magical power of the valgast wizards and my Skuldari priests…”

“No,” said the Prophetess in her calm voice, though her green eyes flashed like fire. “This is the work of Mazael Cravenlock, I am sure of it. Somehow he contrived to send word to his vassals in the Grim Marches. He has powerful allies, allies I do not wish to face in battle. Yet neither Mazael nor his allies are powerful enough to overcome the might of the reborn goddess. When we call the goddess back to the mortal realm, her power shall be unconquerable, and she shall drive all her foes before us.”

Basracus let out a scornful laugh. “Indeed? You overrate this warlord, Prophetess. Some lord from the plains of the Grim Marches is no match for the warriors of Skuldar.”

Rigoric glanced at the High King of Skuldar. As ever, the Champion said nothing, but his look managed to contain an entire speech of contempt.

“No,” said the Prophetess.

“Let us rejoin the others,” said Basracus. “With your magic and our skill at arms, we can crush our foes utterly. We will rip the griffins from the sky, and then our vanquished enemies can watch as you call our goddess back to the world.”

“No,” said the Prophetess again, some irritation seeping into her perfect calm.

“We will present the goddess with our defeated enemies,” said Basracus, undaunted. “And with the leaders of our enemies dead, we can sweep across the Grim Marches with ease.”

“You should do it,” said Liane in her gentle voice. “The future is a thousand different paths that converge in a thousand different ways, but if you fight Mazael Cravenlock, it is certain that you will perish. So I urge you to do so at once…”

Basracus’s bluster vanished into a furious snarl. “You will be silent, you impudent brat.” He raised his hand to strike her, and Sigaldra almost shot him then and there, which would have ruined the ambush. But Rigoric moved like lightning, his greatsword whistling out of its scabbard to come to rest against Basracus’s throat. The High King of Skuldar froze, his face a snarl, his hand against his sword hilt.

“Enough!” snapped the Prophetess, her calm breaking at last. “Basracus, I have warned you before. She is to be unharmed and untouched.” She tapped a finger against the Mask of Marazadra at her belt, and Basracus went rigid with sudden pain. “Defy me at your peril. You have been useful to the service of the goddess, and you can continue to be useful to her cause. But if you make an error now, if you hinder the return of the goddess in any way, then you will wish you had fallen into the hands of the soliphages.” Her serene calm had returned, her eyes glittering. “I trust I am understood?”

“Very well,” growled Basracus. “You are the Prophetess, the voice of the goddess, and you are perfectly entitled to ignore my counsel at your peril.”

“I am so glad I have your approval, Basracus,” said the Prophetess. Some of the contempt leaked through her calm mask. In a flash, Sigaldra realized that Basracus reminded the Prophetess of the Prince of Travia who had abandoned her. Perhaps the Prophetess would rid herself of Basracus the minute that Marazadra had been summoned back.

Sigaldra wondered if Basracus realized that.

“My joy is to serve you,” said Basracus with as much false cheer.

“I am sure you delight in it,” said the Prophetess. She took two steps forward, turned, and looked to the south. “Yes. We must hurry. The Guardian and the lady of the shadows move with haste, and our warriors and priests cannot hold them back for much longer. Once the goddess rises in splendor, she shall crush our enemies, and drive them before us like chaff upon the winds of…”

Timothy’s spell hit the Prophetess in the middle of her speech.

The spell looked like a snarling globe of blue lightning that sprayed sparks in all directions. It struck the Prophetess in the small of her armored back, for a moment outlining her form in brilliant blue light. She whirled in alarm, her hand coming up to cast a spell of her own but Azurvaltoria was already moving.

A brilliant lance of fire, so hot it was almost white, erupted from the transformed dragon’s hands. It screamed across the circle and drilled into the Prophetess, who fell back with a shriek of agony, fire erupting across the skin of her chest and neck. Romaria loosed her arrow, the shaft striking the Prophetess in the chest.

Sigaldra bared her teeth and loosed her bow. She had never concentrated so much on a shot in her life, and the effort paid off. Her arrow slammed into one side of the Prophetess’s neck and out the other in a spray of blood, and the sorceress fell to her knees, hands flying to her throat.

###

The Prophetess fell beneath the barrage of spells and arrows, and Mazael charged.

The others erupted in motion around him, but Mazael sprinted for Rigoric. The Champion was a deadly fighter, but Mazael had taken his measure.

The presence of Basracus was an unknown variable. Mazael had never fought the man in combat and did not know how capable the self-styled High King of Skuldar would prove in battle. A normal swordsman Mazael could handle without too much trouble, but he did not know how deadly Basracus would prove with the talisman augmenting his physical strength.

Rigoric had already moved, his greatsword coming up, and he placed himself between Mazael and the prone Prophetess. Basracus circled to the side, moving with eerie grace, the black sword spinning in his right hand. He put himself next to Liane, the sword resting near her throat.

Mazael had considered snatching Liane and running for it. So much for that plan.

Rigoric met his charge. Mazael hit the Champion once, twice, three times, Talon rebounding from the spell-armored plate steel. The spells upon the armor kept the blade from biting into the metal. Rigoric whipped his greatsword around, and Mazael had to duck as the blade blurred over his head.

Adalar attacked from the left and Earnachar from the right, Adalar striking with his talchweisyr, Earnachar hammering with his mace. The Dark Elderborn sword flashed with purple light in Adalar’s hand as the blade bounced off the Champion’s armor, and Mazael wondered if the sword would transfer some of the armoring spell to the young knight.

Basjun attacked from behind, and Rigoric twisted, deflecting his axe with a flick of the greatsword. Basjun scrambled back, trying to avoid Rigoric’s next attack, and Earnachar drove his mace into the back of the Champion’s knee. There was a crunching sound, and Rigoric stumbled. The Champion was strong and fast, but he could not be everywhere at once.

Mazael stabbed with Talon, plunging his sword into the gap in the armor beneath Rigoric’s armpit. The Champion staggered again, and his fist snapped out, catching Mazael in the face. He staggered back, blood flying from his mouth, and Rigoric straightened up.

Steel threads erupted from Rigoric’s knee and armpit, and Earnachar retreated as the Champion went into a furious dance of steel. The huge greatsword moved in a whirling blow, and Adalar, Basjun, and Earnachar all fell back, trying to avoid the sweep of the blade. Mazael caught his balance, spitting out a mouthful of blood, his face tingling as his Demonsouled nature healed the damage from Rigoric’s punch. He ran at Rigoric again, exchanging blows with the Champion, and Talon slipped past the Champion’s guard and armor to inflict minor wounds.

Yet the wounds did little. The steel threads erupted from the wounds, healing Rigoric’s injuries as fast as Mazael could inflict them.

Mazael ducked under a blow that would have made his head explode like a melon hurled from the walls of Castle Cravenlock and regained his balance. So far Basracus had not joined the fight, his black sword resting at Liane’s throat. The Prophetess had gotten to one knee, arrows jutting from her neck and chest, her eyes filled with blood and rage.

She screamed, the Talisman and Mask of Marazadra both pulsing with purple fire, and a thunderclap rang out.

A wall of invisible force slammed into Mazael and threw him backward.

###

The Prophetess’s scream knifed into Adalar’s ears, and the explosion of force hurled him to the ground.

He had been struck by such spells before, and he tucked his shoulder and rolled, coming to his feet with only a few more bruises. The others around him were not so fortunate. Sigaldra and Azurvaltoria, perhaps because of their smaller size, were flung a half-dozen yards. Earnachar and Timothy hit the ground hard, and Romaria fell and stumbled, losing her grip upon her bow, while Basjun was thrown into one of the shrine stones. Only Mazael kept his feet, boots scraping against the stony ground as he struggled to keep his balance.

The Prophetess surged to her feet, hands hooked into claws, shadow and purple fire twisting around her fingers like ribbons. To Adalar’s dismay, he saw that her wounds were healing even faster than Rigoric’s.

The Mask of Marazadra had been intended for Liane, but it seemed the Prophetess could tap its power nonetheless.

“Mazael Cravenlock!” spat the Prophetess in fury.

Basracus looked at Mazael, at the Prophetess, back at Mazael, and then laughed aloud.

“It’s over,” said Mazael, pointing Talon at her. “Give up the girl and the Mask, and we will spare your life.”

“You are correct,” said the Prophetess, her glassy calm returning. “You cannot stop me. The return of the goddess is imminent. You have one last chance to surrender. Give yourself to the will of the goddess, and…”

“No,” said Mazael, smiling a hard smile. “I’ve heard this speech from people far more persuasive than you. Your own goddess tried to recruit me, and I rejected her every time. You aren’t going to succeed either.”

The Prophetess sneered. “Then you shall be swept aside when the goddess rises in majesty.”

“The goddess isn’t going to rise in majesty,” said Mazael. Adalar wondered why Mazael was bothering with speech, but then he understood. The others were recovering. Romaria and Sigaldra set fresh arrows to their bowstrings, Sigaldra’s face a cold mask as she glared at the Prophetess. Both Timothy and Azurvaltoria were beginning new spells, and Basjun and Earnachar had regained their feet, lifting their weapons. They were ready to attack again. Rigoric and Basracus had realized the danger, even if the Prophetess had not. Rigoric moved to the Prophetess’s side, his fists grasping his greatsword’s hilt, while Basracus moved behind them both, keeping his sword at Liane’s throat.

Adalar found his eyes drawn to Sigaldra’s sister. Liane was almost always calm, but now a desperate hope flamed in her expression. Perhaps she had not always been quite so calm as she appeared, and had put on a brave front in defiance of her captors.

Adalar thought that admirable.

“You have failed to overcome the Champion so far,” said the Prophetess, flexing her fingers as the purple fire brightened. “And your pet dragon is crippled, locked within the binding the Mask placed upon her. She cannot save you.”

Azurvaltoria only smiled. “Who said anything about saving anyone, thrall of the spider? Perhaps I only wish to see you burn.”

“Even the dragons shall bow before the might of the goddess,” said the Prophetess, “and you…”

Earnachar laughed that annoying harsh laugh of his. “The whore has become mouthy!”

The Prophetess stiffened. “What did you say, barbarian ape?”

“Despite your airs and your ridiculous costume,” he made a dismissive gesture at her black armor, “you are still just a whore, albeit an incompetent one.” Azurvaltoria let out a nasty laugh. “You failed in your whoredom with the Prince of Travia, and now you have failed in your whoredom with the fat spider to whom you pray.”

“You will regret those insults,” spat the Prophetess. “Every one of them, Earnachar son of Balnachar. You will spend an eternity of torment screaming for mercy and begging to be allowed to repent! You…”

“Or perhaps I was wrong,” said Earnachar. “Perhaps you are actually Basracus’s whore, yes? That would make far more sense. Perhaps you are Basracus’s whore, and you are trying to pull his strings from the bedchamber when you open your legs for…”

Basracus laughed.

And that, it seemed, was the last straw for the Prophetess.

“Then you will perish for your blasphemy,” she hissed, her eyes wide and wild and furious. It was a far cry from the serene, confident woman who had addressed the priests of Skuldar and the valgasts in Tchroth. “You will all perish!”

She gestured, and invisible force seized Liane and ripped her from Basracus’s grasp. Liane let out a startled cry but floated next to the Prophetess, caught in the grip of the sorceress’s power.

“If you hurt her,” said Sigaldra, “you will…”

“Hurt her?” said the Prophetess. “I will not hurt her, you stupid girl. She shall be honored above all women save myself. She shall become Marazadra reborn, and she shall reign over mankind forever. Basracus!”

The High King of Skuldar stepped to the Prophetess’s left while Rigoric waited on her right.

“You were so eager to test yourself against Mazael Cravenlock,” said the Prophetess, “and now you have your chance. Kill them. Rigoric and I shall ascend to the altar and summon the goddess.”

Basracus hesitated. “By myself?”

“You were so certain of victory,” said the Prophetess, “but fear not.”

“No,” said Mazael. “You shall die here and now.”

“I’m afraid, Mazael Cravenlock,” said the Prophetess with a wild smile, “you are quite mistaken.”

She flung out her hands with a shout, and gray light flashed from her fingers. A sheet of gray mist rolled across the ground between her and Mazael, and three hulking shapes rose from the mist.

Adalar had seen those creatures before, and his blood ran cold with alarm.

They were huge, hulking spiders, each one nearly the size of a pair of full-grown oxen. Each creature moved with the dangerous grace of a hunting lion, their bodies armored in black chitin, their legs like the blades of massive swords. A large crimson blotch like a crude hourglass marked the gleaming obsidian-like chitin of their backs. The creatures were Crimson Hunters, servants of Marazadra from the spirit world, and Adalar had fought them before. At Greatheart Keep, they had covered the Prophetess’s escape with Liane. At Armalast, they had kept Adalar and the others from killing the Prophetess. At the caverns of the Veiled Mountain, one of the Crimson Hunters had chased Adalar and Sigaldra through Azurvaltoria’s treasury, and they had only barely escaped from the eldritch creature’s fury.

And now three of them faced off against Adalar and his friends, to say nothing of whatever powers Basracus possessed to use against his foes.

“Take them!” commanded the Prophetess.

She ran for the path leading further up the hill, Rigoric sprinting behind her, Liane floating in the grasp of her magic. Sigaldra shouted in rage and started after her sister, but the Crimson Hunters moved too fast. In a moment the giant spiders had blocked their path, and Basracus strode before them, lifting his black sword. A greenish, venomous looking haze shimmered to life around the weapon.

“I’ve been looking forward to this,” said Basracus. “I’ve heard so many tales about the great Mazael Cravenlock, and my warriors have been fearful of invading the Grim Marches for dread of your wrath. How they shall cheer when we march to war with your head atop my banner.”

“Come and get it, then,” said Mazael.

Adalar took a deep breath, readying himself for battle. He knew just how fast and deadly the Crimson Hunters were.

“I’ll take Basracus,” said Mazael. “Keep the Crimson Hunters off me. Timothy?”

Timothy nodded, reached into his coat, and produced a carved wand of old wood.

Basracus laughed in bloodlust, and the Crimson Hunters attacked, surging forward in a black blur.

The High King of Skuldar moved even faster, and Adalar fought for his life.

###

Azurvaltoria and Timothy both started spells, and Adalar, Basjun, and Earnachar charged at the Crimson Hunters, but Mazael could not spare any thought for them.

Basracus had come to kill him.

He blocked the High King’s first two swings, dodged under the third, and struck back before Basracus could line up a fourth. Talon slipped under Basracus’s guard and slashed a bloody line across his ribs. Basracus snarled and thrust his free hand, and a bolt of purple fire erupted from his fingers. It hit Mazael in the chest with battering force and threw him to the ground. Basracus leaped after him, drawing his sword over his head with both hands, and Mazael flung himself to the side. The High King fell to the earth like a thunderbolt, the glowing sword burying itself to the hilt in the ground. Mazael struck again, stabbing Talon into Basracus’s chest, but again the High King released a hand from his sword hilt.

Another burst of purple fire erupted from his fingers, and Mazael had to dodge as Basracus surged back to his feet, the sword a blur of dark metal and green light in his hand.

Mazael had a brief glimpse of the battle against the Crimson Hunters before Basracus closed again. Timothy cast a spell with a shout, his wand blazing with harsh blue light. A whirling ball of blue sparks erupted from the end of his wand, striking the Crimson Hunter on the left. The giant spider froze, cracks of gray light spreading across its carapace, and then it shattered in a spray of mist and gray light, vanishing as Timothy’s magic banished it back to the spirit world.

Azurvaltoria cast a spell, lifting her hands as fire burned up her forearms. Instead of throwing flames at the enemy, her spell caused light to leap from her fingers and encircle the weapons of her allies. The weapons of Adalar, Earnachar, and Basjun burst into harsh yellow-orange fire, and the arrowheads of Romaria and Sigaldra kindled as they lifted them to their bowstrings. Only magical weapons could harm the Crimson Hunters, and Azurvaltoria had just made sure every one of them had magical weapons.

Mazael hoped it was enough because he did not dare take his attention from Basracus.

The High King was as fast and strong as the Spider Guards they had fought earlier. Unlike the Spider Guards, the armor growing from his flesh did not seem to pain him, and Basracus appeared in full control of his mind. Perhaps the Prophetess had improved upon the talismans her predecessors had created, and hoped to create a new, stronger generation of Spider Guards. Worse, the talisman on his chest also granted him the ability to cast spells, and Mazael constantly had to avoid blasts of dark magic. None of the blasts were strong enough to kill him, and his Demonsouled blood soon healed the harm they inflicted.

Yet if he made a single mistake, he was dead.

Their blades locked together, black steel rasping against dragon talon, golden symbols flaring on the blade of his sword.

“How?” snarled Basracus. “How do you stand against my strength? The power of Marazadra has made me invincible!”

“Maybe,” said Mazael, “your warriors are right to fear the Grim Marches.”

Basracus sneered and started to say something, but Mazael drove his head forward. The chitinous armor that encased the High King was strong and tough, but none of it protected his head, probably to keep from asphyxiating him. Mazael’s forehead hit Basracus in the face, and a bolt of pain exploded through his head. Of course, to judge from the crunching sound that Basracus’s nose made, the High King of Skuldar had just experienced far worse pain.

Basracus stumbled back with a howl of fury, and Mazael went on the attack.

As he did a flare of fire illuminated the hillside. Mazael glimpsed a lance of blazing fire shoot from Azurvaltoria’s hands, engulfing one of the Crimson Hunters. The spirit creature shuddered, legs stabbing at the ground. Romaria and Sigaldra loosed arrow after arrow, and Azurvaltoria’s magic transformed the arrows into blazing comets. The arrows punched into the second Crimson Hunter battling against Adalar and Earnachar and Basjun. Basjun’s heavy axe came down, severing one of the Crimson Hunter’s legs, and the creature stumbled, letting Adalar plunge his talchweisyr into its side. They were doing better than Mazael had hoped. Azurvaltoria might not have full access to her magic, but what she possessed she wielded with potent effect.

Then Basracus came at Mazael, and he could spare no attention for the others.

The High King of Skuldar went into a furious, wild attack, his black sword blurring like a bee circling a flower. He threw punches with his left hand, trying to rake Mazael with the razor spines jutting from his forearm. Mazael retreated, drawing closer to the edge of the ledge, Talon whirling in his hands as he blocked the attacks. Basracus was inhumanly fast and strong, and he used that inhuman strength to full effect.

But Basracus was still a Spider Guard. A new kind of Spider Guard, perhaps, but still a Spider Guard, and Mazael wondered if the Prophetess had thought to raise new defenses around the talisman.

Given how much she obviously despised Basracus, maybe not.

Mazael let Basracus drive him back step by step. Once he reached the edge of the terrace, it would be child’s play for Basracus to send him tumbling to the courtyard below. Mazael would probably survive the fall, but he would break so many bones that it would be easy for Basracus to finish him off before his Demonsouled blood healed the injury.

The triumph spread across Basracus’s face.

“Perish!” said Basracus. “Die and know the power of the High King!”

His sword hammered down, ripping Talon from Mazael’s grasp.

Basracus howled in victory and raised his sword over his head. “Die and…”

Mazael surged forward, slamming into the High King with all his strength and speed. Basracus’s arms had been over his head, preparing to bring the sword down, and he lost his balance and landed on his back, Mazael atop him.

Basracus started to scramble back to his feet, but not before Mazael grabbed the metallic spider on his chest with both hands and wrenched it back, ripping the fangs from the High King’s flesh.

Basracus’s eyes popped open wide, and he screamed in pain, his arms flailing at Mazael. The metal spider writhed in Mazael’s grasp. It felt as hard as steel, but it moved like a living thing, which was a damned peculiar sensation. Mazael wrenched again, pulling with all his strength, and he ripped the talisman free from Basracus’s chest in a spray of blood, the legs gleaming and crimson. Basracus choked and started to thrash like a man in the grips of a seizure, and Mazael saw a gaping crater in the center of his chest where the spider’s fangs had been buried.

The power of Marazadra carried a price.

Mazael threw aside the twitching talisman, picked up Talon, and put Basracus out of his misery.

The talisman continued to writhe and thrash, and Mazael hit it three times with Talon, cutting the thing in half. At last both pieces went still, becoming inert metal once more.

He caught his breath and hurried forward, intending to aid the others, but to his surprise, the fight was over. Only one Crimson Hunter still remained on its legs, and it was on fire, gray light leaking from a dozen gaping wounds. As Mazael ran forward, Adalar plunged his burning talchweisyr down, spearing the Crimson Hunter through the head.

The creature shuddered, dissolved into gray mist, and vanished into nothingness.

Mazael looked at the others. Everyone was still on their feet, though Basjun and Adalar and Earnachar all seemed to have taken some wounds.

“Sir,” said Basjun, stunned. “You just killed the High King.”

“You just killed three Crimson Hunters,” said Mazael. “That’s more impressive by far.”

Adalar shrugged, wincing a little. “It wasn’t easy…but Azurvaltoria’s magic made it easier. I don’t think the creatures are used to fighting that many mortals with magical weapons. We overwhelmed them before they could react.”

“Good work,” said Mazael. Azurvaltoria gave him a mocking little bow, flourishing the skirts of her coat.

“We have to hurry,” said Sigaldra, her voice tight. “She took my sister. She will start the spell at…”

The ground shuddered, and from the top of the hill came a sudden howling noise and a flash of purple light. Bolts of purple lightning burst from the crest of the hill, throwing harsh shadows across the shrine stones.

“It begins,” said Azurvaltoria.

“She’s working a spell of tremendous power,” said Romaria, gazing at the hilltop.

“The Prophetess is damned well not going to finish it,” said Mazael. “Run!”

Chapter 17: Blood and Shadows

Sigaldra ran after the others as they climbed the path. A cold wind seemed to howl down from the top of the hill, tugging at her clothes and her hair. She felt a peculiar, unpleasant tingling sensation as if she had spilled something poisonous upon her skin.

If she could feel the great spell stirring in the air, she could only imagine how Romaria and Timothy and Azurvaltoria felt.

Or, for that matter, how her poor sister felt.

One more turn around the slope, and they reached the top of the hill, and Sigaldra beheld the true Heart of the Spider.

The hill’s top was mostly flat. A ring of twenty enormous shrine stones, twice as tall as the ones Sigaldra had seen earlier, encircled the top of the hill. Sigils of purple fire blazed on their sides, pulsing with a steady rhythm like a heartbeat. In the exact center of the ring stood a massive altar of rough black stone. Above the altar towered a vast sheet of rippling gray mist. Looking at the mist gave Sigaldra a headache, and the air around it rippled and twisted. Purple light and dark shadow danced within the mist, and silent bolts of purple lightning erupted from it, lashing at the sky like glowing whips.

Liane lay upon the altar, her wrists and ankles tied to its corners, a gag in her mouth, her eyes wide with fear. Rigoric stood before the altar, the point of his sword resting on the ground, both hands grasping the hilt. The Prophetess waited behind the altar, the pale skin of her face and chest and hands stark against her black armor, the Mask of Marazadra in one hand and a crimson maethweisyr in the other. Sigaldra sensed the power around the sorceress, a charge in the air like lightning.

Even as Sigaldra watched, the Prophetess raised the Mask and placed it upon Liane’s face.

“No!” said Sigaldra, raising her bow and sending an arrow at the Prophetess. The shaft sped across the ring of shrine stones and shattered a half-inch from the Prophetess’s chest, broken by her rebuilt warding spells. The Prophetess’s gaze snapped up from Liane, and her green eyes narrowed.

“Of course,” she said. “Basracus was useless in the end. I ought to have known.”

Mazael strode forward, Talon in his right fist, and Sigaldra and the others followed him. She set another arrow to her bow. The time for talking was over. Either Sigaldra would rescue her sister, or she would die here.

“Marazadra!” screamed the Prophetess, raising the maethweisyr over her head. “Hear your emissary!”

A low rumble went through the ground as if something massive had shifted beneath the hill.

“Your resurrection is imminent!” said the Prophetess. “Your enemies seek to hinder your rebirth! Aid your emissary!”

Again the rumble went through the hill, and Sigaldra heard the grinding sound of boulders breaking loose from the slopes to crash into the courtyard below. A ripple went through the ground, and Sigaldra stumbled, grabbing at Adalar’s arm to keep from falling.

The ground exploded at the foot of a dozen of the shrine stones, and dark shapes erupted from the earth, accompanied by a peculiar odor like a mix of dust and rotting meat. At first, Sigaldra thought that some massive beast had awakened within the hill and had reached out to rip them apart.

Then she saw the soliphages hauling themselves from the ground.

They were dead, and they had been dead for some time. Or, rather, the soliphages were undead. Their carapaces had turned a glistening black, and green fire burned in their eyes. They moved with stiff, jerking motions, placing themselves between Sigaldra and the altar.

“Servants of the goddess!” shouted the Prophetess. “Defend her return! Defend her emissary! Strike down her foes.”

Rigoric strode forward, sword ready, and the undead things followed him. Behind him the Prophetess began another spell, chanting in the Skuldari language as she gestured with the maethweisyr, the purple fire within the mist pulsing in time to her words as the spirit of Marazadra answered her call.

“Undead soliphages,” said Azurvaltoria, spreading her fingers. “They won’t be as agile as the living ones.” Fire burned around her hands. “But they’ll be stronger and tougher, and they can all use magic.”

“Even in death, the messengers of the goddess are deadly,” said Basjun. Next to him Crouch bared his teeth in a furious snarl, his fur rising in angry spikes.

“They won’t be enough to stop us,” said Mazael, and he ran forward. Adalar and Earnachar sprinted after him, while Timothy and Azurvaltoria started spells, and Romaria and Sigaldra loosed arrows.

###

Adalar chopped the talchweisyr into one of the spider limbs of the nearest undead soliphage, lopping off the leg at the base. His Dark Elderborn sword did not absorb any of the magic of the undead, which was just as well. Having the sword grant him some of the abilities of a living soliphage had been unsettling enough, even if it had saved his life and Sigaldra’s life. He did not want to touch the filthy necromancy binding the undead soliphages.

The creature punched at him, the blow catching Adalar in the left shoulder. Pain exploded through him, and for a moment he feared the blow had dislocated his shoulder. Yet despite the pain, he could still use his left arm, and he grabbed his sword’s hilt with both hands and swung, taking off another of the soliphage’s legs. The undead thing staggered. Unlike a living soliphage, the undead creature did not show any sign of pain, but it still needed legs to keep its balance.

Adalar split its skull, the silver blade cracking through the black chitin of its carapace. The green fire in its eyes sputtered and went out, and the undead thing slumped motionless to the stony ground.

Before he even had his sword free, another soliphage came at him, green fire burning around its clawed hands, and Adalar had to retreat.

A brilliant gout of fire erupted across the hilltop, igniting two of the undead soliphages in crackling flames. Azurvaltoria stood wrapped in the midst of her power, casting spell after spell in a whirlwind of fiery destruction. Three of the undead soliphages, one of them currently on fire, brought their magic to bear against her, ghostly green fire struggling against the fury of her flames. Timothy cast a spell of his own. A pool of gray mist swirled at his feet, and three translucent wolf-creatures with spines and tentacles jumped from the pool, charging into the battle. Adalar doubted they would last long against the undead soliphages, but at least they might prove a useful distraction.

Right now he needed all the help he could get.

The undead soliphage came at him, driving him back, and Adalar could not find his rhythm against the creature. Again and again, he had to parry, and while the talchweisyr bit into the creature’s legs and arms, he could not land a telling blow. Death seemed to harden the soliphages’ carapaces.

He parried a heavy blow from the soliphage’s arm, the talchweisyr sinking into the limb. Adalar wrenched the sword free and whipped the blade around, taking off the soliphage’s right arm at the elbow. The creature stumbled, but before Adalar could follow up with another strike, one of the soliphage’s spider limbs struck him in the chest. The breath blasted out of his lungs in a rush, and Adalar fell, the talchweisyr bouncing from his grasp. He tried to get his breath back, but he had taken too many blows to the chest, and he could not get any air into his lungs.

The soliphage’s spider legs drew back, preparing to stab him for the kill.

Sigaldra appeared behind the soliphage, shooting as fast as she could draw arrows from her quiver. Usually, her short bow did not have the power to punch through soliphage chitin, but she was close enough that the arrows hammered through. The soliphage swayed, turning towards her, and Adalar caught his breath.

He threw himself to his feet, snatching up the talchweisyr, and hammered the sword’s pommel into the back of the soliphage’s neck. The plates of chitin shattered from the impact and Adalar reversed the sword and swung for the damaged area.

This time, the talchweisyr took off the undead soliphage’s head. The green glow of its eyes flickered and went out, and the creature slumped to the ground.

“Thanks,” croaked Adalar. It hurt to talk.

“Gods and ancestors, we’re almost out of time,” said Sigaldra.

Adalar followed her gaze and saw his friends struggling against the undead soliphages. Mazael battled Rigoric, both the Champion and the Lord of Castle Cravenlock moving almost too fast for the eye to follow. Behind the altar the Prophetess stood wreathed in shadow and purple fire, chanting as she gestured with the maethweisyr, which had started to burn with a strange blood-colored fire. She had to be casting the spell to summon Marazadra back. And when Celina du Almaine finished, Marazadra would be reborn within Liane’s flesh.

Sigaldra’s sister would be lost, and Marazadra would conquer the world.

Yet for the moment, the Prophetess was alone. Rigoric and Mazael held each other’s full attention, and the remaining undead soliphages fought against the rest of Adalar’s friends. He saw the tide of the battle turning and realized that with Azurvaltoria’s help, they would be able to blast their way through the undead soliphages. When that happened, the Prophetess would have to respond, and she might bring her magic to bear or summon additional defenders.

But until that happened, the Prophetess was alone, and her full attention was on the summoning spell.

“We have to get to her,” said Sigaldra.

“She’s alone,” said Adalar. “If we can surprise her, maybe we can win. Or maybe we can just get Liane away from her.”

“How?” said Sigaldra.

“We go straight through the battle,” said Adalar, looking at the talchweisyr. Would it be enough to strike the Prophetess through her defensive wards? Perhaps Adalar could distract her while Sigaldra spirited away Liane. “Come on.”

###

Mazael fought for his life, exchanging blow after blow with Rigoric.

The Champion of Marazadra had indeed become faster and stronger. Perhaps the proximity to the rift above the altar, to the spirit of Marazadra itself, had poured new power into the Mask of the Champion. His swings landed with the force of a stone hurled from a catapult.

Yet even with the Champion’s augmented speed, Mazael could still land strikes. That huge greatsword took time to position, and that time gave Mazael openings to strike. He hit Rigoric again and again, raining blows upon his ornamented cuirass, intending to hack through the armor as he had in the caverns of the Veiled Mountain.

This time, Mazael suspected his tactic would not work.

Every time he struck the armor, the symbols of purple fire upon the black steel flashed, and Talon failed to leave a scratch on the metal. There were gaps in the armor, places where Talon’s hard blade of dragon talon could punch through the weaker chain mail and enter the Champion’s flesh, but whenever it did, steel threads erupted from the wound, knitting it shut at once. Mazael’s own armor wasn’t nearly as effective, and Rigoric had already inflicted three minor wounds on him. His Demonsouled blood was healing them, but not as quickly as the steel threads closed Rigoric’s wounds.

Unless Mazael did something unexpected, unless he changed the terms of the battle, Rigoric was going to kill him.

The Mask of the Champion was the key. All of Rigoric’s power came from the Mask. The tactic had worked against Basracus, and it would work against Rigoric. If Mazael got the Mask off Rigoric’s face, then he could kill Rigoric and go after the Prophetess.

That was easier said than done.

Even as the thought crossed Mazael’s mind, he was a heartbeat too slow, and the side of Rigoric’s pommel clipped his temple. Had it struck his head full on, it would have crushed his skull. Instead, a blaze of pain shot through his head, and Mazael fell. Rigoric leaped forward, raising his armored boot to crush Mazael’s throat, and Mazael flung himself to the side, lashing out with Talon. The blade ripped across the back of Rigoric’s knee, and the Champion jerked, his momentum halted as Mazael’s sword severed the tendon. Mazael rolled back to his feet as steel threads burst from the back of Rigoric’s leg, healing the wound.

Rigoric strode forward, greatsword ready, and Mazael charged, aiming his blows at the Mask itself. The Champion accepted the blows without flinching, and Talon could not leave a mark on the strange silvery metal of the Mask. Yet if Mazael could land a hit of sufficient power, perhaps he could stun the Champion long enough to get the Mask off his face.

Brilliant purple light flared over the hilltop and the ring of shrine stones, the Prophetess’s voice rising in a scream of fury.

###

“That one,” said Adalar, pointing at a soliphage.

One of the undead soliphages was on fire, the left side of its body set ablaze by either Azurvaltoria or Timothy, both of whom were hurling blasts of magical fire at their enemies. More and more of the remaining soliphages had turned their full attention to the dragon and the wizard, forcing them on the defensive, but that let Earnachar and Basjun and Romaria attack. Romaria had abandoned her Elderborn bow for her bastard sword, using the long blade to lop off soliphage legs and give Earnachar and Basjun an opening with their shorter weapons. In the midst of the chaos, the burning soliphage had drifted away from the others, giving Sigaldra and Adalar their opening.

“That one,” agreed Sigaldra.

Adalar nodded, taking the talchweisyr in both hands. He looked exhausted, his face grim, but his eyes did not waver. Sigaldra felt a desperate wave of guilt that she had brought him here, that she had accepted his help, that she had likely led him to his death against the Prophetess’s minions.

But if the Prophetess was not stopped here, if Liane was not saved, then Marazadra’s shadow would fall over all nations.

“Go right,” said Adalar. “I will go to the left.”

“All right,” said Sigaldra. “Adalar, if…”

“Fear not,” he said with a tired smile. “We will be victorious. Go!”

Together they ran forward, Adalar heading towards the burning soliphage’s left side. She started shooting arrows as she ran. Her accuracy was not the best, but all of her shots slammed into the undead soliphage’s torso. The creature pivoted towards her, one of its clawed hands coming up and glimmering with necromantic power. Sigaldra hit it in the chest with another arrow, but the shaft did nothing against the undead flesh. The ghostly green light around its clawed fingers brightened.

Adalar came up on the creature’s left side. The fire seemed to have blinded its eyes on that side, and the soliphage made no reaction as Adalar swung the talchweisyr. The undead soliphage’s head jumped off its shoulders and rolled away, and the body slithered to the ground in a motionless heap.

And for the moment, the way to the Prophetess was clear.

“Go!” shouted Adalar, running for the altar as fast as he could.

Sigaldra sprinted after him, yanking another arrow from her quiver. The altar drew near, and she saw Liane lying upon its surface. Her chest was still rising and falling with breath, thank all the gods, but the hideous Mask of Marazadra obscured her features. Sigaldra wanted to get that vile thing away from Liane as soon as possible.

The Prophetess stood on the other side of the altar, gesturing with the crimson maethweisyr, a vortex of shadow and purple fire rising above her and flowing into the mist-choked rift. Her face was rapt, almost ecstatic, as she cast the spell.

Sigaldra snapped her bow up and started shooting.

Her first two arrows shattered against the Prophetess’s wards. The sorceress snapped out of her trance, eyes locking onto Sigaldra, and she pushed with her free hand. Sigaldra flung herself to the side. The wall of invisible force that would have snapped every bone in her body instead clipped her and sent her spinning to the ground, and she landed with a gasp of pain.

Gods, but that hurt.

She rolled up to one knee, aimed, and loosed another arrow. She missed the Prophetess’s neck by a few inches. Celina du Almaine sneered as she worked another spell, shadows knitting together in her free hand. Sigaldra’s attack had accomplished nothing, and she had not even scratched the Prophetess.

Her attack had, however, given Adalar the time he needed to close with her.

The Prophetess’s head snapped around as Adalar charged. She took a quick step back, placing the bulk of the altar between her and the charging knight, shifting the aim of her spell towards Adalar. He changed direction at the last moment, seized the corner of the altar, and vaulted over it. The Prophetess jerked back, her eyes going wide with sudden fear, and Adalar swung the talchweisyr. As with Sigaldra’s arrows, the blade rebounded from the Prophetess’s wards. Unlike the arrows, the blade rebounded in a blaze of harsh blue sparks, the sword starting to glow as it drained away the power of the sorceress’s warding spells.

The Prophetess backed away as Adalar rained blows upon her, fear plain on her face. Sigaldra wondered if the Prophetess had ever fought in hand-to-hand combat, and decided that Lady Celina du Almaine would not have dirtied her hands with such activity.

Sigaldra heaved herself up. She was out of arrows, so she reached for her short sword.

“Aid me!” screamed the Prophetess, and the rift above her rippled. She shoved her free hand towards Adalar, and purple fire and shadow leaped from her fingers. The blast hit Adalar and threw him back with terrific force. He crashed into one of the shrine stones with an awful crunching noise, collapsed to the ground, and went limp.

Sigaldra was already running, screaming at the top of her lungs. As she did, the rift above the Prophetess rippled and bulged, and two dark shapes appeared. They erupted from the mist and landed before the altar, unfolding into the shape of two massive Crimson Hunters, and two more of the giant spiders emerged from the rift after them. The Prophetess laughed in triumph and gestured again, and all four spiders turned towards Sigaldra.

There was no way, absolutely no way, she could fight four Crimson Hunters. She couldn’t even fight one.

But it didn’t matter because she was close enough.

Sigaldra grabbed the corner of the altar, heaved herself around it, and flung herself into the Prophetess.

Her short sword bounced away from the Prophetess’s wards, but Sigaldra herself did not. She just had time to see the green eyes widen in surprise, and Sigaldra slammed into the sorceress.

Her weight and speed overpowered the Prophetess, and the sorceress fell, Sigaldra atop her. The Prophetess let out a shriek of fury and drove the red maethweisyr up, but Sigaldra slapped her hands aside and slammed her arms against the ground. She was stronger, far stronger, than this vain noblewoman who had relied upon servants and magic all her life. Sigaldra punched her in the face, and blood flew from the Prophetess’s mouth and nose as the back of her head bounced off the ground.

That felt so good that Sigaldra wanted to do it again and again until her knuckles were raw, but she did not have time. Instead, she clamped her hands around the Prophetess’s neck, digging her thumbs into the sorceress’s windpipe. The Prophetess’s fingers seized Sigaldra’s wrists, her eyes bulging, her body heaving and bucking beneath Sigaldra’s legs as she struggled to break free. A horrible gagging sound came from the Prophetess’s mouth, and Sigaldra squeezed harder, driving her thumbs in with all her strength, hoping to feel something collapse against her grasp.

The Prophetess released Sigaldra’s wrists and threw a hand towards her face, purple fire flashing around her fingers. The spell was feeble, but the blast of invisible force nonetheless clipped Sigaldra on the chest, knocking her hands free from the Prophetess’s throat. The Prophetess took a huge, sucking breath, and Sigaldra punched her again, but her aim was off and she only hit the other woman’s temple. The Prophetess raked her hand again, and the invisible force knocked Sigaldra to the ground. The Prophetess jerked to her feet, coughing and wheezing, and Sigaldra threw herself forward, tackling the sorceress around the waist. They both went into a heap on the ground once again, rolling over each other, clawing for advantage. Sigaldra seized the Prophetess’s belt, trying to flip the sorceress on her stomach and entangle her in her cloak.

The Prophetess screamed as Sigaldra grabbed at her, and magical power erupted from her.

The force hit Sigaldra like a charging horse. The spell flung her back, something hard still grasped in her fingers, and she hit the ground hard. She felt something snap in her left leg and screamed as pain shot up her leg and into her chest.

“Kill her!” shrieked the Prophetess. “Kill her!”

Sigaldra sat up, trying to stand, but her left leg hurt too much. She felt blood on her face and neck, and a throbbing pain on her left temple. There didn’t seem to be any undead soliphages nearby, but more Crimson Hunters had emerged from the Heart of the Spider, battling against Romaria and Azurvaltoria and the others while Mazael continued his furious duel with Rigoric.

Four of the Crimson Hunters were coming for Sigaldra.

She couldn’t fight. She couldn’t run. She had come so close to Liane, and she had failed. There was nothing left for her to do but die…

A hard weight settled against her chest. The weight of her guilt, perhaps?

No. It was a hard, curved weight.

Sigaldra saw the curved thing resting in her lap, a broken leather strap dangling from its side. The thing was a curved war horn of some peculiar dark material, banded with gold at either end. It was not all that heavy, not really, but there was a strange sort of…gravity about the thing, a solemnity, almost like looking at a grave marker.

It was the Horn of Doom and Fate.

Sigaldra must have torn it from the Prophetess’s belt when the spell had flung her across the circle.

The Crimson Hunters surged towards her, their mandibles snapping. Just one snap from those mandibles could bite off her head, and one thrust of those legs could spear her through the heart and pin her to the ground.

It was over. It was over, and she was going to die.

Liane had said she would know when to sound the Horn of Doom and Fate, that she would know when the moment had come.

It seemed the moment had come because it was the last moment of Sigaldra’s life.

She rotated the horn, lifted it to her mouth, took a deep breath, and blew into it.

The wailing blast that came from the Horn was unlike anything she had ever heard, and the ground seemed to shake with it.

Symbols of blazing golden fire, similar to those upon Mazael’s sword, came to life along the Horn’s length.

Chapter 18: The Champion of the Goddess

Talon once again rebounded from the Mask of the Champion, knocking Rigoric’s head back. Rigoric continued his relentless advance, his greatsword rising and falling as he attacked. Mazael kept retreating, trying to find a way to get at the Mask, and failing.

If he did not find a way past Rigoric in the next few minutes, they were all going to die.

Crimson Hunters had begun to emerge from the Heart of the Spider.

Two of them battled Romaria and Azurvaltoria and the others, while four rushed towards Sigaldra. Mazael had lost sight of Adalar in the chaos, but he feared that the young knight had been killed. He would not have abandoned Sigaldra for any other reason. It took every bit of Mazael’s strength to keep ahead of Rigoric’s attacks. If even one of the Crimson Hunters went to aid Rigoric, then Mazael was finished, and Rigoric and the Crimson Hunters would kill the rest of his companions in short order.

Mazael prepared to charge, willing to accept even a serious wound in exchange for getting his hands on Rigoric’s head.

Rigoric began another attack, and Mazael ducked, readying himself to charge.

Then the wailing howl rang over the hilltop.

Rigoric froze, as did Mazael, and even the Crimson Hunters came to a sudden cautious stop. The noise sounded like the wailing cry of a war horn, but Mazael had never heard a horn quite like this. It was deeper, far deeper, than any other horn he had ever heard. It made his bones and his teeth vibrate, and the hill beneath his boots seemed to tremble with the sound of the horn.

Nothing mortal could make a sound like that.

It had to be the Horn of Doom and Fate. The Prophetess had decided to sound it.

Yet that didn’t make sense. Azurvaltoria had thought the Prophetess would use the Horn to summon the dead of Skuldar and offer them in service to Marazadra, but she had to summon Marazadra first to accomplish that. If she summoned the Skuldari shades now, Mazael didn’t know what would happen. Perhaps they would swarm through the ruined temple and overwhelm the skythains and wizards with Molly and Riothamus. Perhaps they would go berserk and attack everything in sight. Or perhaps the Horn would do nothing at all save to make an impressive noise.

Mazael spotted the Prophetess standing near the altar, blood on her face, the crimson maethweisyr lying in the dirt near her boots. She was staring at Sigaldra, who sat slumped near one of the shrine stones, something round resting in her lap…

She was sounding the Horn. Symbols of golden fire burned up and down the Horn’s curved length, seeming to flicker in time to the deep wailing note coming from the instrument. Sigaldra herself looked hurt, blood sheeting down the left side of her face from a nasty gash across her temple. Yet her eyes were closed, her face straining as she blew into the Horn.

The unearthly wail grew louder and louder, Mount Armyar itself shuddering with the noise.

“Kill her!” said the Prophetess. “Kill her and bring me the Horn. Rigoric, finish them!”

The Prophetess whirled, snatched up the fallen maethweisyr, and ran back to the altar and to Liane. The Crimson Hunters charged at Sigaldra, raising their legs to impale her, and Rigoric attacked Mazael, the greatsword plunging like an avalanche of razor-edged steel.

###

The Horn’s call exploded inside of Sigaldra’s skull.

It was loud, so loud that she thought it would burst her ears, but that was not it. She could hear it in her thoughts, could hear the Horn with her mind and heart. Even if the Horn’s howl shattered her ears, she would still be able to hear the Horn’s screaming call in her mind.

A cold wind howled across the top of the hill as some other power came to Mount Armyar, a power different than the one radiating from the rift. Curtains of mist rose around the hill, towering above them like the walls of a castle. The deep note continued to howl from the Horn, and Sigaldra could not remember the last time she had taken a breath. Her lips seemed joined to the mouthpiece of the Horn, and she could not pull away.

The Crimson Hunters rushed towards her, raising their legs to strike, and Sigaldra could not make herself drop the Horn and flee.

“No!”

A dusty, bloody shape flung itself at the nearest Crimson Hunter. Adalar’s talchweisyr flashed as he struck, and in a single mighty blow, he took off the Crimson Hunter’s head. The head bounced once and dissolved into gray mist, and the body thrashed and unraveled into mist and gray light. It had been a stupendous blow, one worthy of the songs of a Tervingi loresinger, but it had drained the last of Adalar’s strength. He crumpled to one knee, chest heaving, blood and sweat running down his face and onto his chest. The impact against the shrine stone must have hurt him, and it had been nothing short of miraculous that he had been able to fight his way to her side.

It seemed they were to die together after all.

She would have told him that she was sorry, but she could not lift her mouth from the Horn of Doom and Fate.

A thunderclap rang out, and the curtains of mist around the hilltop shone with golden fire.

The Horn released Sigaldra, and she jerked away from it, gasping for breath. The Horn struck the ground and rolled to a stop a few feet away, still glowing with golden flame.

The remaining Crimson Hunters closed around them for the kill.

As they did, the shades of the dead emerged from the mist.

Three warriors charged the nearest Crimson Hunter, armored in shirts of steel scales, round shields upon their left arms, axes in their right fists, and round helms upon their heads. The warriors were just slightly translucent, and lined in a glimmer of golden light. They struck the Crimson Hunter, and their blades bit through the creature’s armored hide, sinking deep into its flesh, gray light spilling from its wounds.

Sigaldra stared at them in disbelief.

Those warriors…she had seen those warriors before.

They had been at the siege of one of the final holds of the Jutai people, fighting to hold the walls against the Malrags alongside her father. The Crimson Hunter vanished in a spray of gray light, and the warriors spun to face their next foe. As they did, more warriors in Jutai armor emerged from the mist, charging into the fray, and Sigaldra knew them all. She had seen them die in the endless grinding battles against the Malrags or during the long, brutal journey to the Grim Marches.

It wasn’t possible.

“Sigaldra?” said Adalar, looking around in bewilderment.

“I…I don’t know,” she said as more ghosts from her past emerged from the mist summoned by the Horn. They might have been ghosts, but their blades bit into the Crimson Hunters. Nearly a score of the giant spiders had emerged from the rift, but now their charge wavered, driven back by the shadows of the long-dead Jutai. “I don’t know what’s…”

“Look out!” said Adalar, staggering to his feet, talchweisyr extended.

A Crimson Hunter lunged at her, and Sigaldra scrabbled backward, its snapping mandibles just avoiding her throbbing left leg. Adalar attacked, the swing of his curved sword taking off one of its legs, and the Crimson Hunter spun. He dodged, but not quite fast enough, and the side of the Hunter’s legs hit his chest and knocked him to the ground. The Crimson Hunter turned as Sigaldra tried to stand, evidently dismissing Adalar as a threat, and loomed over her once more.

A tall warrior in a chain hauberk lunged at the Crimson Hunter, his translucent form outlined in flickering golden light. He wielded a huge two-handed axe as easily as a lesser man might wield a dagger, and he swung the weapon again and again. Before the devastating assault, the Crimson Hunter fell back, and at last, the spirit creature ripped apart in a spray of gray mist.

The warrior lowered his axe and looked at Sigaldra. He was in his early fifties, with a lean, lined face, graying blond hair, and bloodshot blue eyes, his arms thick and his features scarred.

All the moisture fled from Sigaldra’s mouth as Adalar helped her to stand.

“Father?” she whispered.

Theodoric of the Jutai, the last hrould of the Jutai nation, nodded.

###

A battle erupted around Mazael.

Shades of armored warriors had charged into the fray, attacking the Crimson Hunters from all sides. Mazael had no idea what had just happened. The armor and weapons of the warriors looked vaguely Tervingi, though of a different style and slightly different design. If he had to guess, Mazael supposed that Sigaldra had sounded the Horn and called up the shades of the slain Jutai, the warriors rushing to defend the living remnants of their nation.

At the moment, Mazael didn’t care what had happened. The ghostly warriors were allies, whatever they were, and that was what mattered. With the Crimson Hunters pouring through the Heart of the Spider, Mazael’s defeat had been a matter of time.

Now they had a chance.

But only if Mazael could deal with Rigoric and get to the Prophetess.

Fortunately, Rigoric now had as many distractions as Mazael did.

Jutai shades and Crimson Hunters struggled around them, swords and axes flashing against mandibles and razor-edged spider legs. Mazael saw a Crimson Hunter go down, torn apart by Jutai axes, and a half-dozen Jutai warriors vanished into golden mist as the Crimson Hunters struck back. A Crimson Hunter came at him, and Mazael dodged, stabbing Talon into its side. The creature shuddered and ripped free of the weapon, and the Jutai shades swarmed the giant spider, hitting it a dozen times in a single heartbeat. The Crimson Hunter vanished into the spirit world, and Mazael pushed through the melee to find Rigoric.

The Champion slashed around him with his greatsword, cutting down every Jutai shade that approached him. The shades might have been immaterial creatures, but Rigoric was able to wound them, his sword shattering them into mist and wisps of golden light. Mazael sprinted at him, and Rigoric turned, identifying him as the greater threat. The greatsword swept for his head, and Mazael ducked under it, Talon skidding off Rigoric’s armor. The Champion started after him but staggered as a Jutai shade jabbed a translucent sword into the side of his neck, steel threads bursting from the wound.

The Jutai might have been immaterial, but it seemed that their swords could harm the Champion.

And Mazael had his opening. He had been trying to find a way to distract Rigoric, trying to find a way to close with the armored man, but Rigoric had been too canny of a fighter. Now, though, the Jutai shades swarmed over the hilltop, and Mazael had his chance.

He struck again and again, aiming his blows at Rigoric’s black-armored legs. Talon’s edge skidded off the steel armor, though from time to time the curved sword found a gap and bit into the flesh. Rigoric tried to respond, but a mob of Jutai warriors had clustered around him, stabbing and slashing. To keep from getting surrounded, Rigoric had no choice but to fall back, his greatsword ripping apart a Jutai shade with every swing.

Then one of the Jutai hit Rigoric’s right leg, and Mazael had his opening.

As the Champion stumbled, the wound knitting itself shut, Mazael threw himself forward. Rigoric tried to bring his greatsword around, but his balance was wrong, and Mazael kicked the injured leg before it could heal. Rigoric stumbled, and Mazael slammed into him with all the strength and speed he could muster. The Champion fell hard upon his back with a clang of armor, his greatsword falling from his grasp.

Rigoric reacted at once, reaching for his greatsword and punching for Mazael’s face. Mazael ducked his head, taking the hit on the crown of his head. It felt as if he had been hit with a falling rock, pain exploding down his neck and back, but he had been hit many times before and knew how to keep going.

Mazael rammed the tip of Talon below Rigoric’s chin and shoved, driving the blade into the soft flesh around the metallic edge of the Mask. Rigoric heaved and hit Mazael again, his head ringing with the force of the blow, but this time the punch didn’t have nearly as much power.

He was disrupting Rigoric’s connection to the Mask.

Mazael pinned his knees against Rigoric’s arms, shoving Talon with all his strength. The blade slipped forward another inch with a ghastly ripping noise, and a violent shudder went through the Champion. Mazael dropped Talon’s hilt, gripped the edges of the Mask of the Champion with both hands, and wrenched. For a moment nothing happened. He pulled Rigoric’s head forward, the Champion’s struggles growing feebler.

Then the Mask jerked away with a spray of blood, and Mazael saw just why the Mask of the Champion had cost Rigoric his power of speech.

For the first time, Mazael looked on what remained of Rigoric’s face.

His eyes were intact and darted back and forth in agonized panic. Below his eyes, nothing remained of his face but a seeping crater. Nestled within the crater was a small metallic spider that twitched as the light fell upon it. The thing was the size of Mazael’s thumb, and it had spun a web of steel threads within the bloody crater, the threads sinking into Rigoric’s flesh and weaving into his veins.

So that explained the steel webs that had healed Rigoric’s wounds.

Mazael stood, grabbed Talon’s hilt, and brought the sword down. He took off Rigoric’s head on the second blow, and the Champion’s mutilated head rolled away. The spider scurried out of Rigoric’s skull, and Mazael took one quick step and crushed the vile thing beneath his boot.

Rigoric’s body shuddered as the web of metal in his flesh unraveled, and his corpse simply…fell apart.

That made a mess.

Mazael grimaced, shook his aching head, and hurried to find the others. Romaria, Earnachar, and Basjun all fought back to back, shielding Azurvaltoria and Timothy as they flung fire at the Crimson Hunters. All five of them seemed to have come through the fight alive, though they all looked on the edge of exhaustion.

“What is going on, sir?” said Basjun. “It seems the dead have risen and are fighting for us.”

“They are Jutai swordthains and spearthains,” said Earnachar, his eyes wild. Maybe he feared that the ghostly warriors would realize how badly he had treated the remnant of the Jutai nation. “I saw some of them die during our journey from the middle lands to the Grim Marches.”

“Sigaldra must have sounded the Horn of Doom and Fate,” said Azurvaltoria. She sounded thoughtful. “I did not anticipate this. Sounding the Horn should have killed Sigaldra and done nothing at all. But the Prophetess’s summoning spell has drawn so much magical power to the Heart of the Spider that the results of the Horn’s use are…unpredictable.”

“We can speculate later,” said Mazael. “If the Jutai shades are keeping the Crimson Hunters busy, then we can take the Prophetess.”

“What about Rigoric?” said Earnachar.

“He’s dead, of course,” said Romaria. “Mazael killed him.”

Earnachar frowned. “You saw? When?”

“I didn’t see.” Romaria smiled. “I had faith.”

Earnachar muttered something but fell silent.

“Come,” said Mazael. “This battle isn’t over yet.”

Chapter 19: Competing Destinies

“Father,” said Sigaldra, her voice a croak.

Adalar looked at the old warrior. He could see the family resemblance. Theodoric of the Jutai had the same blue eyes as his daughters, the same blond hair, though his had gone to gray. His face was lined and weary, though he still looked strong enough that Adalar would not have wanted to face him in battle.

Save, of course, for the fact that he had been dead for years.

“Sigaldra,” said Theodoric, his voice carrying a strange, resonant echo. “It is good to see that you still live.”

“I saw you die,” said Sigaldra, her voice shaking. “I saw that balekhan cut you down, though you struck the Malrag down in your death. I burned you and placed your ashes in our ancestral urn with the ashes of my brothers, I saw…” Her hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with astonishment.

The shades of four Jutai men, older than Sigaldra and Liane yet younger than Theodoric, stood behind the Jutai hrould. They looked like younger versions of Theodoric, or perhaps male versions of Sigaldra, and Adalar realized these were Sigaldra’s brothers, all killed during the war of the Jutai against the Malrag hordes.

“Yes, my daughter,” said Theodoric. “I have been dead a long time. We all have. Yet you have called us back to the mortal world.” He looked at the Horn lying discarded upon the ground, its sides blazing with golden fire. “We were beyond the reach of even that mighty relic. Yet terrible powers have been loosed upon this mountain, and in this time and this place your will and the relic called us back.”

“I tried,” said Sigaldra, and to Adalar’s shock, there were tears on her face. During all they had been through together, even during her lowest point after the soliphage had lured her into its cave, he had never once seen her cry. “I tried so hard to protect what was left of the Jutai. We made it out of the middle lands, to the Grim Marches. I hoped we would be safe here, that the Malrags wouldn’t follow us, but there have been new dangers…”

“I know,” said Theodoric, his sons standing silently behind him. “I see the shadow of that pain upon you. I am sorry, daughter. The burden was never meant to pass to you. I wish that it had not been so.”

“Lord Theodoric,” said Adalar, and the shade’s eyes shifted to him.

“Who are you, warrior?” said Theodoric. “I see a destiny upon you.” He tilted his head to the side. “You have bound yourself to my daughter with deeds of courage. She owes you her life. Speak.”

“Your other daughter,” said Adalar. “Liane. She’s still alive. A sorceress is going to kill her and use her blood to raise an ancient goddess of cruelty and power.”

“A vile crime,” said one of the warriors standing behind Theodoric.

“It is, Mardulf,” said Theodoric. “Liane was a special child. Her blood carries power. A sorceress could use her blood to work great evil.”

“It hasn’t happened yet, Lord Theodoric,” said Adalar. “She’s still alive. The spell isn’t finished. If we hasten, we can yet save her.”

“Yes,” said Theodoric. “The Jutai shall march to war one final time. These spider-demons are servants of the sorceress?”

“They are,” said Adalar. “They serve the creature that calls itself Marazadra.”

“The great spider of old,” said Mardulf. “The soliphages pray to her.”

“The sorceress calls herself the Prophetess,” said Adalar, “and is trying to summon Marazadra through Liane’s body and power.”

“This cannot stand, father,” said another of Sigaldra’s brothers.

“It shall not, Algar,” said Theodoric. “Come! Let us conquer these spider-demons and teach this Prophetess what it means to make war upon the Jutai.”

Sigaldra started after them, her left leg twitching. “I shall come with you.”

“You should rest,” said Adalar, but even as he spoke he knew it was futile.

“No,” said Sigaldra. “Not for anything. I won’t let that wretched woman harm my sister. I can rest when we’re victorious or when I’m dead.”

Adalar nodded and walked with Sigaldra towards the central altar.

The shades of the Jutai warriors followed them.

###

Mazael ran past the rows of flickering, golden-lined shades. All of the Jutai dead were moving towards the center of the circle, and ahead he glimpsed the black carapaces of Crimson Hunters. The rift above the altar had swelled in size, growing larger and wider. More whips of purple lightning coiled and lashed against the sky, and seemed to grow brighter even against the golden light rising from the mist around the hilltop.

A flicker of golden fire caught Mazael’s eye. He spotted the Horn of Doom and Fate lying on its side on the ground, glowing with a golden fire that looked similar to the symbols upon his sword blade and the power of Riothamus’s unleashed magic. Mazael stooped, picked it up, and handed it to Timothy.

“Hold on to that,” he said. “I suspect we do not want the Prophetess to get it back.”

“Mazael,” said Romaria. “That Horn…the magic is of the High Elderborn, like your old sword Lion and Riothamus’s staff.”

“Truly?” said Azurvaltoria.

“I’m sure of it,” said Romaria. “The Sight shows it to me. It’s the same kind of power.”

“We can worry about it later,” said Mazael.

Through the crowds of shades, Mazael spotted Sigaldra and Adalar. Sigaldra was limping, her left leg twitching, and Adalar’s free hand kept reaching towards her, as if wanting to stabilize her, but Sigaldra kept going. Five shades walked around her like a guard of honor, their appearance so like Sigaldra’s that Mazael supposed they were her dead family, called back from the shadows of the grave by the power of the Horn.

“Lord Mazael,” said Adalar.

“What did you do?” said Mazael.

They did not slow as they advanced towards the altar, the host of the dead Jutai flowing around them like smoke.

“I did what Liane told me to do,” said Sigaldra, her voice tight with grief and rage and wild hope. “I sounded the Horn when the moment came. It worked just as Azurvaltoria said. It called back the shades of the dead.”

“It did not work just as I said it would,” said Azurvaltoria. “It should have killed you when you attempted to bind the dead to your will.”

“Do you think we return by compulsion?” said the oldest of the five Jutai shades. He had a lordly look to him, the air of a man accustomed to command. “The Horn called us forth, but we are not slaves. We are Jutai. We fight for ties of blood and nation. No one shall threaten the children of the Jutai and live.”

Earnachar’s face twitched. Had Sigaldra’s father still been alive, Mazael doubted that Earnachar would have dared to harass the Jutai.

“You have strange companions, daughter,” said the Jutai lord. “A dragon bound in human form.” Azurvaltoria grinned and did that mocking little bow, gripping the skirts of her red coat. “A woman with an Elderborn soul.” Romaria looked at him without blinking. “A wizard and a Tervingi.” Earnachar stuck out his jaw belligerently, while Timothy only bowed, and the Jutai lord’s eyes turned to Mazael. “And this man…gods and ancestors. I see the shadows of his past upon him.”

“A dire sight, I fear,” said Mazael.

“He is the lord of war,” said the Jutai lord. “He has shattered many foes and cast them down in defeat.” For a moment a flicker of fear went over his face. “Who are you?”

“I am Mazael Cravenlock,” said Mazael, “Lord of the Grim Marches, and both the Tervingi nation and the Jutai nation have sworn to me as their hrould.”

“Truly?” said the Jutai lord, his surprise clear. Even the dead did not know everything, it seemed.

“He has kept faith with me, father,” said Sigaldra, looking at Mazael. “Even when I thought he would not.”

“Then I am Theodoric, a hrould of the Jutai nation,” said the Jutai lord, “and I am grateful that you have protected my people.”

“That is what I have been trying to do,” said Mazael.

Theodoric nodded, and the altar came into sight through the massed Jutai shades.

The Prophetess was ready for them.

###

Romaria had given Sigaldra another quiver of arrows, and she set a shaft to the string, preparing herself for the fight.

Liane still lay atop the altar, the Mask of Marazadra glowing with purple light against her face. The Prophetess stood behind the altar, red maethweisyr in hand, her face bloodied and bruised. Sigaldra felt a vicious satisfaction at the sight.

Nearly twenty Crimson Hunters waited in a ring around the altar, motionless as statues, their eight eyes and the crimson hourglass shapes upon their carapaces glowing. The sight of so many of the deadly creatures chilled Sigaldra. The Horn had called hundreds of the Jutai dead to the Heart of the Spider, but Sigaldra did not know if even those numbers could stand against that many Crimson Hunters.

“You slew Rigoric,” spat the Prophetess, her face twisting with hate.

“Actually, you killed him,” said Mazael. “If you had wanted him to live, you shouldn’t have let a metal spider eat his face.”

The Prophetess shuddered with rage. “And do you think your army of shadows will save you, Sigaldra of the Jutai? Your nation is dust, and the last remnants shall soon join them in the ashes of history.”

“Vile sorceress,” said Theodoric. “Harlot of a false goddess.” Earnachar snickered, and the Prophetess twitched with anger again. “You will perish for attempting this crime.”

“No,” said the Prophetess. “Sigaldra! It is well you summoned your dead kin to your side. For all shall bow before the power of Marazadra, even the dead. Behold! Marazadra returns!”

She raised the maethweisyr high over her head, the blade erupting into purple fire, and Sigaldra screamed and loosed an arrow. It struck the Prophetess in the chest and bounced away, deflected by her warding spells. Celina du Almaine tensed like a bowstring and brought the dagger plunging down.

But instead of Liane’s chest, she buried the maethweisyr in the altar.

Marazadra needed to return to a living vessel…and the hour of rebirth had come.

A thunderclap rang over the hill, and the rift seemed to shriek in triumph. The whips of purple lightning turned and latched onto the Mask of Marazadra, power pouring through the rift and into Liane. Even through the chaos, Sigaldra heard Liane’s scream, and her sister started to thrash against her bonds.

“Too late!” crowed the Prophetess. “Witness the return of Marazadra. Witness her return in the final moment of your lives! Kill them!”

The Crimson Hunters blurred forward. Theodoric roared a battle cry, and the shades of the Jutai rushed to meet the giant spiders, ghostly swords and axes clashing against razor-edged legs and dripping mandibles.

###

Mazael sprinted into the chaos, striking with Talon as he hewed his way into the melee.

He had to reach Liane. A cold feeling settled around Mazael’s heart as he realized that he would likely have to kill the girl. If he did not kill Liane now, then Marazadra would rise, and thousands would perish. Better than one girl died instead of thousands.

Except there might be another way.

The Mask of Marazadra was the key. The Prophetess had needed a vessel for the power, which was why she had kidnapped Liane, and she needed a catalyst for the spell, which was why she had stolen some of his blood, but the Mask was central to all of it.

Mazael had defeated Rigoric by ripping off the Mask of the Champion, and he had defeated Basracus by destroying his talisman.

So what would happen if he pulled the Mask of Marazadra off Liane before it was too late?

Mazael didn’t know, but he wanted to find out.

He hewed at a Crimson Hunter, hammering at one of its legs with Talon. At last, he hacked through the joint and the giant spider lost its balance, its belly bouncing off the ground as it tried to stand back up. Three of the Jutai shades sprang upon its back, their axes rising and falling. Mazael kept running, dodging past the attack of another Crimson Hunter. Around him, fire flashed and cracked as Timothy and Azurvaltoria threw their spells into the fray, but there were too many Crimson Hunters for their magic to reach the Prophetess.

Mazael dodged the attack of a Crimson Hunter, rolled under another giant spider, and came to his feet before the altar.

Liane thrashed and screamed, silent lightning pouring into the Mask of Marazadra. The Prophetess took three quick steps back behind the altar, watching Mazael with narrowed eyes as shadow and fire gathered in her fists.

“I’ve been looking forward to this,” she spat. “I look forward to presenting the goddess with the corpse of the son of her greatest enemy. Perish, Mazael Cravenlock.”

She raised her hands, and Mazael threw Talon at her.

It was a stupid move.

The curved sword had not been balanced for throwing, and the spinning blade came nowhere near hitting the Prophetess. Yet she flinched away, raising her arms to cover her face, and she lost the spell.

Her instant of hesitation gave Mazael his last chance.

He sprinted forward, leaped on the altar, and came to his knees next to Liane. The harsh purple light filled his vision, and he felt the terrible power radiating from the Mask of Marazadra, power enough to crack the world in half.

Mazael thrust his hands into that power, his fingers grasping the edge of the Mask.

The Prophetess staggered up and saw what he was doing.

“No!” she shouted, starting her spell again. “Stop! Stop at once!”

Liane shuddered beneath Mazael’s grasp, pain flaring up his arms from touching the Mask. In a single desperate motion, he got his legs beneath him and stood, pulling the Mask up with him. For a moment he pulled Liane’s head up, and then the Mask tore free with a splash of blood. Mazael feared that removing the Mask had destroyed Liane’s face the way it had ripped apart Rigoric, but he saw Liane’s wide blue eyes staring at him, her mouth hanging open in a scream, and only shallow cuts marked the side of her jaw and cheek where the Mask’s claws had grasped her.

Still the silent ribbons of lightning poured into the Mask, the power of Marazadra trying to find a mortal vessel.

The power tried to enter Mazael, power as vast as the ocean and as unyielding as the mountains.

Pain erupted through him, and he screamed as every fiber of his body and every part of his soul rejected the power with an explosion of rage.

He was Demonsouled, the last child of the Old Demon, and the power of Marazadra loathed everything about him. Mazael staggered, gripping the blazing Mask in his fists, and for a moment he glimpsed Marazadra’s spirit staring at him from the rift with malignant hunger, seeming to appear as a spider the size of Mount Armyar. He felt her loathing and contempt for him and knew that if he had been foolish enough to accept her offers, she would have destroyed him at the first opportunity out of simple spite.

But the power was still pouring into him. It had to go somewhere. The Prophetess had summoned the power, but Mazael was an unsuitable vessel.

Celina du Almaine glared at him, her expression caught between horror and rage.

Mazael was not a suitable vessel for the Mask’s power…but in a flash of insight, he realized that the Prophetess was also not suitable. Else why had she not tried to take the power for herself? She would have exulted in becoming Marazadra reborn.

The power had to go somewhere.

Mazael hurled the blazing Mask at the Prophetess’s face.

She just had time to realize what he had done, and her face went slack with horror. The Mask hit her in the neck, and at once the metallic legs unfurled, stabbing into her throat and shoulder, the fangs biting her jaw.

“No!” she screamed. “No, not me! Not me!”

A furious howl came from the rift, and the ground shook. Mazael yanked the dagger from his belt and cut the ropes from Liane’s wrists and ankles. The girl had the presence of mind to help him, kicking away the torn ropes.

The Prophetess kept screaming, and as she did, she began to transform. Her skin changed, becoming gray and sallow. Metal creaked, and cloth tore as her body swelled, bursting free from her armor. There were wet tearing sounds as extra eyes appeared on her face, glowing with purple light, and a thick, misshapen spider leg burst from her hip, stroking her side. The Prophetess screamed and screamed, clawing at the Mask on her neck, but she could not pull it free.

“We must go, hrould!” shouted Liane. “She cannot hold the power! It will destroy her…and the explosion…”

“Damn it!” snarled Mazael, grabbing the girl and slinging her over his shoulder.

He jumped from the altar and ran as fast as he could. The Prophetess’s agonized shrieks rose from behind him but were drowned out by the howling roar coming from the rift. The entire hill shuddered, and Mazael had the suspicion that the mountain was trembling with the released energies.

He ran as fast as he could, heading towards Romaria and Timothy and the others. Perhaps Timothy could work some sort of warding spell to blunt the force of the explosion, or maybe Azurvaltoria had a spell that could protect them.

The rift exploded, and purple light filled the world.

The hot wind knocked Mazael from his feet and flung him to the ground, Liane rolling from his shoulder.

###

The gale threw Sigaldra to the ground, the roar filling her ears.

Perhaps they had failed, and Marazadra had been reborn, ripping apart the world in her birth like a lizard tearing its way free from an egg. Or perhaps the Prophetess had failed, and the collapse of her spell had doomed them all.

Slowly the terrible roar faded, and the wind subsided.

Sigaldra blinked her eyes open.

The first thing she saw was Adalar. He had dropped to the ground next to her, shielding her from the explosion with his armored body. She feared he had been burned or killed, but he did not look any more injured than he had been already. He grunted and started to stand, and Sigaldra helped him up. Or she tried to, anyway. They wound up leaning on each other as they stood.

Mazael groaned and sat up a dozen yards away.

“Sigaldra?”

She turned at the familiar voice.

Liane got to her feet next to Mazael. She had some bleeding cuts on her jaw, but she looked otherwise unhurt.

“Liane?” said Sigaldra, unable to believe her eyes.

Liane sprinted forward and leaped into Sigaldra’s arms, and the impact nearly knocked her to the ground. Only Adalar’s presence kept them both from falling.

“It’s over,” said Liane, weeping, “it’s over, all the destinies changed when he took the Mask off me, when…”

“Look out!” cracked Mazael’s voice.

Sigaldra turned as two Crimson Hunters raced towards them. She cursed and looked around for a weapon, while Adalar shoved Sigaldra and Liane behind him, raising the talchweisyr. The Crimson Hunters surged forward, raising up on their hind legs to spear him with their front legs.

Then both Crimson Hunters disappeared in a line of brilliant orange-white flame, vanishing in an instant as the fire consumed them.

Sigaldra raised her hand to shield her face from the heat, and a thunderous roar boomed overhead.

She looked up as the dragon soared past, breathing another lance of flame that consumed a trio of Crimson Hunters. The dragon was nearly a hundred feet long from snout to tail, her sleek form armored in scales of electric blue. Her forelimbs and hind legs were tipped with claws like sword blades, and her great black wings opened behind her like vast sails. Her huge eyes were a pale shade of blue, and her dagger-like teeth were very white and very sharp.

Azurvaltoria had resumed her true form and poured out her burning vengeance on the surviving Crimson Hunters.

“I think,” said Adalar, his voice shaky, “I think she’s a little angry at the Prophetess’s servants.”

“This is so,” agreed Liane, her calm returned once more.

Sigaldra blinked, catching her breath, and saw her father staring at her.

###

“Mazael,” said Romaria, grabbing his shoulders. “You’re not hurt?”

“I’ve been better,” said Mazael, watching Azurvaltoria’s flight overhead, “but I’ve been much worse.” Timothy, Earnachar, and Basjun joined them, Crouch gazing at the sky, his fur matted with blood and soliphage ichor. The big dog seemed unsure what to make of the dragon.

“Then we are victorious?” said Earnachar.

“Almost,” said Mazael. “There is one thing left to do. Witness it if you wish.”

He walked towards the empty altar, Romaria, Earnachar, Timothy, and Basjun following him. Mazael retrieved his dagger from the altar. Talon lay in the dirt near the altar’s side, and Mazael lifted the sword, the symbols on the blade flashing.

A wet slurping sound came from the other side of the altar, followed by a hideous moaning.

Mazael circled the altar and looked at the twisted thing that had been the Prophetess of Marazadra.

Celina du Almaine had been a woman of remarkable beauty, but there was no trace of that beauty now. Her torso had swollen into a massive bag of gray flesh in imitation of a spider’s abdomen, glistening with slime, and her arms and legs seemed almost comically small contrasted against the bulk. Spider legs had erupted almost at random from her sides, twisted and useless, twitching as they tried to lift her. Eight more glowing, misshapen eyes dotted her forehead and her temples, and her body jerked and heaved as she struggled to breathe. The soliphages had their own dark grace, but the Prophetess looked like a hideous hybrid of human and spider, the worst qualities of both fused together at random.

The stench coming from her was hideous.

“Gods,” said Timothy.

Liane had been right. The Prophetess had not been a suitable vessel for the power.

The Prophetess’s face turned towards Mazael, almost lost in the growths of corrupted flesh that had sprouted from her shoulders. The Mask clung to the space that had been her neck, but it looked twisted and blackened, like a branch thrust into the fire.

“No,” croaked the Prophetess. “No. The goddess will come. I am her messenger, I am her herald. I shall teach the world virtue through her fear. I shall…”

“No. She was never a goddess. Merely another predator looking for prey. And it is probably a mercy,” said Mazael, “that you cannot see yourself.”

He lifted Talon and hacked through her thick neck in four blows. She screamed on the first blow, black slime spurting from her veins, and fell silent at the second. The misshapen head rolled away, trailing a greasy curtain of red hair, and the Mask of Marazadra fell from her neck and crumbled into ash.

“Now,” said Mazael, straightening up, “now we are victorious.”

“Let us be away from here, then,” said Earnachar. He seemed almost subdued for once. “The smell is…unpleasant.”

“Truly,” said Mazael.

He walked around the altar, Azurvaltoria’s triumphant roars ringing over the Heart of the Spider, and stopped in surprise.

The Jutai shades were still there, hundreds of them.

Except they seemed more solid than he remembered.

###

“Father?” whispered Sigaldra.

Theodoric stared at her, blinking in confusion, and her brothers stood around her father. The outline of golden light had vanished from him and the other Jutai, and the curtains of mist had departed.

Yet the Jutai dead were still here.

More, they were solid. She could no longer see through them. In fact, she thought they were breathing, and she could smell them, smell the familiar smells of sweat and oil and leather.

“Sigaldra?” said Theodoric. “Liane? I…do not understand.” He shook his head, still blinking. “It is like I have awakened from a dream.”

Sigaldra walked towards him, feeling as if she was in a dream herself, Adalar on her right and Liane upon her left. Liane stared at Theodoric for a moment and then smiled to herself.

“The destiny has changed,” she pronounced. “It is the nature of evil. Marazadra and the Prophetess sought to do great evil and summoned power for that. Yet evil can do good it did not intend, and so it has happened. The power she summoned wrought good that they did not intend.”

Sigaldra reached up a trembling hand and touched her father’s face. The skin was warm, the stubble rough beneath her fingers, and she felt his pulse, felt his breath.

He was alive. All the Jutai around her were alive.

“My daughters,” said Theodoric. “I do not understand how, but I am glad to see you again.”

He gathered Liane and Sigaldra in his arms, and she pressed her face into his chest and wept.

Chapter 20: The Last of the Jutai

“It is,” said Riothamus the next morning, gazing at the Horn of Doom and Fate, “a relic of the High Elderborn indeed.”

Mazael and the others had gathered in the southern fane of the Heart of the Spider, the skythains and their griffins patrolling overhead. He had no major fear of attack at the moment. Molly and Riothamus and the wizards had destroyed most of the soliphages and valgast priests and all of the Spider Guards. A host of thousands of valgasts had poured up the slopes of Mount Armyar, heading for the Heart of the Spider, only to encounter Azurvaltoria. The enraged dragon had needed to let out some frustrations, and she had incinerated thousands of the valgasts. The survivors fled in disarray back to Tchroth, and Azurvaltoria had flown away to the west, vanishing from sight.

Mazael wondered if he would ever see her again. The thought disappointed him more than he had expected. Still, she could do as she wished, so long as she did not harm the Grim Marches. Those lands were Mazael’s to protect.

As the Prophetess had found out the hard way.

Riothamus had laid the Horn upon a fallen stone, and they gathered around it. Molly stood next to her husband, and Mazael stood with Romaria and Earnachar and the others. The chief swordthains of the resurrected Jutai stood on the other side of the stone, gazing in wonderment at the Horn. Theodoric waited in their midst, stern and commanding, flanked by his sons. Sigaldra and Liane stood with their brothers, along with Adalar, and Sigaldra was holding Adalar’s hand.

Neither Theodoric nor his sons seemed to mind.

“How did it bring us back, Guardian?” said Theodoric. “For I was dead, as were all my men, I doubt it not.”

“Nor do I,” said Riothamus. “The Guardians of the High Elderborn, my predecessors, wrought this Horn in the deeps of time, during their bitter war against the Demonsouled and the Dark Elderborn. It was designed to be an instrument of final defense. When a stronghold fell to the enemy, one of the remaining warriors could sound the Horn and summon the shades of all those who had died in defense of the stronghold. Hopefully, that would inflict great losses upon the attackers.”

“We were shades,” said Theodoric, “but now we are flesh and blood. More, I remember nothing from the other side, and it has been years since my death.”

“Time does not function the same way for spirits as it does for living mortals,” said Riothamus. “Likely the Horn called your soul from the moment of your death, before it could cross to the life beyond, and brought it here. As to your bodies of flesh and blood, the Prophetess summoned a vast quantity of magical power to resurrect Marazadra in the body of your daughter. When Lord Mazael disrupted the spell, the power no longer had a viable receptacle. It had to go somewhere…and it went into you.”

One of Theodoric’s sons, the eldest one, frowned. “Then we shall become these spider-monsters?”

“No,” said Riothamus. “The power of the Mask of Marazadra is broken. To put it simply, Sigaldra and the Prophetess brought you back to this world, entirely by accident.”

“Though your aid was timely,” said Mazael. “Without your help, I don’t think we could have made our way past the Crimson Hunters and stopped the Prophetess from killing Liane.”

Theodoric shook his head. “It is…strange to think of such things, strange to speak of them. I died in our homeland in the middle lands, and I feared all my nation would die with me. And then a moment later I wake up here, in an alien land, with my daughters fighting for their lives against the foe. It is strange, yet it is marvelous. Truly it is a miracle beyond all reckoning.”

“And we have a homeland again, father,” said Sigaldra. “Lord Mazael has given us lands along Greatheart Keep. We can return there and be at peace.”

Her eyes fell on Earnachar as she spoke. The Tervingi headman muttered something but did not answer. Mazael had no doubt that Earnachar would behave, especially since Theodoric would return to Greatheart Keep with seven hundred Jutai swordthains, all that the Horn had summoned.

Yet would the other Tervingi headmen hold themselves in check?

Mazael wasn’t sure. If enough of the Tervingi headmen decided that the Jutai now posed a threat, they might try to attack preemptively and present Mazael with a done deed. He would make them regret it, of course, but that might not stop them.

It was a problem to consider for later.

“We would be willing to follow you, Mazael Cravenlock,” said Theodoric. “Sigaldra says the survivors of the Jutai have already sworn to you as their hrould, and from what I have seen, you are a fell warrior. You would make a worthy hrould.”

“Thank you,” said Mazael. “Then as hrould, I give you my first command. Prepare your men to depart. We are leaving Skuldar and returning to the Grim Marches.”

“An excellent plan, father,” said Molly. “Just how are we going to get this many men past Armalast and into the Grim Marches?”

“Very carefully,” said Mazael.

Molly sighed.

###

As it happened, it took only three days to get from the Heart of the Spider back to the camp at Weaver’s Pass. Basjun’s knowledge of the paths of the Skuldari Mountains proved useful, and soon they returned to the Weaver’s Vale. Several times they encountered Skuldari warbands, but the warriors backed off, unwilling to challenge so many. It seemed that with Basracus dead, the various clans and chieftains of the Skuldari had turned to warring with each other.

“I must return home, sir,” said Basjun as they reached Weaver’s Pass and began descending towards the Grim Marches. “With the High King dead, his followers and the priests of Marazadra will wage war against each other to succeed him. If the secret church acts now, perhaps we can carve out a portion of Skuldar free from the influence of the priests of the goddess and the soliphages.”

“If you want my help, tell your father he needs only to ask,” said Mazael.

“I shall, sir,” said Basjun. “Perhaps you shall be lord of at least part of Skuldar before the end. You rid us of both the High King and the Prophetess. Everyone in the secret church would be glad of your help.”

“My offer still stands,” said Mazael. “If you want to come to Castle Cravenlock and become master of the kennels, you are more than welcome.” Crouch barked his approval at the thought.

“Thank you, sir,” said Basjun, “but for now, I will return to my father.” He paused for a moment, frowning behind his black beard. “I think Skuldar is about to change, and I think it will change for the better. For too long we have hidden in our mountains, listening to the soliphages and the priests of Marazadra. Perhaps it is time we dealt more with the outside world, and not just smugglers like my father.”

“I think,” said Mazael, “that you are a wise young man, Basjun. Good luck.”

“Good luck, sir.”

They returned to the camp at Weaver’s Pass, and Mazael issued orders for his vassals to return to their homes. The Skuldari and the Prophetess had been defeated, and at an only minimal cost to the lords and knights and headmen and thains of the Grim Marches. Mazael spent the first day back at the camp in his pavilion, dictating letters to his scribes. When they had departed, he sat in his camp chair with a sigh, reaching for a cup of wine.

“I had no idea you were so industrious.”

Mazael looked up from the cup of wine.

Azurvaltoria sat in a chair across the table, again wearing the form of the black-haired young Skuldari woman, her lean body wrapped in a coat of crimson leather.

Mazael took a drink of wine and set the cup down. “I had no idea we would ever see you again.”

Azurvaltoria shrugged. “It had been a while since I was able to fly. It’s much more enjoyable than walking. Then I saw those valgasts swarming towards the Heart of the Spider, and I got carried away.”

“Since it resulted in a lot of dead valgasts,” said Mazael, “I’m not going to complain. Wine?”

She smiled. “How very chivalrous.” Mazael poured her a cup and passed it across the table. “You know, while in human form, I have taken lovers before.”

“Have you?” said Mazael. This was more information than he had wanted to know.

“And we are alone,” said Azurvaltoria, smiling over the wine cup.

“As I’ve told you before,” said Mazael, “I’m married. And if you are that eager for the company of a human man, go visit poor Basjun. You gave him enough grief for staring at you.”

Azurvaltoria laughed. “No, no, I think not.” She took a drink of wine. “I think I would prefer a mate of my own kind if one can be found.”

“Where will you go?” said Mazael.

“I don’t know,” said Azurvaltoria. She swirled the wine in the cup. “It’s a wide world, and I’ve been trapped in a very small part of it for a very long time. Perhaps I shall wander for a few decades.”

“You are welcome here,” said Mazael, “so long as you do not eat anyone in the Grim Marches.”

The dragon in human form laughed. “Perhaps a cow or two.”

“Only if you buy it first,” said Mazael.

That made her laugh harder. “I wouldn’t dream of hurting a single hair upon the head of anyone in the Grim Marches, Mazael Cravenlock. Do you know why the Prophetess failed? She would have triumphed, but she made one serious mistake.”

“She cheated at your game in the caverns of Veiled Mountain?” said Mazael. “We would not have gotten as far as we did without your help.”

“Even before that,” said Azurvaltoria. “She kidnapped Liane.”

Mazael shrugged. “She needed a girl with the Sight.”

“There are other scattered throughout the world,” said Azurvaltoria. “Our dear Lady Celina should have looked harder. Because when she kidnapped Liane, she kidnapped someone under your protection, and she brought your wrath down upon her head. Do you see now why I will not attack or consume anyone in the Grim Marches? I would not want you for an enemy.”

Mazael snorted. “You’re a dragon.”

“I would not want you for an enemy,” said Azurvaltoria.

They sat in silence for a while, and Mazael inclined his head.

The pavilion’s flap swung open, and Romaria stepped inside.

“Ah,” she said, looking at Azurvaltoria. “I thought the Sight detected you.”

“Lady Romaria,” said Azurvaltoria. “I came to say farewell and thank you…and to give you a warning.”

“A warning about what?” said Mazael.

“Other dark powers,” said Azurvaltoria. “Your father had many, many enemies, and none of them could defeat him. He destroyed some, but locked away many others…and now that he is slain, other dark powers might try to claim their share of the world. Marazadra was not the only one, nor even the most powerful. Be wary, Lord of Castle Cravenlock. You shall need your sword again soon enough.”

Mazael started to respond, and Azurvaltoria vanished without a trace, just as she had when masquerading as Mother Volaria.

“Do all dragons enjoy a dramatic exit?” said Mazael, scowling at the empty seat. “Or just her?”

Romaria laughed, crossed the tent, settled herself on his lap, and draped her arms over his shoulders. “I think dragons do as they wish. Are you done for the day?” She smiled and kissed him. “We haven’t been alone together for a while now.”

“I just have to talk to Adalar,” said Mazael.

“I think Adalar’s going to be busy for a while,” said Romaria.

“Really? Doing what?”

Romaria smiled.

###

Adalar stopped next to the crackling bonfire. Theodoric stood there, warming his hands against the flames. Night had fallen over the Grim Marches, though it still remained hot and dry, the wind carrying a harsh edge to it.

“Lord Adalar,” said Theodoric. “Welcome to our camp, such as it is.” Mazael had provided tents for the Jutai once they arrived, though finding enough had been something of a strain for the quartermaster.

“Hrould,” said Adalar. It seemed that Theodoric would remain a hrould, even though he would swear to Mazael. One hrould could swear to another, much as one lord could swear to another.

“It is good to see you,” said Theodoric, his face grave. “It seems we are to settle upon your father’s lands, so it is proper that we shall get to know each other.”

“They’re not my father’s lands any longer,” said Adalar. “They belong to the Jutai.” He took a deep breath. “About that. You know that the lands of the Jutai are surrounded by the Tervingi.”

“Lord Mazael will keep the peace,” said Theodoric.

“Lord Mazael cannot be everywhere at once,” said Adalar, “and the Jutai and the Tervingi are…not fond of one another.”

“No,” said Theodoric. “In ancient days, when both our nations were stronger, we often warred against each other. I fear the enmity has become bitter since the crimes of the hrould Ragnachar and his followers.”

“There will be a war between you and the Tervingi eventually,” said Adalar, “and even Mazael might not be able to stop it.”

“I know all this,” said Theodoric. “I assume you intend to do something about it.”

“Yes,” said Adalar. “Hrould…I would invite you and all the Jutai who are willing to come to settle near Castle Dominus, in the lands I hold for Lord Gerald. The runedead wiped out most of the people of those lands, and many long leagues lie desolate and abandoned. You would have ample room to settle and grow. You would have to swear to myself and Lord Gerald Roland as your hroulds, of course, but Lord Gerald would leave you in peace, save when you need to march alongside his other vassals to war.”

“It would be an arrangement similar to the one the Tervingi have with Lord Mazael,” said Theodoric.

“Yes,” said Adalar. “And Lord Gerald holds the supreme authority in Mastaria and Knightcastle. The Tervingi could not attack you without drawing Lord Gerald’s wrath, and since Lord Gerald is married to Mazael’s sister, neither of them would ever allow it. For that matter, Castle Dominus is a long way from the Grim Marches, and the Jutai would be far from the Tervingi. There are many other foes to trouble the Tervingi long before they ever turn their attention to you.”

Theodoric inclined his head. “You speak wisdom, Lord Adalar. I will accept your proposal, assuming the swordthains of the Jutai nation and Lord Mazael himself approve. But I do not think they will disagree.”

Adalar nodded. That had been the easy part. “There is…one other matter I wish to discuss with you, hrould.”

“Oh?” said the old warrior. “What else?”

Best to say it as quickly as possible. “I wish to marry your daughter.”

Theodoric regarded him without blinking for a moment.

“Not yet,” he said. “Liane is almost of age, but not quite yet. Another year or two, I think, and she will be ready. Until…”

“No!” said Adalar. “I mean…” He took a deep breath. “I meant Sigaldra, hrould. I want to marry Sigaldra.”

For another moment Theodoric stared at him, and then for the first time, the old warrior smiled.

“I know,” he said. “That was obvious. Forgive me. It has been a while since I have been able to amuse myself.”

“Yes,” said Adalar. “About that…”

“I think,” said Theodoric, “that Sigaldra has quite made up her own mind. My oldest daughter was always willful.” He gestured at one of the tents in the Jutai encampment. “Perhaps you should speak with her on the topic.”

“I shall,” said Adalar. “Thank you.”

Theodoric nodded, and Adalar crossed the camp to Sigaldra’s tent, the talchweisyr thumping against his back in its scabbard. “Sigaldra?”

“Come in,” came her voice.

Adalar lifted the flap and stepped into the narrow tent. A bedroll rested against one wall, alongside a wooden chest, and a bronze brazier gave off a dim light. Sigaldra rose from the chest where she had been sitting, her feet bare. She had traded her traveling clothes for a loose shirt and skirt that looked more comfortable.

“Adalar.” She smiled at him. “You talked to my father, didn’t you?”

“I did.” He stepped closer, hesitated. “I asked the Jutai to come to Mastaria, Sigaldra. The lands there are empty, and you should be able to live in peace, away from the Tervingi or anyone else. You will have to swear to Lord Gerald, and your thains will have to fight in his armies, but he is a just lord, and the Tervingi will not trouble you.”

He half-expected disapproval, but instead she smiled, her eyes glinting in the light from the brazier. “Adalar. That is very generous. Thank you.”

Adalar nodded. His mouth had gone dry. Her skin seemed to glow in the dim light from the brazier. He noticed that she had bathed since they had arrived in the camp, and he realized that she smelled of some delicate perfume.

“Did my father say anything else?” said Sigaldra.

“I asked him if I could marry you,” said Adalar.

She raised her eyebrows. “And you didn’t think to ask me? I should be offended, Lord Adalar.”

“Fine,” said Adalar. He closed the distance between them, put his arms around her, drew her close, and kissed her. His heart sounded like a drumbeat in his ears. He pulled away from her, and Sigaldra let out a little gasp, her lips parted. “Marry me.”

“Yes,” said Sigaldra, and she kissed him again, pressing against him. Adalar’s hands settled on her hips and then started to slide up her back beneath her shirt, the skin smooth and warm beneath his fingers.

She didn’t try to stop him.

He gripped the shirt and started to pull it off her, and she didn’t try to stop him. Instead, she raised her arms over her head, helping him to get the garment off her. Beneath the shirt she wore nothing at all, her chest rising and falling with the rapid draw of her breath. He gripped the waistband of her skirt and tugged, sending it sliding down her legs, and beneath that she wore nothing, either.

She looked so good he could not take her eyes from her.

“Adalar,” said Sigaldra. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin as if displaying herself for him. “You’re going to marry me. What are you going to do about it?”

The answer, of course, was obvious.

It was not the first time Adalar had been with a woman. During the desperate war against the runedead, Adalar had been certain that death awaited him in the next battle, and so he had hired a camp follower. While the experience hadn’t been unpleasant, it had been cold and unfulfilling. The woman had been efficient and bored, clearly eager to finish as quickly as possible to move on to the next paying customer. It wasn’t something he had pursued after the defeat of the runedead.

Sigaldra, though…Sigaldra wanted him there, and she made sure he knew it.

Later, after they had finished, Sigaldra lay sleeping against him, his chest against her back, and Adalar realized how carefully she had planned this. She had been waiting for him. Perhaps she had even set her father to wait outside the tent.

Adalar found that he approved. It was good for a man to have a clever wife.

He kissed the side of her neck and drifted to sleep.

###

A few weeks later Sigaldra stood and watched the Jutai leave for their new home.

They all came, following Sigaldra and her new husband and her father. Old Talchar One-Eye and his wife, the blacksmith Vorgaric and his wife Helen, Sigaldra’s bondswoman Ulfarna, and all the Jutai. Together they formed into a column and marched west, making for Castle Dominus and their new homeland. They bore their ancestral urns, holding the ashes of their ancestors, and together the Jutai living and dead left their old homeland for their new one.

“Did you foresee this?” said Sigaldra to her sister.

“No,” said Liane. “Yes. I mean, it was in one of the potential futures. But…it was the best of the potential futures, and I did not think it would truly happen.”

Sigaldra stood hand in hand with Adalar and watched her people for a moment, and then joined them.

###

Mazael sat atop his horse and watched the Jutai depart Greatheart Keep for Mastaria.

He hadn’t yet decided what to do with Greatheart Keep. Earnachar wanted it, but Earnachar wasn’t going to get it. Likely Mazael would give the fief to one of his knights, keeping Earnachar from building a bigger bloc of territory for himself. It would help strengthen the Grim Marches further.

The Grim Marches needed to be strong.

Mazael remembered Azurvaltoria’s warning about old dark powers returning, and touched the hilt of his sword.

If those dark powers came to the Grim Marches, he would make sure they regretted it.

THE END

Thank you for reading MASK OF SPELLS and the MASK OF THE DEMONSOULED trilogy! If you liked the book, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter, or watch for news on my Facebook page.

Other books by the author

The Demonsouled Saga

MAZAEL CRAVENLOCK is a wandering knight, fearless in battle and masterful with a sword.

Yet he has a dark secret. He is Demonsouled, the son of the ancient and cruel Old Demon, and his tainted blood grants him superhuman strength and speed. Yet with the power comes terrible, inhuman rage, and Mazael must struggle to keep the fury from devouring him.

But he dare not turn aside from the strength of his blood, for he will need it to face terrible foes.

The priests of the San-keth plot and scheme in the shadows, pulling lords and kingdoms upon their strings. The serpent priests desire to overthrow the realms of men and enslave humanity. Unless Mazael stops them, they shall force all nations to bow before the serpent god.

The Malrag hordes are coming, vast armies of terrible, inhuman beasts, filled with a lust for cruelty and torment. The Malrags care nothing for conquest or treasure, only slaughter. And the human realms are ripe for the harvest. Only a warrior of Mazael’s power can hope to defeat them.

The Dominiar Order and the Justiciar Order were once noble and respected, dedicated to fighting the powers of dark magic. Now they are corrupt and cynical, and scheme only for power and glory. They will kill anyone who stands in their way.

To defeat these foes, Mazael will need all the strength of his Demonsouled blood.

Yet he faces a far more terrible foe.

For centuries the Old Demon has manipulated kings and lords. Now he shall seize the power of the Demonsouled for himself, and become the a god of torment and tyranny.

Unless Mazael can stop him.

Read Demonsouled for free. Mazael's adventures continue in Soul of Tyrants, Soul of Serpents, Soul of Dragons, Soul of Sorcery, Soul of Skulls, and Soul of Swords, along with the short stories The Wandering Knight, The Tournament Knight, and The Dragon's Shadow. Get the first three books bundled together in Demonsouled Omnibus One.

The Ghosts Series

Once CAINA AMALAS was the shy daughter of a minor nobleman, content to spend her days in her father’s library.

Then sorcery and murder and her mother’s treachery tore her life apart.

Now she is a nightfighter of the Ghosts, an elite agent of the spies and assassins of the Emperor of Nighmar. She is a master of disguise and infiltration, of stealth and the shadows.

And she will need all those skills to defend the Empire and stay alive.

Corrupt lords scheme and plot in the shadows, desiring to pull down the Emperor and rule the Empire for their own profit and glory. Slave traders lurk on the fringes of the Empire, ready to seize unwary commoners and sell them into servitude in distant lands. Yet both slave traders and cruel lords must beware the Ghosts.

The Magisterium, the Imperial brotherhood of sorcerers, believe themselves the rightful masters of the Empire. With their arcane sciences, they plan to overthrow the Empire and enslave the commoners, ruling all of mankind for their own benefit. Only the Ghosts stand in the path of their sinister plans.

And the Moroaica, the ancient sorceress of legend and terror, waits in the shadows, preparing to launch a war upon the gods themselves. She will make the gods pay for the suffering of mankind...even if she must destroy the world to do it.

Caina Amalas of the Ghosts opposes these mighty enemies, but the cost might be more than she can bear.

Read Child of the Ghosts for free. Caina's adventures continue in Ghost in the Flames, Ghost in the Blood, Ghost in the Storm, Ghost in the Stone, Ghost in the Forge, Ghost in the Ashes, Ghost in the Mask, and Ghost in the Surge, along with the short stories Ghost Aria, Ghost Claws, Ghost Omens, The Fall of Kyrace, Ghost Thorns, Ghost Undying, Ghost Light, and Ghost Dagger, and the prequel novels Blade of the Ghosts and Champion of the Ghosts. Get the first three books bundled together in The Ghosts Omnibus One.

The Ghost Exile Series

Caina Amalas was a nightfighter of the Ghosts, the spies and assassins of the Emperor of Nighmar, and through her boldness and cunning saved the Empire and the world from sorcerous annihilation.

But the victory cost her everything.

Now she is exiled and alone in the city of Istarinmul, far from her home and friends. Yet a centuries-old darkness now stirs in Istarinmul, eager to devour the city and the world itself.

And Caina is the only one that stands in its way...

Read Ghost in the Cowl, Ghost in the Maze, Ghost in the Hunt, Ghost in the Razor, Ghost in the Inferno, Ghost in the Seal, Ghost in the Throne, Ghost in the Pact, and Ghost in the Winds along with the short stories Ghost Sword, Ghost Price, Ghost Relics, Ghost Keeper, Ghost Nails, Ghost Lock, Ghost Arts, Ghost Vigil, Ghost Mimic, and Ghost Vessel.

The Third Soul

RACHAELIS MORULAN is an Initiate of the Conclave, the powerful order of mighty mages. But to become a full Adept of the Conclave, she must first survive the Testing. Those who survive the Testing never speak of the trials they endured.

Those who fail the Testing are never seen again.

And now the Magisters of the Conclave have come to take Rachaelis to undertake the Testing. And there she shall face perils to both her body and her sanity.

And creatures that yearn to devour her soul.

If Rachaelis survives the Testing, she will face even more dangerous foes. The demons of the astral world watch the world of mortal men, desiring to rule it for themselves.

And some Adepts of the Conclave are eager to help them.

Read The Testing for free. Rachelis's trials continue in The Assassins, The Blood Shaman, The High Demon, The Burning Child, The Outlaw Adept, The Black Paladin, and The Tomb of Baligant. Read the entire series in The Third Soul Omnibus One and The Third Soul Omnibus Two.

The Frostborn Series

A thousand years ago, the last grandson of Arthur Pendragon led the survivors of Britain through a magical gate to a new world, a world of magic and high elves, of orcs and kobolds and stranger, darker creatures. Now the descendants of the exiles rule a mighty kingdom, peaceful and prosperous under the rule of the High King.

But a shadow threatens to devour the kingdom.

RIDMARK ARBAN was once a Swordbearer, a knight of renown. Now he is a branded outcast, stripped of his sword, and despised as a traitor.

But he alone sees the danger to come. The Frostborn shall return, and unless they are stopped, they will cover all the world in ice and a neverending winter.

CALLIANDE awakens in the darkness, her memories gone, and creatures of terrible power hunting her.

For she alone holds the secret that can save the world…or destroy it utterly.

The secret of the Frostborn.

Read Frostborn: The First Quest, followed by Frostborn: The Gray Knight, Frostborn: The Eightfold Knife, Frostborn: The Undying Wizard, Frostborn: The Master Thief, Frostborn: The Iron Tower, Frostborn: The Dark Warden, Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit, Frostborn: The Broken Mage, Frostborn: The World Gate, Frostborn: The High Lords, and Frostborn: The False King. and the prequel novel Frostborn: The Knight Quests along with the short stories The Orc's Tale, The Mage's Tale, The Thief's Tale, The Assassin's Tale, The Paladins's Tale, The Knight's Tale, The Soldier's Tale, and The Soldier's Tale. Read the first three books combined in Frostborn Omnibus One.

Mask of the Demonsouled Trilogy

MAZAEL CRAVENLOCK has prevailed over terrible foes and now rules the Grim Marches with firm justice. Yet ancient evils are stirring in the shadows, freed at last by Mazael's own hand. Unless Mazael fights with all his strength, the world will fall.

SIGALDRA is the last holdmistress of the Jutai nation, the final defender of her people. Now the darkness comes to devour the final remnant of Sigaldra's home and family. Even Sigaldra's courage may not be enough to turn aside the darkness.

Read Mask of Swords, Mask of Dragons, and Mask of Spells along with the short stories The Ransom Knight, The Bronze Knight, The Serpent Knight, and The Rune Knight.

The Tower of Endless Worlds

THOMAS WYCLIFFE just wants to finish his dissertation in peace and quiet. So when a man in a black robe appears in his closet, claiming to be the last of the Warlocks, Wycliffe figures it is a bad joke.

But he soon realizes the last of the Warlocks can give him power beyond imagining.

And all it will cost is his soul.

SIMON WESTER needs a job. Badly. So when a rich and powerful Senator offers him employment, he jumps at the chance. Sure, Simon expects to find some corruption, some shady deals.

He doesn't expect to find black magic.

LIAM MASTERE is a Knight of the Sacred Blade, defender of the mortal races. But can swords stand against guns? As bullets and bombs destroy his kingdom, Liam must risk everything to save his homeland's one chance of salvation.

By daring the horrors of the Tower of Endless Worlds…

Read The Tower of Endless Worlds for free. The saga of the Tower continues in A Knight of the Sacred Blade, A Wizard of the White Council, and The Destroyer of Worlds.

Cloak Games

In 2013, a gate to another world opened, and Elves used their magic to conquer Earth, crushing all resistance before them.

Three hundred years after the Conquest, the exiled Elven High Queen rules an orderly but stagnant Earth, with humanity forced to fight in the High Queen’s war against the traitors on the Elven homeworld.

Nadia Moran doesn’t care about that. She doesn’t care about the High Queen, or the Rebels seeking to overthrow her. All she cares about is getting her baby brother the treatments he needs to recover from his potentially fatal disease…and those treatments have a steep price.

Fortunately, Nadia has magic of her own, and she’s a very, very good thief.

Unfortunately, the powerful Elven lord Morvilind has a hold on Nadia. If she doesn’t follow his commands, her brother is going to die.

Of course, given how dangerous Morvilind’s missions are, Nadia might not live long enough to see her brother’s death…

Read Cloak Games: Thief Trap, Cloak Games: Frost Fever, Cloak Games: Rebel Fist, and Cloak Games: Shadow Jump, along with the short story Wraith Wolf.

About the Author

Standing over six feet tall, USA Today bestselling author Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair of a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.

He has written the DEMONSOULED series of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write THE GHOSTS sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the COMPUTER BEGINNER'S GUIDE series of computer books, and numerous other works. His books have sold over a half million copies worldwide.

Visit his website at:

http://www.jonathanmoeller.com

Visit his technology blog at:

http://www.computerbeginnersguides.com

Contact him at:

jmcontact@jonathanmoeller.com

You can sign up for his email newsletter here, or watch for news on his Facebook page or Twitter feed.

Glossary of Characters

ADALAR GREATHEART - Lord of Castle Dominus and a vassal of Malden Roland. Once the squire of Mazael Cravenlock, and known for his valor and skill with a sword.

ADELAIDE STORMSEA CHALSAIN – The bastard daughter of Lord Alberon of Castle Stormsea. Wed Prince Hugh Chalsain of Barellion after the defeat of the usurper Malaric, and is now Hugh's Lady Consort.

AEGIDIA - Once the Guardian of the Tervingi, the teacher of Riothamus, and the mother of Ragnachar. Betrayed and murdered by Ragnachar at Stone Tower.

AGANTYR – Formerly the High King of the Aegonar and the anointed of Sepharivaim. Killed by Hugh Chalsain during the defeat of the usurper Malaric.

AGARIC - A Tervingi swordthain sworn to Earnachar son of Balnachar.

AGRAVAIN RAINIER - Lord of Tumblestone and a vassal of Malden Roland. A skilled battle commander.

AIDAN TORMAUD - A Commander in the Justiciar Order. Fled with Gerald Roland, and now in rebellion against the Grand Master of the Justiciars. Now a vassal of Lord Gerald Roland.

ALBERON STORMSEA – Lord of Castle Stormsea, and now Prince Hugh's Lord Lieutenant in Barellion, though the Lady Consort holds most of the actual power. Known for his petulant and morose nature.

ALDANE ROLAND – The eldest son of Gerald and Rachel Roland. Now three years old.

ALGAR - Son of Theodoric of the Jutai and brother of Sigaldra and Liane. Killed fighting the Malrags in the middle lands.

AMALRIC GALBRAITH - A son of the Old Demon, and half-brother to Mazael Cravenlock. Formerly the Grand Master of the Dominiar Order, and killed by Mazael and Adalar Greatheart at the Battle of Tumblestone.

ARDANNA - The High Druid of the Elderborn tribes and Romaria Greenshield Cravenlock's mother.

ARDIFF - The bailiff of Blueholt village.

ARNULF, SON OF KAERWULF – Headman and swordthain of the Tervingi nation. Steady and unflappable in combat. A loyal follower of Mazael Cravenlock.

ATARANUR - The alias adopted by Lucan Mandragon while in disguise at Knightcastle. A High Elderborn title meaning "Lord of Gifts."

ATHAELIN GREENSHIELD - Romaria Greenshield Cravenlock's father, and formerly the Champion of Deepforest Keep. Killed by Ultorin during the siege of Deepforest Keep.

ATHANARIC - A hrould of the Tervingi nation, betrayed and murdered by Ragnachar at Stone Tower.

AULUS HIRTAN - A knight in Mazael Cravenlock's service, and Mazael's herald.

AZURVALTORIA - The dragon bound by the Old Demon to guard the Mask of Marazadra within the caverns of the Veiled Mountain.

BASJUN - Son of the merchant Danel, and a skilled hunter and tracker.

BASRACUS - A chieftain of the Skuldari. Claims to be the High King of all Skuldar.

BELIFANE ROLAND – The youngest son of Gerald and Rachel Roland, now a year and a half old. Named for Gerald’s elder brother, slain in battle against Lord Richard Mandragon of the Grim Marches.

BRYCE SPEARSHORE - Lord of Spearshore in southern Greycoast, and a loyal supporter of Prince Hugh Chalsain.

CALDARUS - The Grand Master of the Justiciar Order of knights. Famed for his ruthlessness and his single-minded advancement of the Justiciars' wealth and power. Corrupted by Lucan Mandragon, and then killed at the battle of the Northwater.

CARASTER – A renegade wizard and rebel, and one of the last remaining Demonsouled. Killed by Lucan Mandragon, and raised as a runedead wizard. His undead form was destroyed at the battle of the Northwater.

CIRCAN - A wizard formerly in Lord Malden's service, and now in the service of Lord Gerald Roland.

CORMANE - A Justiciar knight. Killed at the battle of the Northwater.

CORVAD – Son of Mazael Cravenlock and twin brother of Molly Cravenlock. Killed by Mazael in the throne chamber of Arylkrad.

CRAMTON - Formerly the innkeeper of Cravenlock Town, rescued from an unjust execution at the hands of Lord Mitor Cravenlock by Mazael Cravenlock. Now serves as Mazael's seneschal.

DANEL - A merchant of Skuldar. Father of Basjun.

EARNACHAR SON OF BALNACHAR – A headman of the Tervingi nation. Once a loyal supporter of the hrould Ragnachar, but now a grudging follower of Mazael Cravenlock. The village of Banner Hill, north of Greatheart Keep, is his hold.

EDGAR TALLBARTH – A knight of Greycoast, in service to Lord Alberon Stormsea of Castle Stormsea. A capable scout and skirmisher, skills acquired during his checkered past of stealing cattle from his neighbors.

EDMUND - The bailiff of the village of Lord's Stump.

EDMUND CROWHAND - The knight of Castyard and a vassal of Mazael Cravenlock.

ELISE – A maid in service to Rachel Roland of Knightcastle.

ETHRINGA DAUGHTER OF JORDANIC – A holdmistress of the Tervingi nation, respected and influential among the other holdmistresses. Known for her sharp tongue.

EVERARD CHALSAIN - Formerly Prince of Barellion and the liege lord of Greycoast. Murdered by Malaric during the Aegonar invasion of Greycoast.

GAITH KALBORN – The knight of Morsen Village, and a San-keth proselyte. Killed by Mazael Cravenlock during Corvad’s attack upon the village.

GARAIN ROLAND - Once Lord Malden's eldest son and the heir to Knightcastle. Murdered by the San-keth during the Malden's war against the Dominiar Order, making Tobias Roland the heir to Knightcastle.

GERALD ROLAND – The youngest son of Lord Malden Roland of Knightcastle. With all his brothers dead, he was the heir to Knightcastle, and led his father's vassals in a revolt. Now the Lord of Knightcastle and liege lord of Knightreach.

GRULDA - Owner of the Iron River Inn at Cravenlock Town.

HADRAINE - A commander of the Justiciar Order. Killed at the battle of the Northwater.

HAGEN BRIDGEBANE – The armsmaster of Castle Cravenlock, and one of Mazael’s loyal vassals. Known for his utter lack of humor.

HARBINGER - A rebel of Knightreach and a follower of Caraster.

HELEN - The Marcher-born wife of Vorgaric of Greatheart Keep.

HIRAM STORMCREST – Liege lord of the Stormvales, and lord of Castle Stormcrest. Generally ignored by his nominal vassals.

HIRUNE - The keeper of the Guesthouse in the Skuldari city of Armalast.

HJALSK - An Aegonar warrior, skilled at carpentry.

HUGH CHALSAIN – The Prince of Barellion and the liege lord of Greycoast. Formerly the youngest son of Prince Everard Chalsain, Hugh became Prince of Greycoast when Malaric murdered most of the House of Chalsain and usurped the Prince's throne.

KADARIUS - A commander of the Justiciar Order. Killed at the battle of the Northwater.

KALOCHAR SON OF VELCHAR - A Tervingi horsethain in service to Earnachar son of Balnachar.

KARLAM GANELON - Lord of Castle Rutagne in eastern Greycoast, and only a grudging supporter of Prince Hugh Chalsain. Killed by Hugh Chalsain during Lord Malden's siege of Barellion.

KULDURA - The wife of the Jutai swordthain Talchar.

LADY OF BLADES - A powerful spirit creature, and ruler of a domain within the spirit world.

LIANE - The sister of Sigaldra, the last holdmistress of the Jutai. Blessed and cursed with the Sight.

LUCAN MANDRAGON – A wizard of terrible power, and the architect of the catastrophic Great Rising. Bearer of the Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem. Killed by Mazael Cravenlock during the Great Rising, and now an undead revenant. Destroyed by the Old Demon in the Trysting Ways below Knightcastle.

KORVAGER – The High Priest of Sepharivaim among the Aegonar, second only to the Heralds and the High King himself. A powerful wizard, and ruthless even by the standards of the Aegonar. Slew himself in despair at the battle of Knightcastle.

MALARIC - The bastard son of Prince Everard Chalsain of Barellion. Using the skull of Corvad, Malaric obtained Demonsouled powers, and used them to slaughter his half-brothers and father and claim the throne of Barellion for himself. Later defeated and killed by a spirit he had attempted to enslave.

MALAVOST – A renegade wizard who tried to murder Aldane Belifane, using his blood to open the Door of Souls. Killed by Rachel Cravenlock Roland in the High Elderborn Temple atop Mount Tynagis.

MALDEN ROLAND - Lord of Knightcastle, husband to Rhea Roland, and father of Tobias and Gerald. His youth has been restored by Lucan Mandragon's necromancy. Died during the battle of Knightcastle.

MARAZADRA - A mysterious goddess worshipped by several different sects.

MARDULF - Son of Theodoric of the Jutai and brother of Sigaldra and Liane. Killed fighting the Malrags in the middle lands.

MATHER - A master assassin of the Skulls.

MAURUS – A master wizard in service to Prince Hugh Chalsain of Barellion.

MAZAEL CRAVENLOCK – Lord of Castle Cravenlock, liege lord of the Grim Marches, and the hrould of the Tervingi nation. The son of the Old Demon, and one of the most capable warriors, skilled commanders, and powerful Demonsouled now living.

MITOR CRAVENLOCK - The older brother of Mazael Cravenlock and Rachel Cravenlock Roland. Allied with the San-keth and rebelled against Richard Mandragon, but killed by the San-keth after his defeat.

MOLLY CRAVENLOCK – Mazael Cravenlock’s daughter and heir to Castle Cravenlock. A powerful Demonsouled. Raised as an assassin by the Skulls, Barellion’s feared brotherhood of paid killers. Called “the Lady of the Shadows” by the Tervingi for her Demonsouled-granted ability to travel instantaneously through the shadows. Married to Riothamus, Guardian of the Tervingi.

MOREBETH GALBRAITH - A daughter of the Old Demon, and half-sister to Mazael Cravenlock. Seduced Mazael, and attempted to turn him into the Destroyer, the prophesied Demonsouled who will destroy the kingdoms of men. Killed by Mazael and Lucan Mandragon at Knightcastle. Her spirit returned to aid Mazael against the Old Demon, and saved Mazael after the final battle in Cythraul Urdvul.

NICHOLAS RANDERLY - Lord of Knightport. Young, and newly come to his position, as his father and older brothers were slain in the Great Rising.

NILES CARVER - A merchant of Barellion.

NIZIUS - A calibah of Aegonar descent, in service to Skalatan.

THE OLD DEMON – The eldest and most powerful of the Demonsouled, and the father of Mazael Cravenlock, Morebeth Galbraith, Ragnachar, Amalric Galbraith, and the grandfather of Molly Cravenlock and Corvad. A wizard of unsurpassed might and a manipulator of great skill and cunning. Killed in the instant of his triumph by Mazael Cravenlock.

PHILIP MONTIGARD – A Travian knight, now in service to Prince Hugh Chalsain of Barellion.

THE PROPHETESS - A mysterious sorceress, her origins and purpose unknown.

RACHEL CRAVENLOCK ROLAND – The younger sister of Lord Mazael Cravenlock, and the wife of Sir Gerald Roland. Mother of Aldane and Belifane. Once a San-keth proselyte, but since repented.

RAGNACHAR SON OF NO ONE – Once a powerful hrould of the Tervingi nation. A son of the Old Demon, and at his bidding led the Tervingi over the Great Mountains to the Grim Marches. Killed by Mazael Cravenlock outside the walls of Sword Town.

RANDUR MAENDRAG – The most powerful high lord of Old Dracaryl, and using knowledge obtained from the Old Demon, the creator of the Glamdaigyr, the Banurdem, and the Wraithaldr. The creator of the Great Rising, and transformed into a revenant in the great spell’s failure. Later destroyed by Lucan Mandragon using the Glamdaigyr, who then claimed Randur’s knowledge and powers.

RHEA ROLAND – Wife of Lord Malden Roland, and mother of Tobias and Gerald Roland. Dignified and respected, and indifferent to her husband’s frequent infidelities. Killed by the runedead at Knightcastle.

RHODEMAR GREENSHIELD - The half-brother of Romaria Greenshield Cravenlock, and current champion of Deepforest Keep.

RIGORIC - An orcragar and former thain of Ragnachar.

RILARIC SON OF RILAGO - A Tervingi skythain.

RIOTHAMUS SON OF RIGOTHARIC – The Guardian of the Tervingi nation, their defender from supernatural threats, and wielder of the ancient Staff of the Guardian. Married to Molly Cravenlock, the heir to the Grim Marches.

ROBERT HIGHGATE - The Lord of Castle Highgate, and one of the most powerful lords of the Grim Marches. A skilled commander.

ROCARD - A knight of Tumblestone, in service to Lord Agravain.

RODRIC CHALSAIN – The eldest son of Prince Everard Chalsain of Barellion, and heir to the throne of Greycoast and Barellion. Murdered by Malaric at the Prince's Keep in Barellion.

ROGER SPEARSHORE - Son of Lord Bryce, and currently serving as squire to Hugh Chalsain.

ROMARIA GREENSHIELD CRAVENLOCK – Wife of Mazael Cravenlock. Half Elderborn, giving her the ability to change her shape to that of a great black wolf. A skilled hunter, archer, and tracker.

ROSALA - A serving maid at the Knights' Inn of Barellion, and a member of the assassins' brotherhood known as the Skulls.

RUDOLPH LARSAR - Squire to Mazael Cravenlock.

RUFUS HIGHGATE - The eldest son of Lord Robert Highgate. Formerly served as Mazael's squire, and now a knight of the Grim Marches.

RYNTALD - Formerly an earl of the Aegonar and a trusted advisor to High King Agantyr. Known for his cunning in battle. Ryntald became the High King of the Aegonar after Agantyr's death.

SIGALDRA - The last headmistress of the Jutai nation.

SKALATAN – Archpriest of the San-keth, known for both his great age and brilliant intellect. The other San-keth clerics consider him both mad and heterodox, yet fear to cross his tremendous magical power. Now carries the skull of Corvad, taken from Malaric after his death. Vanished into the shadows after the defeat of the Old Demon.

SKALJAR - An earl in service to the High King of the Aegonar.

SKHATH - San-keth cleric who masqueraded as the human knight Sir Albron Eastwater. Killed by Mazael Cravenlock during Mitor Cravenlock's rebellion against Richard Mandragon.

SOUTHER – The First Dagger and leader of the Skulls, the assassins’ brotherhood of Barellion. One of the most feared men in the city.

STRAGANIS - San-keth archpriest of great power. Betrayed and killed by Amalric Galbraith during the Dominiars' war against Malden Roland.

SYKHANA – A San-keth changeling, and the abductor of Aldane Roland from Knightcastle. Betrayed and murdered by Malavost at Deepforest Keep.

SZEGAN – High priest of the San-keth temple hidden beneath Morsen Village. Slain during Corvad’s attack upon that village.

TALCHAK - A valgast warrior.

TALCHAR ONE-EYE - A swordthain of the Jutai, sworn to Sigaldra.

TANAM CROWLEY - A knight in Mazael's service, famed for his skill as a scout and skirmisher.

TANCRED STILLWATER - Lord of Stillwater and a vassal of Lord Malden Roland. Known for his skill as a quartermaster.

TERVINGAR - The semi-legendary founder of the Tervingi nation, who led the enslaved Tervingi to their freedom after escaping from their Dark Elderborn masters. Revered among the Tervingi, and held up as an exemplar of valor and strength.

THEODORIC - The former hrould of the Jutai nation, slain fighting the Malrags in the middle lands.

THOMAS – A serving man in service to Lord Malden Roland.

TIMOTHY DEBLANC – Court wizard of Mazael Cravenlock, and veteran of many battles.

TOBIAS ROLAND – Formerly eldest surviving son of Lord Malden Roland, and the heir to Knightcastle. Killed by the runedead at Knightcastle, leaving Gerald Roland as heir to Knightcastle.

TORAINE MANDRAGON - The older brother of Lucan and briefly the liege lord of the Grim Marches. Killed by Lucan at Swordgrim during the Great Rising.

TORIC SON OF TORVMUND - A Tervingi headman in Mazael's service, formerly a skythain.

WESSON STILLWATER - Once Gerald Roland's squire, and now a knight in Gerald's service. Currently riding with Adalar Greatheart.

ULFARNA - A bondswoman of Sigaldra.

ULTORIN – The last Grand Master of the Dominiar Order, and commander of the Malrag invasion of the Grim Marches. Corrupted by a bloodsword forged by Amalric Galbraith. Killed by Mazael Cravenlock during the siege of Deepforest Keep.

VAGENASH - The overseer of the Shadow Market of Tchroth.

VOLARIA - A semi-legendary witch who wanders the mountains of Skuldar.

VORGARIC - A bondsman of Sigaldra, and the best blacksmith in Greatheart Keep.

ZANAXAR - A valgast priest.

Glossary of Locations

AEGONATH ISLES - The ancient homeland of the Aegonar kingdoms.

ARMALAST - The capital city and chief stronghold of Skuldar.

ARYLKRAD – Ancient stronghold of Old Dracaryl located at Red Valley, in the heart of the Great Mountains. Once the resting place of the Glamdaigyr.

BANNER HILL - The hold of Earnachar, located north of Greatheart Keep.

BANNERED FOREST, THE - A forest in north-central Greycoast, north of the River of Lords. Its name comes from the numerous battles that have been fought in the forest.

BARELLION - The chief city of Greycoast, and the stronghold of the Prince of Barellion. The largest and most prosperous port and city in the realm.

BARREN POINT - A peninsula south of Castle Stormsea, home to minor lords and small fishing villages.

BLUEHOLT - A village in southern Greycoast.

BLUEPEAK VILLAGE – A village in the eastern Stormvales, abandoned due to runedead attacks.

BREAKSWORD - A castle on the northern borders of Knightreach, coveted by the Justiciar Order.

CASTLE BRIDGE, THE - A fortified bridge over the River of Lords, and the only safe crossing over the River for a week in either direction. Destroyed by Malaric during the Aegonar invasion of Greycoast.

CASTLE CRAVENLOCK – Seat and stronghold of Mazael Cravenlock, located in the southern Grim Marches. Once home to a San-keth temple, which Mazael destroyed.

CASTLE DOMINUS - Castle in Mastaria. Once the stronghold of the Dominiar Knights, now held by Lord Adalar Greatheart.

CASTLE RUTAGNE - The seat of Lord Karlam Ganelon, located in the hill country of eastern Greycoast.

CASTLE STORMSEA – A castle in northwestern Greycoast, sworn to Prince Everard Chalsain of Barellion. Once prominent, but now falling into ruin.

CASTYARD - A village west of Castle Cravenlock and south of Greatheart Keep, located at the eastern edge of the hill country.

CRAVENLOCK TOWN – The town of Castle Cravenlock, a half-mile from the castle proper. Swollen to ten thousand people from peasants fleeing the Malrag attacks, the Tervingi invasion, and the Great Rising.

CYTHRAUL URDVUL - The birthplace of the Demonsouled, where the corrupted Dark Elderborn attempted to summon a demon god. Pushed into the spirit world by the destruction of the demon god, and now the repository of the power of the slain Demonsouled.

DRACARYL - Once a mighty realm that ruled what is now the Grim Marches, the Great Mountains, the barbarian lands, and many other lands. The high lords of Dracaryl were powerful wizards and necromancers, and commanded dragons and legions of the undead to enforce their will. Destroyed when Randur Maendrag attempted to cast the Great Rising.

DEEPFOREST KEEP – A castle in the heart of the Great Southern Forest, home to human settlers and their Elderborn allies.

EBEN'S HOLD -  A small village in northeastern Greycoast.

GRAY PILLAR - A village in the eastern Grim Marches, located in the foothills of the Great Mountains. Once held by Ragnachar, now held by Toric son of Torvmund.

GREATHEART KEEP - A large village northwest of Castle Cravenlock. Once held by Sir Nathan Greatheart, now home to the remnant of the Jutai nation.

GREAT MOUNTAINS, THE - The massive mountains east of the Grim Marches. Few ever survive crossing the mountains, due to Malrags, dragons, and more mundane hazards.

GREYCOAST – Located northwest of the Grim Marches and north of Knightreach. The princedom ruled by the Prince of Barellion.

GRIM MARCHES, THE – A plain located east of Knightcastle and the High Plain and west of the Great Mountains. Currently ruled by Mazael Cravenlock. The appellation “Grim” comes from the many battles that have been fought here.

IRON RIVER, THE - The river that ran through the old Tervingi homeland, east of the Great Mountains.

HEART OF THE SPIDER, THE - The ruined temple on Mount Armyar where the Old Demon defeated Marazadra.

HIGH PLAIN – A broad plain northwest of the Grim Marches and northeast of Greycoast. Known for peaceful stability.

KNIGHTS’ BAY – A bay of the western sea bordering on Knightreach. Knightport and Tumblestone are the chief ports on the bay.

KNIGHTCASTLE – Seat and stronghold of Malden Roland, famed for its long and illustrious history. Located far to the west of the Grim Marches, and south of Barellion and Greycoast.

KNIGHTPORT - A port town west of Knightcastle, located at the mouth of the Riversteel. Held by Lord Nicholas Randerly.

KNIGHTREACH - A hilly peninsula west of the Grim Marches and south of Greycoast. Also the term for the lands sworn to the service of Knightcastle and Lord Malden Roland.

KYNOTH – A small village in Greycoast, a few miles north of Castle Stormsea.

LORD'S STUMP - A village in the Grim Marches, east of the Northwater.

MASTARIA – The hilly country south of Knightreach. Once the domain of the Dominiar Knights, and now controlled by Lord Malden Roland of Knightcastle.

MISTWATER - A small river in southern Greycoast.

MONK'S REST - A small village in northeastern Greycoast.

MOUNT ARMYAR - A mountain in central Skuldar, the location of the Heart of the Spider.

MOUNT TYNAGIS – A mountain in the heart of the Great Southern Forest. A ruined High Elderborn temple sits atop its peak.

MORSEN VILLAGE – Village in the hill country west of Castle Cravenlock. Once the fief of Sir Gaith Kalborn, San-keth proselyte. Destroyed by Malrags during Corvad’s search for the Glamdaigyr. A San-keth temple lies hidden beneath the village.

MORVYRKRAD - The crypt of the high lords of Dracaryl, located deep in the caverns below the Great Mountains. Once the resting place of the Wraithaldr.

NORTHWATER - A river several days' ride west of Castle Cravenlock, flowing north into the Lake of Swords.

PRINCE’S REST – A village in northern Greycoast. Famed for its inn, where one of the Princes of Barellion once spent the night.

RIVERSTEEL - A river flowing west past Knightcastle.

RIVER ABELINUS - The river marking the traditional border between Mastaria and Knightreach. Fordable in only a few locations.

RIVER OF LORDS, THE – The river flowing through Greycoast, terminating in the harbor of the city of Barellion.

SKULDAR - A mountainous region west of the Grim Marches, home to a secretive people who kill any intruders.

STILLWATER - A castle in the hills east of Knightcastle, held by Lord Tancred Stillwater.

STONE TOWER - A village northeast of Castle Cravenlock. The site of Lord Richard Mandragon's defeat of the Tervingi host, and where Ragnachar betrayed and murdered Athanaric and Aegidia.

STORMVALES – The land northwest of the Grim Marches. Known for its hilly terrain, deep rivers, and frequent banditry.

SWORDGRIM – Once the castle of Lord Richard and the ancestral seat of the House of Mandragon. Destroyed during the aftermath of the Great Rising.

SWORDOR - The stronghold of the Justiciar Knights. Located north of Knightcastle and south of Barellion.

SWORD TOWN – The largest town in the Grim Marches, rivaled only by Cravenlock Town. Directly south of the ruins of Swordgrim.

TCHROTH - The chief city of the valgasts, located beneath Mount Armyar.

TRAVIA – A princedom north of the Grim Marches, Knightcastle, and Barellion. Currently in the midst of a civil war after its ruling Prince was killed during the Great Rising.

TRYSTING WAYS, THE - A maze of secret passages and hidden galleries threading through Knightcastle, built gradually over the centuries by generations of Roland kings and lords.

VEILED MOUNTAIN, THE - The resting place of the Mask of Marazadra and the lair of the dragon Azurvaltoria.

VOLMAYA - A village in eastern Skuldar.

TUMBLESTONE - A port town south of Knightcastle, held by Lord Agravain Rainier. Near the River Abelinus and Mastaria.

URDBAEN TOR - A ruin of the Dark Elderborn in eastern Greycoast, near Castle Rutagne.

Table of Contents

Description

Author's Note

Chapter 1: Needle Teeth

Chapter 2: The Prisoner

Chapter 3: Firestorm

Chapter 4: Something Went Wrong

Chapter 5: Child of the Old Demon

Chapter 6: The Rusted Knight

Chapter 7: Underworld

Chapter 8: Let The Buyer Beware

Chapter 9: City of the Spiders

Chapter 10: Prophecy

Chapter 11: Hasty Departures

Chapter 12: Spider Guard

Chapter 13: Barbarian Nations

Chapter 14: Battles

Chapter 15: The Heart of the Goddess

Chapter 16: A Goddess Reborn

Chapter 17: Blood and Shadows

Chapter 18: The Champion of the Goddess

Chapter 19: Competing Destinies

Chapter 20: The Last of the Jutai

Other books by the author

About the Author

Glossary of Characters

Glossary of Locations