Date: 2005-05-13 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Fiction; Epic Fantasy; Sword And Sorcery; Dark Fantasy; Urban Fantasy; Paranormal; Science Fiction Fantasy; Heroic Fantasy
Description: For fans of Robert E. Howard, David Gemmell, and Raymond E. Feist, here is a new story of sword and sorcery. Banished for fifteen years, the wandering knight Mazael Cravenlock returns home at last to the Grim Marches, only to find war and chaos. His brother plans a foolish and doomed rebellion. His sister hopes to wed a brutal and cruel knight. The whispers speak of living corpses that stalk the night, of demons that lurk in darkness, and a sinister snake-cult that waits in the shadows. Yet Mazael's darkest enemy waits elsewhere. Within his own tainted soul... First published in 2005 from Gale
Publisher: Azure Flame Media, LLC
Rights: Copyrights as per source stories

DEMONSOULED

Jonathan Moeller

For fans of Robert E. Howard, David Gemmell, and Raymond E. Feist, here is a new story of sword and sorcery.

Banished for fifteen years, the wandering knight Mazael Cravenlock returns home at last to the Grim Marches, only to find war and chaos. His brother plans a foolish and doomed rebellion. His sister hopes to wed a brutal and cruel knight. The whispers speak of living corpses that stalk the night, of demons that lurk in darkness, and a sinister snake-cult that waits in the shadows.

Yet Mazael's darkest enemy waits elsewhere.

Within his own tainted soul...

First published in 2005 from Gale/Five Star, now updated and revised in a new electronic edition.

Other books by the author

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The Blood Shaman

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Copyright 2013 by Jonathan Moeller

Cover design by Clarissa Yeo

Originally published in hardcover by Five Star, May 2005

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.

Epigraph

It is a fact, then, that in the heart of every man there lies a beast which only waits for an opportunity to storm and rage, in its desire to inflict pain on others, or, if they stand in his way, to kill them...

-Arthur Schopenhauer

Chapter I

1

The Jongleur at the Inn

Mazael Cravenlock saw the apple trees and smiled.

He put spurs to his horse, a sturdy old gray palfrey named Mantle, and rode for the trees, ignoring Gerald's cry of protest. The setting sun painted the grass a deep crimson and the hot, dry wind of the Marches tugged at Mazael’s cloak and whipped at his face, but he was used to it. He had grown up here, after all.

The apple trees rose at the shore of a clear pond, encircled by a low stone wall. Nearby stood a crumbling brick chimney and some foundation stones, all that remained of a small peasant house. The inhabitants of that house had likely been killed fifteen years past during Lord Richard Mandragon’s uprising against Lord Adalon Cravenlock. No one had claimed the land since then, to judge from the tall grass covering the old foundation.

Mazael steered Mantle through the low wall's fallen gate and reined up beneath a tree. The apples hung heavy and red from their blossoms, and he plucked one with a gloved hand and took a bite.

“Sir Mazael!”

Mazael turned his saddle, chewing, and watched Sir Gerald Roland and his squire Wesson ride through the ruined gate. Gerald had inherited the aquiline features, blue eyes, and muscular body of his father. His shoulder-length hair shone like gold, and he had recently grown a mustache that he attended with the fanaticism of an Cirstarcian monk. Gerald was not wearing any armor - Mazael could have thrown his dagger and killed Gerald before the younger man could react.

Instead, Mazael reached up and took another apple. “Hungry?”

“Certainly.” Mazael tossed the apple. Gerald cut it in half with his dagger, taking half for himself, and feeding the other to his horse. “Wesson, would you care for an apple?”

“No, Sir Gerald,” said Wesson, a pimpled youth of eleven. “I am not hungry.”

“Pity,” said Mazael. A single sure sword stroke would kill Wesson. “Never pass up a chance for an apple, my boy.”

Gerald snorted. “Never pass up a chance for fresh food, you mean. An opinion I wholly favor after all these travel rations, but I could never understand why you were so mad for apples. I prefer pears, myself.”

Mazael flicked the core aside, and picked another apple for Mantle. “I might tell you someday.” The sun's setting rays caught in the pond, and for a moment the water resembled blood. Mazael shook off the thought.

“Shall we stop here for the night?” said Gerald.

“No,” said Mazael. “There’s an inn two miles east of here, just before the Northwater bridge. We can get there before dark.”

Gerald laughed. “Are you in such a hurry to reach your brother’s castle?  You told me that you’d rather be elsewhere.”

“No, I’m in a hurry to have a bed and a hot meal. Fresh food is fine, but hot food is far better." Mantle finished the apple, and Mazael turned the palfrey around and rode back to the road and their other animals. Mazael and Gerald’s war horses stood grazing alongside a pair of pack mules laden with their supplies and armor. Wesson took the animals in hand and followed the two knights as they rode eastward.

“I would rather be elsewhere,” said Mazael, “but since I am here, I would prefer to be within castle walls. I have no great eagerness to see my brother, but should war come, I’d rather be inside Castle Cravenlock than out in the open.”

“We should have brought more men, as Father wished,” said Gerald. “With two or three hundred armsmen as escorts, attack would not trouble us.”

Mazael snorted. “Yes, three hundred men with the banner of the Rolands flapping overhead? That would have drawn the eyes of every man from Knightcastle to Swordgrim. And how do you suppose Lord Richard Mandragon would react if he knew that Lord Malden Roland’s youngest son had brought an army to the Lord of Castle Cravenlock?”

Gerald fell silent for a moment. “Do you really think it will come to war?”

“I doubt it,” said Mazael. “Mitor’s a fool, but a slug as well. He’s too much a coward to rouse himself against the likes of Richard Mandragon the Dragonslayer.”

“I hope you are right. I have seen enough of war,” said Gerald.

Mazael nodded. He had fought alongside Gerald when Lord Malden had invaded Mastaria. They had survived the bloody battles of Deep Creek, Castle Cateron, and the Siege of Tumblestone. The slaughter had sickened Mazael, yet some part of him had found it beautiful. He had relished the fighting, reveled in it. No enemy, common soldier or Knight Dominiar, could stand against him, and he had danced through their bloody blades.

“I wouldn’t worry,” said Mazael. “Mitor might hate Lord Richard, but Lord Richard terrifies Mitor. And all anyone has heard are rumors of mercenaries and bandits. Most likely Mitor is simply hiring whores.” Mazael laughed.

Gerald frowned. Lord Malden Roland’s youngest son had a pious streak that Mazael often found wearisome. Yet the young knight was the best friend Mazael had made since leaving Castle Cravenlock, and Gerald was one of only four people to whom Mazael would entrust his life.

“I see lights up ahead,” said Gerald.

Mazael saw the lights, and heard the rush of water. “The inn, most likely. At least, there was an inn here fifteen years ago. Just past that is the Northwater bridge and then it’s only another three days to Castle Cravenlock.”

“Finally,” said Gerald.

Full dark fell by the time they reached the inn. It had changed little from what Mazael remembered. A high wall of sharpened wooden logs surrounded the rambling stone building, and torches burned in sconces atop the wooden palisade, casting a circle of light around the wall. A pair of crossbow-armed mercenaries stood guard before the crude gate.

Mazael could have killed them both before they reacted.

He reined up instead. “Ho, the inn!”

The mercenaries trained their crossbows in Mazael’s direction. “Who’re you, and what’s your business?” said a mercenary with a broken nose and a shading of beard stubble.

“A traveler,” said Mazael, “and my business is with a bed, hot food, ale, and a whore.” Gerald frowned, while Wesson looked intrigued.

“You’ve the look of knights,” said the mercenary. “Pardon the questions, sirs, but in these dangerous times the innkeeper’s hired us to keep peace.”

“That so?” said Mazael. “Danger from what?”

“People have been disappearing near Lord Mitor’s castle. It’s the wood elves, I say,” said the mercenary, making the sign to ward off evil. “Lord Richard has stirred them up to make war on Lord Mitor. I’ve even heard tell that Lord Richard treats with dark powers, and has the Old Demon himself as an adviser.”

“No,” said the second mercenary. “It’s the barbarians, come down out of the mountains. They’re the ones behind this. Lord Richard will raise his vassals and that black-hearted son of his, and smash them the way he smashes everyone who crosses him.”

“Such fine tales,” said Mazael. He flipped them a copper coin. “Tell them in the common room and you might get a few more coins.”

The mercenaries laughed, but Mazael heard the unease in their voices. “Aye, so we might, but everyone in these parts speak the same tales. People have been disappearing, and it’s the work of those wood devils, taking them off for their dark rituals.”

“No, it’s the barbarians,” said the other mercenary. “They eat babies. My grandfather told me so when I was a lad.”

“I don’t care if it’s the Old Demon and a troop of barbarians sacrificing people to the god of serpents,” said Mazael. “I want my ale, my bed, and my food.”

“Very well, milord,” said the first mercenary. “Make no trouble, and we’ll make no trouble for you.”

Mazael nodded. He rode through the gate, Gerald and Wesson behind him.

“Do you think it’s true?” said Gerald. “Peasants have been disappearing?”

Mazael shrugged. “Perhaps, or perhaps not. Most likely Mitor has ordered virgins kidnapped for his bed.”

The two knights dismounted, and Wesson received the task of stabling the mounts and carrying the armor and weapons into their room. Mazael did not remember his own years as a squire with any fondness. He pushed open the inn’s door and stepped inside.

The common room was crowded with mercenaries and landless knights. Many looked drunk, and specks of fresh blood marked the floor. A bartender and a half-dozen serving girls hurried back and forth to the kitchen. Mazael marked some of the prettier ones.

A man playing a harp stood atop a stage against the far wall. The jongleur wore simple clothes for one of his craft, plain boots and trousers and a tunic. Gray shot through his black hair and beard, and a hooked nose rested above his smiling lips. Mazael frowned, thought he recognized the man for a moment, then brushed away the odd feeling.

The bartender came over. “What’ll it be, my lords?”

“A room, and food for three,” said Mazael.

The bartender licked his lips. He squirmed beneath Mazael’s gaze, something people often did. “First room at the top of the stairs. As for food, I’ve got a few joints of beef left, and some fresh bread...”

“That will be fine,” said Mazael. He left some copper coins on the bar and went to find Gerald. Wesson lurched through the door, bearing an armful of armor. Mazael directed him to their room, and the boy clambered up the steps, huffing.

Gerald had claimed a table near the jongleur’s stage, and Mazael joined him.

“Look at this place,” said Gerald. “It’s packed full of mercenaries and ruffians of every stripe, and they are all making for Castle Cravenlock. It seems the rumors of your brother hiring men are true after all.”

“I wonder why,” said Mazael. “Castle Cravenlock can only raise four thousand knights and armsmen. Swordgrim can raise eight thousand, and Lord Richard can call ten thousand more. If Mitor thinks to use this rabble to stand against the likes of Lord Richard, then he’s a bigger fool than I thought.”

“Perhaps he’s hired them for use against the wood elves,” suggested Gerald with a laugh.

Mazael snorted. “What, the Elderborn? Hardly. They wouldn’t venture out unless Mitor devoted himself to burning down the Great Southern Forest. Besides, the Elderborn would cut through this lot,” he gestured, taking in the mercenaries, “faster than even the Dragonslayer.”

“I was joking,” said Gerald. “Elderborn are a children’s fable, like faeries and Demonsouled...you’re not joking?”

“No,” said Mazael. Wesson descended the stairs and sat at the table, panting.

The jongleur ran his fingers over his harp and began another song.

“Heart of darkness, soul of sin,
a murderer’s bloody grin.

So came the boy to his fate,
dark son of a demon great.”

The crowd’s boisterous enthusiasm dampened. “The Song of the Demon Child” was not often sung in busy inns.

“I say, I detest that song,” said Gerald.

Mazael looked up at the jongleur. “Why is that?” The jongleur's gray eyes gleamed keen and intent, his fingers dancing over the harp in accompaniment to his deep, rich voice.

“Father Marion would always recite a few verses when he saw me, citing the fate of wicked children,” said Gerald.

“The child met his dark father,
before the church’s altar.

‘My dark child,’ said the demon.

‘Your glory has now begun.’”

“I hope you didn’t let it bother you,” said Mazael. “Most priests couldn’t find their manhood with both hands.”

Gerald frowned. “That’s hardly an appropriate example to set for Wesson.”

Mazael shrugged. “If he wants to take a vow of chastity, let him become a monk.”

“‘Your demon soul has power,
curse the gods, curse Amater.

Take that which is your dark right.

Spurn heaven; claim your demon might!’”

“Sing something else!” someone shouted. Others took up the cry.

The jongleur stopped. “My apologies, good sirs!” he called out, smiling. “What shall I sing for you instead?  ‘The Song of the Serpents’, perhaps, or ‘The Fall of Tristafel’?”

“What’s this, a funeral?” yelled a drunken voice. “Sing something good!  ‘The Virgin with Five Veils’!” The jongleur took a flourishing bow and began to sing. “There was a girl with raven hair and the curves of a goddess...”

“What a morbid fellow,” said Gerald. “It’s a wonder he’s able to earn his bread. ‘The Song of the Demon Child’ and ‘The Fall of Tristafel’ indeed!  I’ve never heard ‘The Song of the Serpents’, though. Probably some dreadful story of demons, to judge from this fellow’s tastes.”

“No,” said Mazael. “Snakes. It tells how the god of the serpent people rebelled against heaven. In punishment the other gods took the arms and legs from the serpents and made them crawl through the dust.”

Gerald shuddered. He hated snakes. “Gods be praised, the food is here.”

A plump, pretty barmaid in a tightly laced dress gave them their food. Gerald thanked the woman. Mazael sent her off with a silver coin and a pinch on the bottom, earning a frown from Gerald. The jongleur continued “The Virgin with Five Veils” and soon had the mercenaries roaring along to the song. “The virgin girl danced and giggled, her body bounced and jiggled..."

Gerald admonished his squire against such revels. Mazael downed his ale and called for another.

The jongleur finished his song to thunderous applause as a storm of copper coins rained upon the stage.

“Another song!” called out a man.

“Grant me a short rest first, my generous friends!” said the jongleur, sweeping up the coins. “For you all have mighty voices, and I fear I shall ruin mine if I dared compete!” The assembled ruffians laughed and went back to their drinking. Mazael took a drink of ale to wash down some beef, draining half the tankard in three big gulps.

When he looked up, the jongleur stood over their table, a smile on his bearded face. “Pardon, my lords...but have we met before?”

Mazael frowned. “No, I don’t think so.”

“But...are you not Sir Mazael Cravenlock, my lord?  And is your companion not Sir Gerald Roland?” said the jongleur.

Mazael’s teeth clenched. He had wanted to reach Castle Cravenlock unseen. “How do you know who I am?” A quick dagger thrust between the ribs could kill the jongleur...

The jongleur tapped a finger against his jaw. “It...was at an inn in Mastaria, I believe, during Sir Mandor Roland’s march against Castle Dominus. A village called Deep Creek, as I recall...”

Mazael frowned. “I remember!  It was the night before the battle. That fool Sir Mandor—pardons, Gerald, but he was—spent the night celebrating at the inn. You were the jongleur he had brought from Deep Creek for his entertainment.”

“I remember now,” said Gerald.

The jongleur smiled and executed a florid bow. “Mattias Comorian, a simple musician, at your service.”

“How did you come to be here?” said Mazael, indicating for Mattias to take a seat. “Mastaria is on the other side of the kingdom. I had thought most the villagers of Deep Creek slain in the battle.”

“Most were,” said Mattias. “I suspected that ill fortune would soon fall upon Sir Mandor. I slipped away after the noble knight had gone to bed. Not long after, the Knights Dominiar struck. I watched the slaughter for a while, then escaped to the north.” He paused. “Did Sir Mandor chance to survive?”

“No,” said Gerald. A shadow crossed his face. “He...ah, rose, and rallied the defenders, but he was wounded, and died soon after.” Mazael concealed his contempt. Mandor had lain snoring in bed when the Dominiars attacked. Gerald's older brother caught two arrows in the gut and another in the leg. Mandor died three days later, weeping and feverish, as the remnants of his army straggled north.

“Ah,” said Mattias, sipping at his ale. “My deepest condolences, my lord knight. At any rate, Lord Malden - and Sir Mazael here, I might add - prevailed over the Dominiars, and I resumed my wanderings. I visited Swordor, and spent some time in Redwater and Ravenmark shortly before the old Lord of Ravenmark disappeared. I performed in the Crown Prince’s great city of Barellion for a time, and fortunately left before those riots burned down half the city. Dreadful, that. Then I traveled across the Green Plain during the succession struggle, and just in the last year made my way to the Grim Marches.”

“Quite a journey,” said Gerald.

Mattias laughed. His gray eyes glittered. “Ah, my lord knight, it is nothing. In my time, I have visited half the world, I fear.”

“You seem to have had singular bad luck in your travels,” said Mazael. “The war in Mastaria, the succession troubles in the Green Plain, the uprising in Barellion...why, it’s as if troubles sprout where you walk.”

“I pity I cannot make wheat and barley sprout where I walk,” said Mattias, grinning. “Why, the lords of the Green Plain would shower me with riches to tramp about their fields, and I never would need work again.”

Mazael and Gerald laughed. Wesson even smiled a little.

“And now, it seems, my bad luck has struck again,” said Mattias. “Rumors of war sprout in the Grim Marches.”

Mazael grimaced. “You must hear more than most. All we’ve heard are peasants’ gossip, each word more outrageous than the last.”

Mattias laughed. “I fear knowledgeable peasants are as numerous as flying sheep, my lord. Every mercenary in the kingdom is making for Castle Cravenlock. The rumors say that Lord Mitor plans to rise against Lord Richard, the way the Dragonslayer rose against old Lord Adalon.” Mattias frowned and continued. “Those living near the Great Forest claim that the Elderborn—” Mazael thought it odd that a jongleur would use the wood elves’ proper name, “—plan to march from their forest and take bloody vengeance. And the closer you get to Castle Cravenlock, my lord, the wilder the rumors get. I met a peasant who swore that a malicious wizard was stirring up trouble. I have heard tales of ghosts rising from graveyards, and of snake-cults worshipping in cellars.” Mattias snorted. “To believe these fools, you’d think that the Old Demon himself haunted the Grim Marches.”

“Aye, well, my father sent us as his emissaries,” said Gerald. “I know not what is happening, but with the gods’ blessing, we can end these disturbances without bloodshed.”

Mattias sighed and rubbed his salt-and-pepper beard. “Ah, your hope warms my heart, my young lord, but I know otherwise. When lords quarrel, the law is set aside in favor of swords. You know those peculiar blood roses that bloom in the Grim Marches?  Well, the peasants say that only blood can irrigate those flowers, and we’ll have blood roses as far as the eye can see before this business is done.”

Mazael blinked. For a moment, it seemed as if he could see blood. Not drops or pools, or even streams, but a sea of blood stretching as far as his eye could survey. He blinked again and shook away the disturbing vision.

“What makes you say that?” he said at last.

“Your family, my lord knight, and the Mandragons have hated each other for centuries,” said Mattias. “Every child in the Grim Marches knows as much. Should it come to war, and I do hope that it does not, these proud lords will settle their differences with arms, not words.”

“We’ll not know until we try,” said Gerald, crossing his arms, “and I am determined that we shall try.”

Mattias smiled. “Ah, forgive me, for I am an old, old man, and I have forgotten the hopes of youth. I wish you the best of luck, my young lord, and hope all goes well with you.”

“If the gods will it,” said Gerald.

Mattias’s eyes glinted. “I find, my lord, that the gods favor those who make their own luck. In that spirit, let me pass along a tidbit of news to you. Sir Tanam Crowley is in the area.”

“Sir Tanam Crowley?” said Gerald. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“I have,” said Mazael. “He’s Lord Richard’s most trusted vassal. When the Mandragons rose against my father, Sir Tanam was the first to join the Dragonslayer.”

“Indeed,” said Mattias. “And Sir Tanam would like to make the youngest son of Lord Malden and Lord Mitor’s brother his master’s ...enforced guests, no?”

Gerald’s tankard slammed down on the table. “Is that a threat? Are you asking us to buy your silence?”

Mattias spread his hands. “You wound me, my lord knight!  I might believe that war is coming, but that does not mean I do not wish for peace!  Lords have markedly short tempers in war, I fear, and an incautious jongleur might find himself shorter by a head.”

“Very well,” said Gerald. “I trust you’ll not spread news of our meeting?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Mazael. “He could shout our names from the rooftops. If there’s trouble between here and Castle Cravenlock, it’ll find us one way or another.”

“Then once this business has blown over,” said Mattias, “I can tell my grandchildren that I spoke with two knights of the mighty noble houses of Roland and Cravenlock.”

“You don’t look that old,” said Gerald. “You have grandchildren?”

“Oh, yes,” said Mattias. His eyes sparkled with mirth. “Many, in fact.”

“Jongleur!” bellowed a mercenary in a boiled leather breastplate and dirty furs. “More music, I say, more music!” The crowd took up the cry. The assembled freebooters roared for music.

“Ah, duty calls,” said Mattias. “I must say, it was a pleasure speaking with you. It is good to know that someone survived the carnage at Deep Creek.”

“You as well,” said Gerald. Mazael nodded.

Mattias Comorian hopped back onto the stage and strummed the strings of his harp. “Let us make merry, my friends, for the past is gone and the future is dark, and all we have is today!” He pointed into the crowd. “You sir, you have a drum, and you, yes, you with the lute. Come up here, my friends, and let us make music for dancing!” The two men climbed onto the stage. Men shoved aside tables and chairs to make room. Mazael saw a good number of peasant girls from the local farms. The girls eyed the mercenaries, the mercenaries eyed the girls, and Mazael supposed that many of the girls would lose their virtue tonight in the grass behind the inn or in the hay of the stables. He hoped they stayed away from his horses.

Mattias and his conscripted musicians struck up a lively tune. The drunken mercenaries and the farm girls began to dance. Gerald looked intrigued, to Mazael's surprise. The pious knight rarely enjoyed himself. Perhaps tonight would become a first.

“I say, Mazael, I believe I will indulge,” said Gerald. He stood and frowned. “Aren’t you coming?”

Mazael waved a hand at him. “Go. I think I will retire early.”

Gerald laughed. “You’re joking. You were so eager to find a whore earlier. You might not need to. That girl, the one with the brown eyes? She has been staring at you since she came in.”

“Maybe later,” said Mazael. Gerald shrugged and joined the dance, Wesson following his master.

Mazael finished his ale and felt the drink warm his insides. For a moment he considered joining the dance, perhaps finding a willing girl for later, but brushed the notion aside. He felt tired and sick. Maybe the food had been bad. If so, the innkeeper would regret it.

Mazael climbed the stairs, leaving the dance behind, and pushed open the door to their room. Wesson had piled their armor and supplies in the corner, and a single narrow bed rested under the window.

He shut the door behind him, undid his sword belt, and claimed the bed. Gerald and Wesson could have the floor.

“See, Gerald?” he muttered. “You’re right. There are rewards for virtue. I get the bed and you don’t.”

2

Mazael Meets Sir Tanam Crowley

Mazael opened his eyes and saw the sun's first rays painting the wall. Wesson lay on the floor, snoring. There was no sign of Gerald. Perhaps Lord Malden’s youngest son had overcome his inhibitions.

Mazael found the chamber pot, relieved himself, and pulled on his boots. Then he picked up his sword belt and buckled it about his waist. A small mirror hung on the wall over the bed, and Mazael drew his sword and stared into the mirror.

Sunlight glimmered off the razor edge of his blade and danced off the golden hilt. The sword’s pommel was a golden lion’s head with ruby eyes and a roaring mouth. For four years now, Mazael had carried this blade, after Sir Commander Aeternis of the Knights Dominiar had offered it up in surrender. Mazael had named it Lion and carried it at his side ever since.

Mazael sheathed the blade and tapped the squire with his boot. “Get our armor and supplies ready. I want to leave within the hour. I’ll find Sir Gerald.” Wesson sighed and got to work.

Mazael stepped out into the hall, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots, but otherwise the inn was quiet. No doubt the mercenaries were sleeping off hangovers.  A man lay facedown in the hallway, snoring, his trousers gone.

“Watch for splinters, friend,” muttered Mazael.

He found Gerald sprawled in a bed three rooms over, tangled with the blankets. No one was with him, so far as Mazael could see. Mazael shook Gerald’s shoulder. Mazael shook his shoulder, and when Gerald did not respond, he reached down and pinched the younger knight's nose shut.

Gerald came awake with a snort. “Gods, what ...blast it all, Mazael, how many times have I asked you not to do that?”

“You sleep like a stone,” said Mazael. He grinned. “What did I tell you, when you were a squire? Sleep too deeply, and someone might make sure you never wake.”

Gerald didn’t answer. He rubbed his eyes, groaning. “Ah, the light!  And my head!” His eyes bulged and he sat bolt upright. “Where ...my clothes ...oh, gods in heaven, what did I do?”

“Had a good time, from the looks of things,” said Mazael.

“I don’t remember!” said Gerald.

“A ripping good time, then,” said Mazael.

“I have sinned!” said Gerald. “I have dishonored myself...I could have deflowered some virtuous young maid...oh, I must do penance...”

“I doubt it,” said Mazael. “You get weepy when you’re drunk, not lecherous. Now get up, get dressed, and get your gear. I want to get over the Northwater bridge and past the village of White Rock today.”

Gerald nodded and climbed out of bed. “I shall never drink so much again.”

“It’s usually a good idea to stop after a while,” said Mazael.

“I shall take a vow to abstain from spirits for the rest of my days!”

“Don’t overdo it.”

Mazael returned to his room and looked out the window. It faced to the east, and he saw the steep gully of the Northwater. A wide wooden bridge crossed the river here, the only crossing for a day in either direction.

The perfect spot for an ambush, come to think of it.

“Help me with my armor, Wesson,” said Mazael.

Mazael wore light armor for a knight. He could move much faster than most men, and heavy armor only slowed him down. He wore a mail hauberk with a breastplate that had seen much use, steel plates for his shoulders, bracers for his forearms, and leather gauntlets backed with steel disks. His helmet was the style used by the foot soldiers of ancient Tristafel, with an open face and metal flaps to protect the ears and jaw.

Gerald came in as Mazael redid his sword belt. Despite his hangover, Gerald had managed to shave, trim his mustache, and style his hair. “You’re armoring yourself? Why?”

Mazael hefted a heavy war hammer with a black steel head and an oaken haft. He had taken the hammer from a dead Knight Dominiar after Sir Commander Aeternis’s defeat. Sharp as it was, Lion could not cut through solid steel plate. The Mastarian hammer did an admirable job of crushing armor and smashing bone in one solid swing.

“Caution,” Mazael said. He slung the hammer over his shoulder. “With all these mercenaries streaming towards Castle Cravenlock, more than a few might decide to go bandit.”

“True,” said Sir Gerald. “Wesson! My armor!”

Unlike Mazael’s battle-scarred armor, Gerald’s armor gleamed with a mirror shine. Gerald wore a steel breastplate and chain hauberk, a mail coif, and a conical helm. Gauntlets of steel plate protected his hands, and he attached steel greaves to his legs. Over his armor he wore a blue surcoat with the gray greathelm sigil of the Rolands. His sword, a dagger, and a mace crowned with the greathelm of Roland hung from his belt. Wesson received the unenviable task of carrying Sir Gerald’s heavy oak shield.

“I say, you should fight with a shield,” said Gerald.

“Slows you down,” said Mazael. He glanced out the window.

“Yes, but better to be slow than dead. Sooner or later, some screaming fool will come at you with an axe. What will you do then?” Gerald frowned. “Mazael, what are you looking at?”

A great plume of dust rose to the east. After a moment, he saw a column of riders cross the bridge - thirty of them, at least. The lead rider carried a banner, and a woman shared his saddle.

“Riders,” Mazael said. “They’re coming this way.”

“Those are armored lancers,” said Gerald, and his eyes widened. “That’s the Dragonslayer’s banner.”

The banner of the Mandragons, a black dragon on a red background, flapped from the lead rider’s lance. Beneath it flew a smaller banner, depicting a crow perched on a gray rock against a field of green.

“And that's Sir Tanam Crowley's banner,” said Mazael. The lead riders thundered into the inn’s courtyard and reined up, sweat lathering their horses.

“What do you suppose they’re doing here?” said Gerald. “And at this hour in the morning?  From the look of those horses, they must have been riding all night!”

Mazael spotted Sir Tanam as the knight slid off his horse. His narrow features and long nose had earned him the nickname “the Old Crow”. Two of Crowley's men lifted the woman from the saddle. She wore an elegant riding gown, yet her wrists had been bound and a hood pulled over her face.

“I suspect a great many of our questions will be answered in the next few minutes,” said Gerald.

“Take off your surcoat,” said Mazael.

“What?”

“Do it!” said Mazael. “That prisoner has the look of a noblewoman. If Lord Richard sent the Old Crow to kidnap her, what do you think he'll do with one of Malden Roland's sons?”

Gerald nodded, pulled off his surcoat, and kicked it under the bed. Mazael heard the door to the inn bang open, followed by heavy footsteps thudding up the stairs. His hand curled around Lion’s hilt. “We may need to make a run for it.”

A moment later an armored man, wearing a surcoat quartered with the black dragon of Mandragon and the crow of Crowley, peered into their room. “If you’re fighting men, make your way to the common room at once. Sir Tanam Crowley is hiring, and you’ll have the chance to make some gold.”

Mazael and Gerald nodded. The armsman moved down the hall, banging on doors and awakening slumbering mercenaries.

“Maybe that’s why Sir Tanam is here,” said Mazael, striding into the hall. “Perhaps Lord Richard sent him to hire away all of Lord Mitor’s mercenaries.”

“He could do it,” said Gerald. “Not a day passes without Father complaining about the Mandragons' gold.”

A half-dozen sleepy mercenaries stomped past, a pair of Crowley armsmen herding them down the stairs. Mazael waited until they had passed, then gestured for Gerald and Wesson to follow him. They stopped on the landing of the stairs, overlooking the common room.

A dozen armsmen waited in the common room with as many mercenaries. Sir Tanam stood on a table, rubbing his thin nose. He had taken off his helmet, and Mazael could have killed him with a thrown dagger to the throat. Crowley’s prisoner stood behind him, two men holding her arms.

“Roger, is this all?” said Sir Tanam, his voice clipped and precise.

“Aye, sir, it is,” said a soldier.

“Very well, then,” said Tanam. He cleared his throat. “I am Sir Tanam Crowley of Crows’ Rock, vassal to Lord Richard Mandragon of Swordgrim.”

Bleary-eyed silence answered this pronouncement. Mazael leaned forward, trying to see under the prisoner’s hood.

Tanam grimaced. “Lord Richard has commanded that I make for Swordgrim with all haste, and I ask for your assistance.”

The mercenaries stared at him.

Tanam cleared his throat. “Paid assistance.”

The mercenaries smiled.

“The Mandragons are generous to those that serve them well,” said Sir Tanam. “Every man who joins me will receive three silver pieces. Every man who completes the journey to Swordgrim will receive three gold pieces.”

The mercenaries’ smiles widened, and the armsmen moved closer to Sir Tanam. The guards holding the woman shifted, turning her face towards the stairs. Mazael moved to the left, trying to see into the hood.

“We will journey with haste,” said Tanam. “I must deliver this prisoner to Swordgrim with all speed so she may face my lord’s justice. We may come under attack.”

Mazael leaned over the railing to get a better look at this prisoner destined for Lord Richard’s judgment.

The green eyes of Rachel Cravenlock, his younger sister, stared back at him from beneath the hood.

Her eyes widened as she recognized him.

Mazael jolted back from the railing. Through sheer will he kept his hand from flying to his sword.

“What is it?” whispered Gerald.

“My sister,” hissed Mazael, his voice grating. “The damn bastard has my sister.”

“Your sister?” said Gerald. “Gods, Mazael...Crowley must have kidnapped her from Castle Cravenlock. Mazael, for the love of the gods, don’t do anything foolish...”

“Just follow me,” said Mazael. He put one foot on the railing. “Sir Tanam!”

Sir Tanam looked up. “Three silvers are all I’m offering for hire. The gold will have to wait until we reach Swordgrim.”

“A question, sir knight!” said Mazael. “What crimes has your prisoner committed?”

Sir Tanam’s face darkened. “She has committed crimes against the laws of both gods and men. She has done witchcraft and practiced sorcery. Her family has ...well, regardless to say, she has well-earned her fate. Might I ask, who are you?  You have the look of a knight about you. A knight-errant, perhaps?”

Mazael grinned. “Not quite. I am Sir Mazael Cravenlock. This is Sir Gerald Roland.” Gerald groaned.

Tanam’s eyes widened. “Mazael...Cravenlock?  I thought you were still in Knightcastle.” He shook his head. “Well, here you are, and for the welfare of the Grim Marches, I think you and Sir Gerald had best come with us. My lord Richard would much like to speak with you.”

“I think not,” said Mazael. His blood drummed in his head and his battle instrincts rose. “For your welfare you had best release my sister to my custody and go on your way.”

Tanam seemed amused. “Really, now?”

“Last chance,” said Mazael. “Let her go.”

“No,” said Tanam. “Come with us.”

“I did warn you,” said Mazael.

Lion flew from its scabbard. Mazael vaulted over the railing and landed in the midst of the Crowley soldiers, his sword blurring. Two men fell dead before they had even thought to draw their weapons. He heard Gerald’s groaned curse and the hiss of his drawn sword. Crowley’s men shouted and scrabbled for their weapons, while Sir Tanam himself bellowed commands and drew an axe from over his shoulder. The innkeeper shrieked and dove under a table. Gerald leapt over the railing, sword and shield in hand.

Mazael drove Lion through the eye slit of a helm. The man-at-arms staggered and fell, blood gushing out of his mouth. Mazael spun and parried two quick blows, riposted, and another Crowley armsman fell dead. Blood ran red down Lion’s steel blade. Mazael danced through Crowley’s men, laughing. They all seemed to have lead weights tied about their arms and legs. Lion felt like a part of his arm and the blood roared through his body as he sidestepped a thrust and took off an armsman's head.

It was so easy to kill them.

Someone hit him from behind with a sword. The blade didn’t penetrate Mazael’s armor, and he used the blow for momentum. He bashed aside one man, gutted another, jumped, and landed face to face with Sir Tanam Crowley. Sir Tanam lifted his axe, but Mazael jerked his sword up, bashing the lion's head pommel across Tanam's face. The knight fell like a dead horse, his armor clanging against the floor. The armsmen holding Rachel leapt to defend their master. Mazael killed one, wounded the other, and severed the ties holding Rachel’s hands with a single slash. She looked at him, green eyes wide, a thousand questions on her face.

“Can you run?” said Mazael.

Rachel nodded. “What...”

“Gerald!” bellowed Mazael. “Let’s go!”

Gerald ran for the door, Wesson at his heels. “By all the gods of all the heavens,” yelled Gerald. “I swear, man, you are a lunatic!” His shield had been hacked to kindling and his shiny armor bore a half-dozen scars.

Mazael laughed and kicked down the door. A half-dozen of Sir Tanam’s irate men charged after them.

The morning sun shone bright in the courtyard. A dozen more of Sir Tanam’s men sat on their horses, their expressions tense and anxious. They scowled at the sight of Mazael, hands flying to their weapons.

“We’re under attack!” said Mazael as he ran for the stables. “The Cravenlocks! The Cravenlocks came through the back of the inn!”

The horsemen galloped towards the door just as Crowley’s other men burst out. They tangled together in a confused mass as Mazael, Gerald, Wesson, and Rachel ran into the stables, hastening to saddle the horses.

“Rachel, take my palfrey,” said Mazael, vaulting into the saddle of his war horse, an ill-tempered brute named Chariot. Gerald helped Rachel into the saddle and then mounted his own war horse. Wesson claimed Sir Gerald’s palfrey.

“What if they try to stop us?” said Gerald.

“Ride them down,” said Mazael. Sword in one hand and hammer in the other, Mazael spurred Chariot forward. The big stallion whinnied and burst out of the stable.

Mazael heard Sir Tanam shouting, and armsmen raced towards them. Mazael hit one on the head with his hammer, while Chariot bit a second in the face. He heard the clang of Gerald’s sword and a man’s scream. Then they were through the inn's palisade, riding hard for the Northwater bridge.

Dust churned beneath their horses’ hooves, and soon the long wooden Northwater bridge came into sight. A trio of riders waited on the bridge next to a pot of burning coals and a bundle of unlit torches. Each of the rides wore armor and bore a heavy war lance. Beneath the bridge the Northwater raged in a swirl of white foam.

“They’re going to burn the bridge!” shouted Mazael. “Ride!” He kicked Chariot to a gallop, the horse thundering forward. The riders on the bridge wheeled and dropped their lances for a charge. Mazael slung the hammer over his shoulder and snapped Chariot’s reins. A pair of the lancers made for Gerald, while one rode for Mazael.

Mazael stood up in the saddle, the lancer raising his weapon in response. At the last second, Mazael jumped off Chariot's side. He tucked his shoulder and rolled as he hit the ground, his armor rattling. The lancer reined up, attempting to swing around to attack. Mazael surged to his feet, Lion's hilt in both hands, and swung. The longsword hewed the horse’s leg like wood, and the big animal went down with a scream. The lancer flew from his saddle and struck the ground, his armor clattering with the impact. Mazael was on him in an instant, his sword stabbing down for a gap in the armor.

He sprang back into Chariot’s saddle as one of the remaining lancers broke his lance against Gerald's shield, the other circling with an axe in hand. Mazael spurred Chariot to a gallop, slammed Lion into its scabbard, and took his Mastarian war hammer in both hands.

The lancer on Gerald’s right never saw Mazael coming. Mazael whipped the hammer sideways in a looping swing. The lancer toppled off his horse, head bent at a bizarre angle. The second lancer gaped at his dead comrade long enough for Gerald to finish him.

Horses galloped from the inn as the Old Crow rallied his troops. Sir Tanam looked bloody and very angry.

“Any wounds?” said Mazael.

“No,” said Gerald. “Just bruises.”

“Good. Over the bridge, I’ll follow,” said Mazael.

“What...” said Gerald.

Mazael grinned at him. “Just go.”

Gerald sighed. “Madman.” He spurred his horse over the bridge, Rachel and Wesson riding alongside.

Mazael leaned down, snatched a torch from the bundle, and thrust it into the pot of burning coals. Then he wheeled Chariot around, galloped onto the bridge, and dropped the torch.

Evidently it had not rained in the Grim Marches for some time, because the bridge's planks were hard and dry, and took fire at once. A wall of flame rose up behind Mazael, and Chariot whinnied and bolted to the opposite bank.

He joined Gerald and Rachel and turned Chariot around just in time to see Sir Tanam’s horse shy away from the flames. Tanam stared across the river at Mazael, his expression a mixture of frustration and astonishment.

“Sir Mazael,” said Sir Gerald. “You are insane. You could have gotten us all killed!”

Mazael grinned at him. “Yes, but it worked, didn’t it?”

Gerald sighed and looked heavenwards.

Mazael clasped his sister’s hand, careful not to squeeze with his armored gauntlet. “And you, are you all right?”

Rachel smiled at him. She had always been very pretty, and even as a child suitors had swarmed about her like flies, hoping to win her hand once she came of age. Mazael didn’t know if his sister had married or not. He had left the Grim Marches fifteen years ago, and no word had come to him since. Rachel looked much the same, but there were dark circles under her eyes, and she was very pale.

“Mitor will be upset you burned his bridge,” Rachel said at last.

“Mitor can bugger himself with the bridge,” Mazael said. “A bridge for a sister, a small price, it seems. Now, how are you?”

“I’ve been better, I’ll confess,” she said. “But, gods, Mazael, it’s so good to see you again.”

“You as well.” Mazael looked over the river. “We’d best be on our way before old Sir Crow decides to use those crossbows.”

They galloped for the east, leaving the inn and the burning bridge behind.

3

Rachel’s Apple

At Mazael’s insistence, they rode hard for the east all day, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. The nearest fords were a day’s ride north and south of the burned bridge, but Mazael didn’t want to risk encountering more of Lord Richard’s minions. He permitted his companions to stop long enough to water the horses, but no longer. They rode in silence. There would be time to exchange stories later.

They passed bands of mercenaries that ranged from ragged knots of ruffians to professional companies with banners. All marched east for Castle Cravenlock. Mazael and his little band rode around them, and the mercenaries ignored them.

As the sun sank beneath the western sky, they came across one of the abandoned farmsteads that littered the Grim Marches. Only few strewn foundation stones, a pond, and an overgrown orchard remained, and Mazael pronounced the site fit for a camp. Gerald slid out of his saddle with a sigh of relief.

“Good horse,” said Mazael, patting Chariot’s flank. He undid the saddle and blanket, rubbed the horse down, checked the hooves, and gave Chariot another apple snared from the grove the day before. Chariot snorted but accepted nonetheless.

Rachel stumbled from Mazael’s palfrey. Mazael and Gerald were both accustomed to hard riding and days in the saddle, but Rachel was not, and Gerald helped her to stand. It seemed that his sister had captured another admirer. Wesson gathered wood and grass, and soon a fire crackled within the old foundation stones.

“I don’t suppose we have any of our supplies left?” said Gerald, brushing down his horse.

Mazael shook his head. “Our supplies are sitting in our room at the inn. No doubt Sir Tanam and his men are enjoying them. We’ll have to make do with whatever’s in our saddlebags. I hope the lady of Cravenlock will not be discontented with jerky and stale bread?”

Rachel laughed and sat down.  “I would rather eat peasant fare than dine with Lord Richard at Swordgrim.” She winced again. “I can’t imagine how you knights can ride that hard for days on end.”

“Practice, mostly,” said Mazael. “You’re still able to sit, at least. When Gerald first trained with a lance and hammer from horseback, he had to sleep standing up for weeks.”

“Gods, don’t remind me,” said Gerald, rummaging through one of Mantle’s saddlebags.

“Gerald?” said Rachel. She laughed. “Sir knight, I’ve been riding with you all day, and I don’t know your name!  Mazael, would you kindly make the introductions?”

“Certainly,” said Mazael. “Lady Rachel Cravenlock, this is Sir Gerald Roland. Sir Gerald, Lady Rachel.”

Rachel’s pretty green eyes widened. “Sir Gerald Roland?” Gerald looked pleased. “Lord Malden’s son, Sir Gerald?” Gerald nodded. “A pleasure to meet you, my lord knight. What brings you to the Grim Marches?”

“I was wondering much the same of you, sister,” said Mazael, tearing a hard chunk of bread into four pieces.

“It’s been fifteen years since we’ve heard from you, Mazael,” said Rachel. “Then, a day and a half after I’m kidnapped by Sir Tanam Crowley, I find you here with the youngest son of one of the most powerful lords in the kingdom. That is a strange coincidence, I think.”

“So Crowley did kidnap you?” said Gerald. “Gods, Mazael!  What have we walked into?”

“A mess, it seems,” said Mazael. “But that’s a fair question, sister. I’ve served Lord Malden Roland for the last nine years. When Lord Malden heard rumors of trouble in the Grim Marches, he sent us to investigate.”

“My father has a vested interest in the Grim Marches,” said Gerald.

“He wants revenge, you mean,” said Mazael. He took a bite of the stale bread and winced.

“Lord Richard did kill Lord Malden’s second son, Sir Belifane,” said Rachel. “And he killed our older two brothers, Mazael.”

“I know,” said Mazael. He hadn’t liked his two oldest brothers and considered their deaths a favor. “Our brothers and Sir Belifane Roland managed to get themselves killed in battle with Richard Mandragon. Then Father marched out from Swordgrim to avenge their deaths, and what happened?  Father lost, Lord Richard marched in triumph into Swordgrim, and we were left with Lord Mitor the Mushroom.”

Rachel laughed.

Gerald looked puzzled. “Mitor the—Mushroom?”

“Our nickname for Mitor, when we were children,” said Mazael. “When you meet him, you’ll understand. So, now that you know how we came here, how did you wind up the captive of Sir Tanam Crowley?”

Rachel shivered and hunched closer to the fire. “It’s...a long story.”

“Considering I just tried to kill one of the Dragonslayer’s sworn knights, I would like to hear it,” said Mazael. He looked at Rachel for a moment. She was indeed thinner than he expected, more tired, more worn.

“It was about a marriage,” said Rachel. Her eyes glimmered in the firelight.

This surprised Mazael. “You aren’t married yet?  I thought Mitor would have married you off the instant you came of age.”

“He wanted to,” said Rachel. “But he wanted to save me for the son of some powerful lord, someone with whom he could make a strong alliance.”

“Bloody chance of that,” said Mazael. “The Dragonslayer crushed Lord Adalon. What fool would want to ally himself with Lord Adalon’s imbecile son?”

“Not many,” agreed Rachel.

“Did Mitor ever get married?” said Mazael.

“He did,” said Rachel. “About four years ago, to Marcelle Trand.”

Mazael knew of the Trands, a noble house that had supported Lord Adalon against Lord Richard. After the Dragonslayer became liege lord of the Grim Marches, the Trands found themselves relieved of a great portion of their lands. “Lord Marcus Trand must have been desperate to foist off the girl, if he offered her for Mitor.”

“He was,” said Rachel. “Marcelle is a hateful woman. I imagine Lord Marcus offered her to half the noblemen in the kingdom before Mitor finally took her.”

“Why would Lord Mitor marry her, then? From everything you’ve told me over the years, Mazael, your brother sounds a proud man,” said Gerald.

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Mazael. “If Mitor ever goes to war against Lord Richard, then Lord Marcus will have to stand with him.” Mazael paused. “Is Mitor planning to do something so foolish, Rachel? Lord Richard is a seasoned commander, Mitor is no warrior, and Swordgrim can raise three times the men Castle Cravenlock can.”

“I don’t know, Mazael. I really don’t.” Rachel stared into the fire. “About six months ago, Lord Richard sent Sir Tanam to Mitor with an offer. Lord Richard wished to end the long enmity between our houses, and offered to join me in marriage to his eldest son Toraine.”

“Amatheon and Amater!” swore Mazael.

Gerald frowned. “That’s brilliant. Toraine is Lord Richard’s heir. If you bore him a son, a man with both Mandragon and Cravenlock blood would rule the Grim Marches one day. That would forever end the rivalry between the house of Cravenlock and the house of Mandragon.”

“Mitor refused him,” said Rachel.

Silence hung over the little camp for a moment. Mazael heard the fire crackle, saw the flames dance in Rachel’s eyes. “Why? Even Mitor could not be so foolish. Half the lords in the kingdom have approached Lord Richard to offer their daughters for Toraine. How could he possibly pass up such an opportunity?”

“I didn’t want to marry Toraine Mandragon,” said Rachel in a rush. “He’s a monster. The peasants don’t call him the Black Dragon because of his armor. In a village near Amritsar, a man stole one of Toraine’s horses. The Black Dragon caught the thief and had him and his entire family herded out into the village square. He beheaded them all with his own sword, even a baby and an old woman, and had their heads mounted above the village gate as a warning to other thieves.”

“That’s monstrous,” said Gerald.

“Yes, but he made his point,” said Mazael.

Rachel glared at him. “Would you want me to marry such a...a monster?  Would you want me take him into my bed?”

“No,” said Mazael, “but I doubt Mitor had such concerns. What made him turn Lord Richard down?”

“Pride, I suppose,” said Rachel. “He said it would be an insult for me to marry the son of the man who had murdered my father. And...and I wanted to marry someone else.” Gerald looked disappointed.

“You did?” said Mazael. “Who?”

“Sir Albron Eastwater,” said Rachel. Her eyes lit up with a feverish glow as she said the name.

“I’ve never met him,” said Mazael. “I’ve never even heard of him.”

“He was a mercenary who fought alongside Father against Lord Richard. After Lord Richard won, Father knighted Albron and gave him lands along the Eastwater, north of Castle Cravenlock.”

“So you turned Toraine Mandragon down in favor of a knighted mercenary?” Rachel’s eyes flashed. “No mockery, sister, but Mitor only allowed this to insult Lord Richard. The Mandragons must have been furious.”

Rachel’s lips compressed into a thin line. “You think I don’t know that? I wish that Albron and Toraine’s births could have been reversed. Albron is the best man who ever lived, but Toraine...I half think Toraine is Demonsouled.”

“Don’t tell Lord Richard,” said Mazael, chewing at the stiff jerky. “Mitor’s already insulted him. We needn’t tell him that he was cuckolded by the Old Demon.” Rachel laughed, the weariness falling from her face for a moment. “So Mitor refused Lord Richard. How did you wind up in Sir Tanam Crowley's hands?”

“After Mitor refused Lord Richard, we heard no response for months. Mitor and Sir Albron feared that Lord Richard planned war. Then a week ago, Sir Tanam returned to express Lord Richard’s regrets. Mitor had no choice but to give Sir Tanam and his men lodgings for the night. They crept into my chamber, seized me, and rode off before the garrison could rouse.”

“Daring,” said Gerald.

“That’s Sir Tanam’s style,” said Mazael. “He has gall, I’ll give him that.”

“Sir Tanam said...he said that Lord Richard had commanded that I be brought to Swordgrim to marry Toraine. I refused...and he said that I had no choice in the matter,” said Rachel.

“That’s odd,” said Mazael. “Sir Tanam said in the inn that you were guilty of...how did he put it...doing witchcraft and practicing sorcery.”

Rachel flinched. “That’s a lie. I did no such thing.” Her eyes darted to the fire and back to his face.

Mazael laughed. “The church and the wizards of Alborg might believe it is a crime for a woman to wield magic, but I don’t care. What, did Master Othar teach you?”

“No,” said Rachel, shaking her head. “No. I’ve had nothing to do with magic, I swear it.”

Mazael shrugged. “If it matters that much...”

“You know our family’s history,” said Rachel. “The peasants are always ready to believe anything evil said about a Cravenlock. There are—there are enough stories already, without adding to them.”

“If you feel it so important,” said Mazael. He smiled. “How are Sir Nathan and Master Othar? You, Sir Nathan, and Master Othar are the only people I regretted leaving behind when I left Castle Cravenlock.”

Rachel hesitated. “They...are well, I believe. Master Othar won’t live much longer, I think. He’s so fat, and has trouble getting around.”

Mazael laughed. “Master Othar was always fat. Careful what you say, sister. Othar has outlived five men who said he had only a year left to live.”

Rachel laughed. It transformed her face. Then she sobered. “Mazael, I’m sorry, but...”

Mazael felt something grab at his stomach. “What?  Sir Nathan?  Is he dead...”

Rachel shook her head, dark hair sliding about her shoulders. “No. Lord Mitor dismissed him as armsmaster.”

Mazael blinked. “What?  Mitor is a bigger fool than even I thought!  Sir Nathan is the finest sword in the Grim Marches. He’s better than even me!  What was Mitor thinking?”

“Mitor said Sir Nathan was too old, that he needed a younger man as armsmaster,” said Rachel.

“Too old!” said Mazael. This was beyond idiocy. Some of his rage must have shown on his face, because Gerald and Rachel flinched away from him. With an effort, he forced himself to calm down. “I wonder what fool Mitor found to replace the likes of Sir Nathan Greatheart?” Rachel frowned. “I’ll see what Mitor has to say about this, and a great many other things.”

Rachel leaned over and hugged him. “I’m so glad you’ve come home, brother. It’s been so hard, these last few years but I know you’ll set things right. You will, I know.”

Startled, Mazael took his sister’s hand. “I will try. Someone must stop Mitor. If he continues to follow this course, he’ll bring the kingdom to bloody war.”

For a moment the tired shadow crossed Rachel’s features again.

Then an impish grin lit her face.

“Wait here,” she said, and stood and walked towards the old trees.

“I say, Lady Rachel, come back!” Gerald said. “We risked our lives to win you free...gods only know what is wandering about in the dark.”

She returned a moment later, and the object in her hand sent Mazael’s mind back over the years, to the time he had first met Rachel as a child.

She had been only three. Mazael had spent most of his childhood at Sir Nathan's estates, away from his mother and brothers, who hated him, and his father, who ignored him. One day Lady Arissa, in a fit of rage, banished Rachel to Nathan's estates. The old knight ordered Mazael to greet her, a duty he found less than cheerful.

Mazael’s sister arrived in a carriage escorted by a dozen knights. The child’s nurse spotted Mazael and pointed him out to the little girl.

“Look, Rachel,” the woman said. “That’s your brother.”

Rachel’s face lit up, and she out something clutched in her hand.

“Want an apple?” she had said.

Mazael had missed breakfast that morning, and found himself thinking his sister was not such a worthless creature after all.

Now, twenty years later, Rachel held out another apple to Mazael. She was much taller now, and the plumpness had changed into beauty, but the smile had not changed.

“Want an apple?” she said.

Mazael laughed and took the apple.

Chapter II

1

Three Bandits, Two Boots, One Wizard

The next day they continued riding to the east. Mazael was certain that they were well ahead of the Old Crow, but he wanted to take no chances. Rachel's abduction out of Castle Cravenlock had proven Sir Tanam's skill.

So they rode fast, the Grim Marches stretching around them in all directions, a sea of waving grasses. Mazael remembered days from his youth when it seemed like the entire world was nothing but two vast plains of green earth and blue sky. Thousands of red-and-white blood roses had bloomed among the grasses, their white petals and red interiors giving them the look of bleeding wounds in pale flesh.

Mazael remembered Mattias Comorian’s prediction of war and scowled.

They passed peasant farmsteads where the farmers stood grim-faced before their houses with weapons in hand, ready to defend their homes and their daughters’ virtue. More than one farmer shot ogling glances at Rachel, but no one dared anything under Mazael's glare.

Shortly after noon, Mazael reined up and turned to face his companions. “I don’t want to take the road. Half the men in the last group we passed were drunk, and I saw smoke on the northern horizon an hour ago. Lord Richard doesn’t need to ravage the countryside. Mitor’s mercenaries will do that for him if they’re not taken in hand. It’s only a matter of time before some of these fools decide we’d make an easy mark.”

Rachel did not seem pleased at the prospect. “Couldn’t you fight through them, the way you did at the inn?”

Gerald snorted. “My dear lady, your brother is brave, but he’s also a madman. It was more luck and the gods’ grace than our own skill that we escaped from Sir Tanam.”

"None of these ruffians are mounted," said Mazael, "and we could ride through them like a wind, but with Rachel along, I’d rather not take the chance. Castle Cravenlock is two days east from here as the crow flies, but the road veers southeast to pass through the village of White Rock. If we ride straight east, we can leave the road and the mercenaries behind.”

Gerald looked out over the plain. “The horses should have no trouble with the land. And once Sir Tanam crosses the Northwater, he will direct his search towards White Rock. I believe I concur, Sir Mazael.”

“I’m flattered,” said Mazael.

Gerald grinned. “Your brother is a madman, Lady Rachel, but he does have good ideas from time to time.”

“I know,” said Rachel. Mazael snorted and steered Chariot off the road, the others following.

They traveled cross-country, past small farms and villages. This region had been left untouched during Lord Richard’s uprising, and most of the grassland had been plowed and cultivated. Mazael took worn cart tracks when he could find them, but there were no real roads here. When they passed farms, the peasants hurried inside and bolted their doors as they passed.

“I say, I wonder what they’re all afraid of?” said Gerald.

“The mercenaries,” said Rachel. “They’ll tell you tales of demons and witchcraft in the night, but it’s the mercenaries they fear.”

“If you say so,” said Mazael. “But...”

“Mazael!” hissed Gerald, pointing. “Look!”

A cloud of dust rose from one of the cart tracks. A man ran towards them, his legs and arms pumping, black cloak flapping out behind him. Behind him came three horsemen with rusty helms and battered swords.  They laughed and whooped, spurring their horses closer to the running man.

“Bandits,” said Mazael. He reached down, plucked his helm from his saddle horn, and dropped it on his head.

“I thought you said we would avoid any bandits,” said Gerald.

Mazael grinned at him. “Stop complaining. There are only three of them.”

Gerald sighed and drew his sword.

“Wait here,” Mazael told Rachel. “Wesson, stay with her.”

Then he spurred Chariot forward. The three bandits circled around their quarry, thrusting their swords at him, only to jerk their weapons away at the last moment. They were so focused on their fun that they didn't notice Mazael until Lion crashed through a bandit's head.

The other two bandits shouted in surprise. One came at Mazael with a rust-splotched sword. Mazael parried, rolled his wrist, and swung, Lion biting deep into the bandit's chest. The man slid from his horse, blood pumping from his wound, even as Gerald finished the last bandit with a quick thrust.

Mazael looked over the man they had rescued. He had dark hair and a goatee that came to a little spike, and wore a black coat, black books, and a dusty black cloak. A heavy pack dangled from his shoulder. His eyes darted to the twitching corpses, to Mazael and Gerald, and then back to the dead men.

“I have very little of value. Please leave me be,” said the man. His voice had a lyrical Travian accent.

Mazael could have killed him so very easily.

Instead, he leaned down and tore off a bandit’s cloak, wiping down Lion's blade. “What, you think we’re more bandits?”

“Yes,” said the man.

Mazael passed the cloak to Gerald and beckoned Rachel and Wesson over. “What sort of bandits travel with a woman and a boy?”

The man blinked. “Your armor...your armor is very beaten up.” Mazael snorted. The man pointed at Gerald. “But his...his is too fine for any bandit. You are knights, yes?  Please forgive me, my lord knights. My wits were addled with fear.” He wiped sweat from his brow.

“Understandable,” said Gerald. He cleaned his blade and tossed the bandit’s cloak aside. “Tell me, if you have so little of value, why were these ruffians after you?”

The man grimaced. He pointed at his feet. “They wanted my boots.” They were very good boots. “I traded my mule for them at the last village I passed...ah, Eastbridge, I believe. I told the bandits they would have to purchase their own boots, and then they tried to kill me! Over a pair of boots! I fought them as best I could, but I had to flee. And I have seen bands of similar villains coming down the north road as well. Why does the lord in Castle Cravenlock not keep the peace? What sort of land is this?”

“One on the verge of war, it seems,” said Mazael.

The man’s face sagged. “Oh, I knew it. I should have stayed in Alborg.”

“Who are you?” said Gerald.

The man executed a small bow. “My lord knights, I am Timothy deBlanc...a...a wizard.” He looked at their faces, and when he saw that Mazael and Gerald were not about to slay him as a wicked sorcerer, he continued. “Might I ask the names of those who saved my life?”

“I am Sir Mazael Cravenlock,” said Mazael. “The man with the fine armor is Sir Gerald Roland. The fair lady is Lady Rachel Cravenlock,” Rachel inclined her head, “and the boy is Wesson Joran, Sir Gerald’s squire. Now, might we ask what a wizard is doing alone in the midst of the Grim Marches?” Mazael remembered the rumor he had heard of a wizard raising trouble.

Timothy’s eyes widened. “Sir Mazael Cravenlock?  My lord knight, my lady, this is...a fortuitous coincidence. I am bound for Castle Cravenlock.”

“Why?” said Mazael.

“I recently completed my time as an apprentice, and the magisters sent me to study with a Master Wizard,” said Timothy.

“Master Othar,” said Mazael.

“You know him?” said Timothy.

“Since I was a child,” said Mazael.

“The magisters said I was to study under him, and they hinted...well, perhaps, that I should take his position after he died,” said Timothy.

Mazael’s wrath flared. “Did they, now?”

“I meant no disrespect!” stammered Timothy. “I hope Master Othar has many fruitful years yet, but he is past seventy, and the magisters said that his health was not good.”

Mazael forced himself to calm. “Your magisters can say what they like. Men have said that Master Othar would die any day now for the last twenty-five years. He is still here.”

“May the gods grant him twenty-five more,” said Timothy.

Mazael decided that he liked the young wizard. “Grab one of those dead fools’ horses. You’ll ride with us back to Castle Cravenlock. Master Othar said for years he’d like an assistant. Who am I to thwart his will?”

“Thank you, sir knight,” said Timothy, snaring one of the horses. “That is very generous of you. In fact, that is what I shall name the horse. Generosity.”

Mazael grunted. “What spells can you do?”

Timothy hoisted himself into the saddle with some effort. Horsemanship did not seem to lie among his skills. “Many, my lord. I know spells that can predict the weather, see distant places, communicate across vast expanses, and several others.” He paused. “I also know several spells of protection...no doubt, they will come in handy here.”

“Why do you say that?” said Mazael.

Timothy tugged at the spike of his goatee. “There are...many old tales about Castle Cravenlock and the surrounding lands, my lord knight.”

Mazael waved his hand. “Yes, yes, witchcraft and demon worship and all that. Surely that doesn’t worry you?”

“There is no witchcraft at Castle Cravenlock,” said Rachel. “None. It’s a slanderous story the Mandragons spread.”

“I...ah...do not doubt it, my lady,” said Timothy. “But it is the recent tales I fear. The peasants say the dead rise from their graves at night and slay the living. And there are darker tales, as well. Ah...my lady, I know that Lord Cravenlock would never succumb to such a base deed, but they say that some of the villagers near the castle practice the old worship of the San-keth.”

“San-keth?” said Gerald. “What is that?  I’ve never heard that word before.”

“Serpent people,” said Mazael. “Remember how I told you about the Song of Serpents?  ‘San-keth’ is the formal name of the serpent people.” He laughed. “I doubt they’re much more than a song. I’ve never seen one.”

“A myth dreamed up by some addled peasant,” said Rachel.

“They’re very real, my lord,” said Timothy. His voice became quiet. “Or, at least they were, at one time. I saw some of their writings during my studies at the citadel of Alborg. Vile books, vile, full of blasphemies. I hope you are right that they do not live. But if they do, then it is the duty of the wizard to protect mankind from such monsters.”

Mazael doubted that Timothy could defend himself from mosquitoes, but nodded nonetheless.

“My lord knight...I have a spell I can cast, if you wish. It is...an eye, one that will let me see if any enemies approach us,” said Timothy.

Mazael gestured. “By all means.”

Timothy slid back out of the saddle and landed with a thump. The wizard rummaged through his pack and produced a heavy book, a twist of copper wire, a quartz crystal, and other oddments. Timothy wrapped the wire around the crystal and muttered a chant under his breath. Mazael recognized the spell. He had seen Master Othar cast it as a boy, and some of the wizards who had accompanied Lord Malden’s armies into Mastaria had used it. The spell bestowed some sort of clairvoyance on the caster. It worked, he knew that for a fact. It had saved their lives after the Dominiars' crushing victory over Gerald’s idiot brother Sir Mandor.

“Brother, I will withdraw,” said Rachel. “I find this distasteful.”

Mazael frowned. “Why?  You saw Master Othar do magic often when we were children.”

Rachel blinked, and looked as if she wanted to weep for a moment. Then she turned her horse and rode off a distance.

“That was strange,” said Gerald.

“Women,” agreed Mazael.

“You know, there are two horses left,” said Gerald. The dead bandits’ horses wandered nearby, picking at the ground. “I’ll take one, and you take one.”

Mazael laughed. “As I recall, I slew two bandits, you one. By rights, I should get both horses.”

Gerald scowled. “You gave one of your horses to the wizard.”

“No, Timothy earned it by staying alive. So...I suppose, if you want to get petty about it, I get a horse and a half, and you get the remaining half,” said Mazael.

“What am I supposed to do with half a horse?” said Gerald.

“Eat it,” said Mazael.

Gerald grimaced. “I had enough horse in Mastaria after Grand Master Malleus routed Mandor!”

“Your father has more horses than the Lord of Swiftheart,” said Mazael. “But, because I am a compassionate soul, I’ll give you my half of the second horse.”

Gerald laughed. “You’re too kind, I say.”

Mazael smirked. “I know.”

Timothy finished his spell. The crystal shimmered, rainbow light flashing from its facets, and he tucked it into his coat. “The spell is complete,” he said.

“Good,” said Mazael. “Any enemies nearby?”

Timothy’s eyelids fluttered. “Ah...no. There are some peasants in that house,” he pointed, “watching us...I suppose they were afraid to come out when they saw the bandits. Other than that...there is no one nearby.”

“Splendid,” said Mazael. “Let’s keep moving. Rachel!  You can come now. The wizard’s done being distasteful.” Rachel rode to rejoin them, ignoring Timothy. Mazael offered Timothy a shrug and set Chariot to a walk.

They passed the peasant farmhouse. One of the fields behind the house had been left fallow for the season, and blood roses filled its furrows. It resembled one great wound, hacked and stabbed by thousands of knives. Mazael remembered Mattias Comorian’s words, and shivered despite himself.

2

In the Monastery’s Shadow

“I say, Mazael, I thought we had another day of travel. Is that the castle already?” said Gerald, squinting at the massive structure brooding at the top of the hill. A thick mist had risen up that morning, swirling around their horses' hooves like fingers of cloud. The fortress loomed out of the murk like a grim stone fist.

Mazael gave a curt shake of his head. “No.”

Here the land rose up into one of the Grim Marches' few craggy regions, worn spurs of gray granite jutting from the earth like jagged teeth. The rocks sported no lichen or moss, but instead tough weeds and small, rugged trees. Small brooks trickled through the hills, flowing their way to an eventual rendezvous with the Northwater.

Last night, Mazael had stopped at a dozen farmhouses to ask for lodgings. Two had turned them away, and the rest had refused to even open the door. At the last house, he had heard an old woman screaming out a prayer for Amatheon to protect her from the Old Demon. Disgusted, Mazael and his companions had bedded down beneath a tree. Unable to sleep, Mazael had kept watch most of the night, leaving him tired and irritable.

Gerald, who had seen Mazael in darker moods, was undaunted. “That fortress is a strong place. If it does not belong to your family, then who dwells there?  Look at the way the ground slopes towards the walls!  Fifty men could hold that place against an army. I cannot believe that it lies simply abandoned.”

Mazael yawned. “It doesn’t. That’s a Cirstarcian abbey.”

Gerald frowned. “The Cirstarcians?  But...they’re the most powerful monastic order in the kingdom. Your pardon, Mazael, my lady...but Castle Cravenlock is something of a backwater.”

Mazael laughed. “So are most of these lands.”

“Why would the Cirstarcine Order establish an abbey so far away from the great cities?” said Gerald.

Rachel shrugged. “Who knows, Sir Gerald?  The Cirstarcians are meddlers by nature. I cannot count the number of times Mitor has flown into a rage after meeting with an emissary from that abbey.” She gazed up at the walls with unblinking green eyes.

“The gods only know. And so do the Cirstarcians, I suspect,” said Mazael. “The Cirstarcians have been there as long as anyone can remember.”

Timothy smiled. “The Cirstarcians have always been a friend to wizards,” he said. “With the exception of the Arminiars, every other monastic or militant order in the Church condemns wizardry.”

Mazael grinned at him. “Conjuring the dead and lying with succubi and all that?”

Timothy grimaced. “If I had a copper coin for every peasant who believes that twaddle—I—well—I’d have more gold than Lord Richard himself.”

“You’d need quite a few peasants for that,” said Mazael. They rode between two crags of weathered granite.

Part of Mazael's mind - the dark part, the part that plotted how to kill everyone he met - realized it was the perfect place for an ambush.

Timothy jerked in his saddle and nearly lost his seat. His horse whinnied, tried to bolt, but Mazael wheeled Chariot around and put a firm hand on Generosity’s head.

“What is it?” said Mazael. For a moment, he thought Timothy had been hit with a crossbow bolt, and the blood started to thunder in his temples...

“My lord knight,” said Timothy. “There are men watching us, from the monastery. Six, I think.” His hand clutched at the wire-wrapped quartz crystal.

Mazael looked up at the fortress wall. “Are there, now? Well, let them look. It’s their road, after all. They can stare until their eyeballs shrivel, for all I care, so long as they don’t try to stop us.” He scratched Generosity behind the ears. The horse’s ears perked up. “Next time, try to keep your saddle. Sir Gerald and I didn’t rescue you from the bandits to have you break your neck.”

Timothy’s smile turned sheepish. “I fear that I have little experience with horses, my lord knight. And I sensed their presence...suddenly, that’s all.”

“We’ll work on your horsemanship later,” said Mazael.

“Mazael, let’s go,” said Rachel. “I don’t trust the Cirstarcians. Any number of those monks have been to Mitor’s court and they could recognize me. The Cirstarcian monks support Lord Richard. I’d rather not have them deliver us to Swordgrim.”

Mazael frowned. “Since when do monks abduct travelers from the road?”

“My lady,” said Timothy. “The Cirstarcians are legendary for their reclusive nature. They are likely watching us to make certain we are not one of the mercenary bands plaguing the countryside. If we leave them alone, they will let us pass in peace.”

Rachel glared at the wizard. “Let’s go. The gods only know what goes on behind those monastery walls. I’d rather not find out. Please, let’s ride before they find us.”

Mazael contrasted the smiling, cheerful girl he remembered with the suspicious woman he saw now. When had Rachel grown so fearful?  For the first time, Mazael found himself wondering what had happened to Rachel since he had left.

What sort of woman she had become.

“I think the wizard is right,” said Mazael, “but if it troubles you that much, yes, then we’ll go from this place with all speed.”

Rachel sagged with relief. “Thank you, Mazael.”

They continued along the hill path and the monastery soon vanished into the mists behind them.

“A pity we couldn’t stop,” said Gerald. “I would have liked to make prayers at the monastery.”

“There’s a chapel at Castle Cravenlock,” said Mazael. “You can make your prayers there.”

“True,” said Gerald. “But it’s been so long since I’ve been at a proper church for a proper prayer.”

Mazael shrugged. “The gods are eternal. I’m sure they’ll wait two days for your prayer.”

Gerald made a sound that was a curious mixture of a laugh and a sigh. “You never did care much for the gods, did you?”

Mazael laughed. “You’ve known me for—what—ten years now, and you’ve just realized it?  I thought I trained you to be more perceptive.”

“You know what I mean,” said Gerald.

Mazael shrugged. “So what?  If the gods exist, then they either ignore us, which is fine, or they take interest in the lives of men, in which case they are obviously cruel.”

“That’s impious,” said Gerald. “A knight is sworn to be pious.”

Mazael laughed. “Actually, my father tapped me on the shoulder with his sword and shoved me out the door. You remember, Rachel?  After Lord Richard defeated him, my father wanted no one to interfere with Mitor the Mushroom’s inheritance. He gave me a sword, a horse, knighthood, and told me to leave and never return.”

Rachel frowned. “Our father was a good man.”

“Oh, I don't doubt that,” said Mazael. “Generous and kind, but weak and none too bright. Gerald, did you know that Lord Adalon had twice the men Lord Richard did?  My father could have sat in Swordgrim and waited for Lord Richard’s army to starve. Winter was coming. Instead, he marched out to meet Lord Richard in battle. He didn’t want to seem a coward, you see. As Rachel said, Lord Adalon was a good man, but he was no commander. Lord Richard tore his army to shreds, killed my two older brothers, and took Lord Adalon captive. Now, what sort of gods allow a weak man like my father to lead his land to ruin?”

“Evil comes from men, and good from the gods,” said Gerald.

“And now it might happen again,” said Mazael. “Instead of Lord Richard Mandragon rising against Lord Adalon Cravenlock, Mitor will rise against Lord Richard. Unless I talk some sense into the fool, Lord Richard will crush the Cravenlocks once again.” Mazael smirked. “Like father, like son.”

They rode in silence for a moment.

“Mitor could win,” said Rachel.

Mazael stared at her. “Mitor?  Defeat Lord Richard the Dragonslayer?  And just how would he do that?  A pact with the Old Demon and all the powers of darkness?  His soul for the Grim Marches?”

“Mazael, that’s not funny,” said Rachel.

Mazael sighed and scrubbed his fingers through his beard. “Very well. How in the name of the gods do you think Mitor could possibly defeat Lord Richard?”

“Mitor’s no battle commander, like you said, but he has men who could serve him as one. Lord Marcus, Sir Nathan, Lord Roget of Hunter Hall,” said Rachel.

“Lord Marcus Trand is, as I remember, a bootlicking toad,” said Mazael. “Lord Roget is a scholar, not a warrior. And Sir Nathan...Sir Nathan could lead an army against the Dragonslayer...but Mitor considers him too old, remember?”

“Sir Albron could lead Mitor’s army,” said Rachel. Her face beamed at the mention of her betrothed. “He’s as good a fighter as Sir Nathan. He could defeat the Dragonslayer.”

Mazael doubted it. “Even if he could, what would he fight Lord Richard with?  Mitor could probably call, say, ten thousand men to his banner. Lord Richard could easily call twenty thousand, maybe even twenty-five. Your Sir Albron had best be a damned fine commander, if he’s going to face those odds.”

“When we fight,” said Rachel, “we won’t just have the men of Castle Cravenlock and the other lords. The Knights Justiciar will fight with us.”

“The Justiciars?” said Gerald. His lips twisted into a frown beneath his moustache. “What do they see in this? Most of their land is west of my father’s holdings.”

“Yes,” said Mazael. “But they hold estates in the Grim Marches as well.”

“Lord Richard has been stripping away those estates from the Justiciars and bestowing them on his followers,” said Rachel. “When...if Mitor rises against Lord Richard, the Justiciars will follow him!”

“Really?” said Mazael. “If that happens, then the lords of the Stormvales will rise and join Lord Richard, along with the lords of the Green Plain. The Castanagents of the High Plain will come to join Mitor, along with Lord Malden Roland and all his vassals. The lords of Travia will probably become involved as well. If Mitor decides he wants to be liege lord of the Grim Marches, he might be able to do it, but he’ll rip the kingdom apart for years of bloody war...” For a moment Mazael saw an image of a vast, bloody sea. Chunks of meat floated in the gory ocean, and something within him found the sight beautiful. He shook his head and his vision cleared.

“Why does the prospect of war trouble you so?” said Rachel. “Mitor just wants to take what belongs to our family.”

“The Mandragons held the liege lordship of the Grim Marches before the Cravenlocks took it from them,” said Mazael, “and they were descended from the old kings of Dracaryl.”

“So?” said Rachel. “The Grim Marches belong to the Cravenlocks, Mazael. It belongs to us. Mitor wants to take back what is ours.”

“No,” said Gerald. “Pardon, my lady, but it is wrong. I saw much of war in Mastaria. Good men were slain on both sides. I slew good men, loyal and brave, with my own blade. I will face war again if I must...but only for a true and good reason. Lord Mitor is already a powerful lord. Let him be content with what he has. Those who are discontent with the gods’ blessings may find those blessings taken away.”

“My lord knight, if I may speak?” said Timothy. Mazael nodded. “I agree with Sir Gerald. I was a boy when the princes of Travia contended for the throne. I was young, but I remember the war very well...the fires, especially. The gods have mercy, the fires...my brother and my mother burned to death when raiders torched our house. If my lord knight would forgive my frank tongue...if Mitor would bring such death and misery to the Grim Marches, with no reason but his own power and prestige...then...then...he is much a murderer as those who threw the torches through the windows of my father’s house.”

“Don’t worry, wizard,” said Mazael. “I prefer honest men to liars.”

“They were just peasants,” said Rachel, so softly that Mazael almost didn’t hear her. For a moment he wanted to shove her from the saddle, until chagrin restored his control. What was he thinking?  This was Rachel, his sister, his only friend growing up. What was wrong with him?

She would never have said such a thing as a child.

"Perhaps a war is unavoidable," said Gerald.

Mazael thought of the war, and excitement tingled through him, the fingers of his sword hand clenching. He could defeat Lord Richard. He could lead Mitor’s army and cast down the Dragonslayer and his son. What could stop him?  What enemy had ever stood against him? But what would Sir Nathan and Master Othar say about this? He thought of their words, as he often did when the path seemed unclear.

“Sir Gerald is right. Timothy is right,” Mazael said. “If Mitor starts this war he’ll have the blood of thousands on his pudgy hands. Nobles and ‘just peasants’ alike.”

Rachel flushed. Mazael thought it made her look healthier. “I...that was a heartless thing for me to say. I should know better. I do know better. I’m sorry.”

Mazael smiled. “You’ve had a hard few days. Sir Tanam did kidnap you, after all.”

“Yes,” said Rachel, “but...that defeat killed Father. He died five years after you left. Mother died less than a month later. They wasted away, Mazael, they wasted away from shame. Father and Mother both made Mitor promise to restore the house of Cravenlock to its old glory.”

Mazael recalled his first clear memory of his mother. He had been no more than three or four years old. He had come into her bedroom and seen Lady Arissa crying, her green eyes puffy with tears. The sunlight shone through the window and glinted off her hair. He remembered that very clearly, the glint. When she saw him, she screamed in rage and pushed him out the door. He fell and cracked his head on the hard stone floor, raising a lump. Master Othar tended the lump, but Mazael had cried and cried. He cried for days. When he stopped crying, he no longer cared what his mother thought or did.

“You loved our parents, I know,” said Mazael. “But, Rachel, sister, they were both fools.” She started to protest. “You know that. You loved them, fine. Don’t follow their path to ruin.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Rachel. Her voice held little conviction. “Maybe...”

“My lord knight!” said Timothy. He swayed in his saddle and managed to seize the pommel. Generosity gave out a frustrated grunt. “Someone approaches!”

All thoughts of family and dead parents vanished from Mazael’s mind. “Where?” he said. His hand curled around Lion’s hilt.

“From the south,” said Timothy. He regained his balance and pointed. A narrow path came down between two crags and intercepted their trail. “Just one.”

Mazael frowned. “Just one?” Timothy nodded. “Well, let him come.”

Mazael reined in Chariot at the fork in the path, reined up, and waited, Gerald at his side.

A horseman appeared in the mists, riding a gray mare. The rider was lean and slender, clad in an old green cloak with the hood pulled up, and armed to the teeth. Two daggers waited in his belt, the hilt of a bastard sword rose over his shoulder, and the staff of an unstrung longbow rested over the saddle horn. Mazael watched the man closely and frowned. The shape of the leg was wrong, the hip too curved. The rider was a woman.

The woman reined up the lean mare.

“Waiting for me?” she said, and pulled back her hood. Black hair hung loose over her shoulders, and her eyes were an odd shade of blue. Mazael had only seen that color once before, as a boy, when Sir Nathan had taken him to the mountains. The ice topping some of the mountains had been that strange, rich shade of blue. He could not place her age. She could have been anywhere from fifteen to forty.

“We were waiting for you,” said Mazael. “I didn’t know if you were friend or foe. With these bandits loose through the countryside, it seemed safer to be cautious.”

The woman grinned. “Ah. You don’t know if I’m friend or foe, yet you sit here talking?”

“You could try to rob us,” said Mazael. “You wouldn’t like the results.”

She laughed. “Is that so?  Well, let’s see who you are, then we’ll see if we’re friends or foes.” She pointed at Rachel. “She’s a Cravenlock.”

Rachel stirred. “How could you know that?”

“The eyes,” said the woman. “They’re green. Only Cravenlocks have eyes like that.” She frowned. “I don’t know you, nor do I know the man with the mustache, nor do I know that red-faced fellow with the goatee.”

“Very well,” said Mazael. “I am Sir Mazael Cravenlock. This is Sir Gerald Roland. The man with the goatee is Timothy deBlanc, a wizard, and the boy is Wesson Joran, Sir Gerald’s squire.”

“Sir Mazael Cravenlock?” said the woman. “You don’t look like a Cravenlock. You’re something of a hero in the Old Kingdoms.”

“And why is that?” said Mazael.

“The Knights Dominiar conquered the Old Kingdoms. When you defeated Sir Commander Aeternis at of Tumblestone, you broke the main strength of the Dominiars. It was all Grand Master Malleus could do to hold onto Mastaria, let alone fight the war with the Old Kingdoms.”

Rachel looked at Mazael with admiration. “That was you?  When the Mastarian war ended, we heard it was Sir Mandor Roland who led Lord Malden’s army to victory against the Knights Dominiar, at cost of his life.”

Mazael shrugged. “Sir Mandor had been dead for three months by then. Lord Malden decided to credit the victory to his son.”

“Wiser men know better, Mazael,” said Gerald.

The woman laughed. “The Dominiars crushed Lord Malden north of Tumblestone, Sir Gerald. Your father undoubtedly wanted a Roland besides you to have a victory.”

“So, who are you, and how do you know all this?” said Mazael.

The woman smiled and did a mocking little bow from her saddle. “I am Romaria Greenshield, of Deepforest Keep.” That explained her unusual garb and knowledge. Deepforest lay within the Great Southern Forest, isolated and surrounded by the dense forest and the Elderborn. Visitors rarely came to the keep, and rumors swirled around the Greenshields. The men of Deepforest Keep lived and traded with the Elderborn, it was said, and adopted their ways as well. The peasants whispered that the women of Deepforest lay with the Elderborn, producing half-human, half-Elderborn abominations.

“Deepforest Keep!” said Rachel. “There’s no such place!”

Romaria grinned, her smile mocking edge. “Oh, there is. I should know. After all, I spent many years there. Now Castle Cravenlock...is there such place as that?”

Gerald laughed, and Rachel blushed. “You needn’t be rude.”

“What brings you this far north?” said Mazael. Chariot's nostrils flared, sniffing at Romaria's mare, and Mazael yanked at the reins. “Stop that.”

Romaria laughed. “Don’t blame him. My little mare’s in heat. I suspect they’ll be at each other if we give them the chance.”

“And then you’ll have to walk all the way back to Deepforest Keep, leading a pregnant horse,” said Mazael. “We can’t have that.”

“Oh, I don’t plan on leaving Castle Cravenlock for some time. After all, I came all this way,” said Romaria. “My father, Lord Athaelin, sent me to visit Castle Cravenlock in his name.”

“Why?” asked Mazael.

Romaria looked towards the east. “My father believes there is something wrong near Castle Cravenlock. He says that dark magic haunts the countryside.”

Timothy looked troubled. “There are...such things, my lord knights and my lady. Some wizards turn against their oaths and seek forbidden knowledge. The magisters execute those that seek such dark arts...but even the magisters cannot police every wizard in the kingdom.”

“That’s rubbish,” said Rachel. “Rumors spread by addle-brained peasants and slanders told by drunken jongleurs.”

Romaria raised an eyebrow. “I’ve seen this dark magic. In the barrow fields near Deepforest, I saw a corpse claw itself free from the grave.” Her voice was calm, but her blue eyes grew distant. “It killed three of my father’s men before they took down the creature. It took fire and magic to kill the monster.” She smiled at Rachel. “Now, Lady Rachel, are you calling me addled?”

“No,” said Rachel, her voice angry. “I’m calling you a liar.”

Romaria laughed. “You might not see such things in your safe castle...but you’ll see them soon enough, if it’s not stopped.”

“The only troubles I’ve seen here are court intrigues,” said Mazael. “Sir Tanam Crowley kidnapped Lady Rachel less than a week ago, under Lord Richard’s orders.”

“My father’s told me of old Sir Crow,” said Romaria. “How did Lady Rachel here manage to get away from the likes of Sir Tanam?”

“Sir Mazael and I...ah...had something of a hand in it,” said Gerald.

“I see,” said Romaria. “My father believes that a renegade wizard is responsible for the troubles we’ve experienced. Perhaps our problems and yours have a common root?”

“Nonsense,” said Rachel. “Utter nonsense. There is no wizard, no dark magic. The real enemy is Lord Richard Mandragon and his murdering son. Can’t you see that?”

Mazael raised his hand. “No. I’ll hear her out. Gerald and I have dealt with rogue wizards before, during my service with Lord Malden. A wizard’s trickery might be at work here...no insult, Timothy.”

“None taken, my lord knight,” said Timothy. “Such a schemer does not deserve the title of wizard.”

“Lord Athaelin sent me to warn Lord Mitor, and to find and kill this wizard if necessary,” said Romaria.

“Mazael, I can’t believe you’re listening to this!” said Rachel. “Sir Tanam is scouring the countryside for us, and Lord Richard is probably marching towards Castle Cravenlock with an army as we speak, and you sit here listening to this...this wild woman!”

Romaria's mocking grin returned. “Wild, am I?  What does that make you?  Tame?  Helpless?Helpless enough to let Sir Tanam spirit you away in the dark of the night?”

“Enough,” said Mazael. “I don’t care if you’re right. Insult my sister again, and I’ll see to it that all your talk of wizards and walking corpses falls on deaf ears. Understand?”

Rachel glowered, but Romaria only sketched a shallow bow. “If you wish.”

“So, you think a rogue wizard is behind all this turmoil?” Mazael said. “What do you intend to do if you find him?”

“That’s simple enough,” said Romaria. “A man that would summon such abominations as I saw does not deserve to live. I will kill him.”

“With what?” said Mazael. Her flippant confidence annoyed him, but it also appealed to him. In some strange way, she reminded Mazael of himself. “Do you have magic?”

Romaria smiled. “I do.”

“Witchcraft!” hissed Rachel.

Mazael looked at his sister. “Weren’t you complaining two days ago that Sir Tanam had accused you of that?”

Timothy looked interested. “You can cast spells, Lady Romaria?”

“Oh, a few,” she said. “Watch.” She leaned forward and her fingers plucked at Mazael’s ear. His hand lanced for his sword, but she leaned back, something glittering in her fingers. Romaria grinned and flipped a silver coin in her fingers.

Timothy’s disappointment was plain. “That is not magic, my lady. Simple trickery. Any street charlatan could do the same.”

“Quite true,” agreed Romaria. “But show me a street charlatan who can do this...” She balanced the coin atop her hand, closed her eyes, and swung her fist in a slow circle. Her lips moved in silent words and the fingers of her free hand waggled. Then her blue eyes opened wide, and she thrust her hands in Timothy's direction. A spray of silver coins, dozens of them, burst from her fingers and rained across the path. Then Romaria snapped her fingers, and the coins vanished in a flash.

“And I’ll eat your horse,” she finished.

“Illusion,” said Timothy. He tugged at the spike of his beard. “I was never very skilled at illusion.”

“Very impressive,” said Mazael. “But what use is it?  Will you throw illusionary coins at this renegade?  Can you use that sword over your shoulder?”

“Better than you could, I imagine,” said Romaria.

Mazael grinned at her. “We’ll see.”

He had Lion free from it scabbard in an instant, the blade arcing for her head. Romaria could not possibly get her heavy blade out in time to block his strike. Yet she did. Lion clanged against her sword, and the gray light of the overcast day flashed from the steel of their naked blades.

“Sir Mazael!” said Gerald, grabbing Mazael's arm. “Have you completely lost your mind?  You just attacked a traveler, a woman, on the road!”

“He didn’t attack me,” said Romaria. “His sword was an inch too far to the left. It would have missed me entirely. Sir Mazael just wanted to see if I was all talk and no action.”

“Not bad,” said Mazael, sliding Lion back into its sheath.

“You, sir, are mad,” said Gerald.

“Oh, undoubtedly,” said Mazael. “Lady Romaria, will you accompany us to Castle Cravenlock?”

Rachel looked shocked. “You...you can’t be serious!  She’s wild, and she knows magic...a woman!”

“Three swords have a better chance than two,” said Mazael. “And she knows how to use that ugly sword of hers, I’m sure of it.”

“Why not?” Romaria said. She turned her coin over in her fingers, an odd light in her eyes. “Maybe I can shock your lord brother Mitor into action.”

Mazael thought of what Mitor would say when he met her and laughed. Rachel was right. Romaria Greenshield was wild. But she was no wilder than Mazael himself.

“After all, Rachel,” Mazael said. “If Mitor starts this war, we’ll need every sword we can find.”

3

The Townsmen’s Welcome

The mist cleared, and Mazael set a hard pace for Castle Cravenlock. Soon the clouds broke, the setting sun flooding the hills with light and shadow. Mazael watched the shadows, expecting each to hold a hidden enemy, but none appeared. Night fell, and Mazael called for a stop. Better to rest and delay a night than to have a horse break a leg in the darkness.

They set up camp at a small hollow in the base of a weathered hill. Timothy cast a spell to make a six-inch jet of flame burst from his finger and started the campfire. Wesson saw to the horses while Mazael pulled out the scanty remains of their supplies.

He saw a flicker of movement atop the hill. A large black hunting cat perched on the rocks above, firelight glinting off a yellow eye. Before Mazael could shout a warning, Romaria spun, her arms a blur, and an arrow sprouted from the cat's skull. It twitched and fell forward, landing with a meaty thump at the edge of the hollow.

“What was that?” said Rachel.

“A good shot,” said Mazael.

Romaria grinned and lowered her bow. “That, and supper.”

They skinned the cat and had fresh meat. Mazael and Gerald had long ago learned to eat when food was offered, and Romaria looked almost catlike herself in satisfaction. Rachel turned pale when they skinned the cat, excused herself, and went to sleep.

“Women have little stomach for the sight of blood,” said Gerald.

“That so?” said Romaria around a mouthful of meat. Mazael snorted laughter.

“Lady Romaria is correct,” said Timothy. He pulled a chunk of hot meat from a bone. “All wizards are trained as physicians. If you’ve ever attended a woman in childbirth...well, it is not a sight for those with weak stomachs.”

“I’ll take first watch,” said Romaria.

“Why?” said Mazael.

“I can’t sleep in this country,” said Romaria. “The gods only know what wanders this land at night.”

“Mercenaries, bandits, and hunting cats,” said Mazael. “You’ve already taken care of the cat, so I suspect you’ll have little difficulty with the other two.”

“Mercenaries and bandits don’t scare me,” said Romaria. “An arrow through the eye will fix them, just like the cat. It’s the walking dead, the zuvembies, that frighten me.” She looked out into the darkness. “Night’s their time.”

“An arrow through the eye will stop a dead man?” said Mazael.

Romaria snorted. “Not likely. But dead men burn, just the same as the living.” She pointed at the fire. “I mean to keep that going all night. It’ll keep away the animals, and if any of the zuvembies rise tonight, fire will ward them off.”

“Pardon, Lady Romaria, but what was that word you used?  Zuvembie?” said Timothy. “I speak five languages, yet have never heard that word.”

“It’s Elderborn” said Romaria. “In Caerish, it means...oh, ‘demon corpse’, or ‘dead devil’. Not an exact translation, but you get the idea.”

Timothy blinked. “You know the Elderborn?”

Mazael laughed. "She said she was from Deepforest Keep, didn't she?"

Romaria grinned. “Know them?  I grew up with them. Who do you think taught me to use a bow like that?  Lord Richard’s crossbowmen?  The Elderborn have long been allied with Deepforest Keep. We look out for each other. In fact, they were the ones who first warned us of the dangers. Their druids sensed a disturbance. Not long after, the first zuvembie rose from the barrows.”

“Mitor won’t believe you,” said Mazael.

Romaria leveled a flat glance at him. “Is that so?  Do you believe me?”

Mazael thought it over. “I think I do. You don’t seem the sort to make up a wild tale. And Gerald and I saw a necromancer conjure up a shade once, before we killed him. That’s not the sort of thing you forget. I know such things exist. But Mitor won’t believe you.”

“Why not?” said Romaria.

“He’s a fool,” Mazael said. “And you’re a woman.”

“I noticed,” said Romaria.

“Mitor will look at you and see a woman carrying a man’s weapons and wearing a man’s clothes. At best, he’ll laugh at you. At worst, he’ll have you imprisoned for obscenity,” said Mazael.

“Yet you believe me,” said Romaria. “Why?”

Mazael laughed. “I had better teachers. My father was a kind fool and my brother is a cruel fool, but I don’t think it runs in the blood. Master Othar and Sir Nathan taught me otherwise.”

“Sir Nathan Greatheart is a good man, and a friend of my father,” said Romaria. “In Deepforest, some of the Elderborn still tell the story how he helped save the Tribe of the Wolf when he was a young man.”

“He and Master Othar taught me near everything I know,” said Mazael. “I was a wild, undisciplined, violent fool.” He grinned. “I suppose I still am.”

Gerald took a sip from his waterskin. “No, you’re just mad.”

Mazael laughed. “My mother hated me and my father ignored me. It was as if they wanted me to be cruel and lawless. I don’t know what would have become of me were it not for Sir Nathan and Master Othar.” He looked at the sleeping form of his sister. “And Rachel. Gods, if it weren’t for those three, I would probably have been another Toraine Mandragon.”

“Well, it is quite late,” said Gerald. “I shall turn in.”

“I’ll keep the fire burning,” said Romaria.

“Why not prepare some fire arrows?” said Mazael. “If this...whatever you called them, these walking dead men show up, you can just shoot them full of flaming arrows. No need to get close with a burning brand.”

Romaria stared at him for a moment, and then laughed. “That is a good idea! I should have thought of it myself.” She pulled strips of rags from her saddlebags and began to wind them around a few of her arrows.

Mazael rolled himself up in his cloak and went to sleep.

The morning dawned bright and clear and hot, and they resumed their eastward wide.

“There,” said Mazael three hours later. “There’s Castle Cravenlock.”

The castle sat at the edge of the hill country. overlooking a broad swath of cultivated land along the banks of the Eastwater. It perched atop the easternmost of the gray granite crags, its towers grim and strong, its walls crowned with battlements. The banner of the Cravenlocks, three crossed swords on a field of black, flapped over the castle towers. Mazael also saw the red rose on white of Lord Marcus Trand, the brown bow on green of Lord Roget Hunterson, and other banners. Mitor had visitors.

“Home,” Rachel said.

“A formidable fortress,” said Gerald.

“Ugly place,” said Romaria. Rachel shot a furious glare at her.

“I tend to agree,” said Mazael.

“I don’t see a gate,” said Romaria.

“The barbican’s on the other side of the castle,” said Mazael. “The main road from White Rock and the other villages leads through the town. We’ll take that way.”

They rode past herds of grazing sheep, and the shepherds gaped. Mazael grinned. He could imagine that two knights, a woman dressed in man’s clothing, a Travian wizard, a noblewoman, and a boy squire made quite a sight. They rounded the base of the hill and Cravenlock Town, an overgrown village of four thousand people, came into sight, smoke rising from hundreds of chimneys. The main road passed through the town's gates, and Mazael Cravenlock came home after fifteen years.

The peasants teeming the narrow streets parted before them. A murmur of whispers rose up as they recognized Lady Rachel, a buzz of surprise spreading through the crowd.

Mazael frowned. Why were so many people on the streets? At this time of day, they should have been in their fields or workshops.

“Lady Rachel!” he heard one man say. “She’s come back.”

Mazael stared at the peasants. He saw worry on their faces, and lines from years of hard labor. But most of all, he could saw the fear. Suddenly Romaria’s tales of zuvembies didn’t seem so outlandish.

“That Sir Mazael,” another man said. “He must’ve rescued her. He could outwit the Old Crow, too. He killed the Grand Master of the Knights Dominiar, I heard it myself!”

“Who’s the handsome knight, the one with the golden hair?”

“That strange woman...wearing a sword?”

He heard another voice, just at the edge of his hearing, that made his skin crawl. “Sir Mazael’s come back...he’ll set things right, he’ll put an end to this bloody business...”

Romaria flipped a silver coin over her knuckles. Her hands moved with fluid grace through the gestures of the spell she had used yesterday. She thrust out both hands and threw handfuls of silver coins into the crowds. A gasp went up, and Mazael saw that the coins were real, this time.

“How does she do that?” said Gerald as the peasants thronged around the coins.

Mazael shrugged and waggled his fingers. “Magic.”

They rode into the town square and Mazael reined Chariot up.

“What in the hells?” Mazael said.

Little wonder such a crowd had gathered.

A gallows rose in the center of the square. A dozen Cravenlock armsmen stood around it in a ring, holding back the crowd with their spears. Some of the peasants screamed curses, and the town looked on the edge of a riot.

The gallows had nooses and trapdoors for eight people, and each noose held an occupant. The necks of a plump man and a stout woman filled the first two, the man's eyes bulging huge with fear while the woman wept. An ancient woman stood next to them, the noose holding down her white hair. Two pretty young women and three children filled the other five nooses. The oldest child looked Wesson’s age, the youngest about three years or so.

“Mazael!” said Gerald. “Those are children!  What in the gods’ names are those soldiers doing?”

A fat man in the armor and tabard of a captain stepped to the gallows. “Hear all you loyal subjects of Lord Mitor Cravenlock, Lord of Castle Cravenlock and liege lord of the Grim Marches!”

“Liege lord?” said Mazael. “What nonsense is this?”

“Know you all that these men, women, and children are traitors, and guilty of treason against Lord Mitor!” continued the captain. “Hence they have earned their deaths.”

“How does a child commit treason?” said Gerald.

“Rachel, what is this?” said Mazael.

Rachel’s face went white. “I...I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t come to the town often, and...”

A gleeful grin spread across the captain’s face. “If any of the condemned would like to beg for their lives, they may do so.”

The stout man and woman screamed at the captain, begging for their children’s lives. The pretty younger women wept and offered to give him what he wanted while the children sobbed.

“For gods’ sakes, Mazael, we’ve got to stop this,” said Gerald. “But there are fifty soldiers here. Don’t do anything mad...”

The fat captain smirked, and Mazael's rage found a focus.

“What is the meaning of this?” Mazael roared.

The peasants took one look at his face and hastily backed away.

The fat captain spun, his jowls quivering with anger. “Who dares...” His eyes widened as he saw Mazael, then they narrowed again. “Who are you?  You dare interrupt these proceedings of justice?”

Mazael pointed at the quivering children. “You call this justice?”

“Seize him!” yelled the captain. Gerald groaned and spurred his horse to Mazael’s side.

Lion glimmered in Mazael’s fist. “Try,” he said, his voice calm. Something in his face made the Cravenlock armsmen back away. “Now, who the hell are you?”

The man’s face glowed with rage. “I am Captain Brogan. When Lord Mitor hears of this, he’ll have your head!”

“I am Sir Mazael Cravenlock,” said Mazael, “and threaten me again, and I’ll give Mitor your head.”

Brogan’s eyes widened. “Sir...Mazael?  Forgive me, my lord knight, I didn’t recognize you.”

Mazael waved Lion at the bound prisoners. “Now, explain to me how a little girl commits treason?”

“My lord knight,” said Brogan. “It grieves me to bring you ill news, but your sister was kidnapped less than a week ago. Sir Tanam Crowley came in good faith as Lord Richard Mandragon’s emissary and spirited Lady Rachel away. These vermin,” he pointed at the prisoners, “aided the treacherous Old Crow in his escape!”

“They did not!” said Rachel, riding to Mazael’s side. “Sir Tanam abducted me with his own men. No one from castle or town helped him!  These people are innocent!”

“Lady...Lady Rachel?” Brogan said. “But how?  Sir Tanam...”

“Sir Mazael and Sir Gerald rescued me from Sir Tanam,” said Rachel. “They cut through his men and took me before Sir Tanam even knew what was happening. Just two, against Sir Tanam’s thirty, when you and all the armsmen of Cravenlock couldn’t keep me safe!”

Jeering laughter rippled through the crowd, and Brogan snarled. “They are guilty of treason nonetheless!”

Chariot stepped towards Brogan. “And what treason would that be?” said Mazael.

Mazael saw the panic begin in Brogan’s eyes.

“The child!” Brogan screamed, pointing at a girl of ten or so. “She sang a treasonous song, ‘Lord Mitor the Mushroom Lord.’”

“My lord knight!” screamed one of the young women. “That’s...

“Silence!” said Brogan.

“Let her speak,” said Mazael. “You did, after all, ask any of the condemned if they wanted to beg. What’s your name?”

The young woman’s face was puffy from tears. “I’m...I’m Bethy, my lord knight. I work for master Cramton, who runs the Three Swords Inn.”

“Cramton is the fellow in the noose over there, I assume,” said Mazael, pointing at the fat man.

“Yes, my lord,” said Bethy.

“So, what happened?” said Mazael.

“She’s a liar!” bellowed Brogan.

“Shut up,” said Mazael. “Bethy, what happened?”

“It was like this,” said Bethy. “Me and Lyna work in master Cramton’s inn. We wait on the patrons and tend the bar. Captain Brogan and some of his men come in yesterday, start smashing up tables and stealing ale. Master Cramton tells them to stop. Captain Brogan says master Cramton should shut up if he knows what’s good for him. He said that master Cramton should hand over me and Lyna...for his men. Master Cramton said no. Captain Brogan then says that’s treason, and arrests us all, even master Cramton and his wife and his little ones.”

“That so?” said Mazael.

“Lies,” said Brogan. “These peasants hate the strong firm hand of justice that rules them, so...so they spread slander and falsehood...”

“For the last time, shut up,” said Mazael. He pointed at the man-at-arms holding the lever. “You. Cut them loose. They can go back to their inn.”

The man-at-arms stammered. “My...my lord knight, we...Captain Brogan commanded us to burn the Three Swords inn to the ground.”

“So,” said Mazael to Brogan. “The innkeeper refused to let you rape his barmaids. That’s treason, now?  And because of this crime, you burned down his inn and tied him and his family to a gallows?  Oh, yes, the firm hand of justice indeed.”

“Who are you to tell me what to do?” said Brogan. “You ride in here after fifteen years and strut about so high-and-mighty!  I kept order in Lord Mitor’s name. You wouldn’t know the first thing about keeping order, about justice, if it hit you in the face!”

Brogan never saw it coming. Mazael ripped Lion's point through Brogan's throat, the captain's eyes bulging as blood gushed from his mouth. He collapsed to the ground, drowning in his own blood.

“And neither would you,” said Mazael.

The Cravenlock armsmen gaped, fingering their weapons.

Gerald sighed. “Oh, this is off to a dreadful start.”

Mazael tore off Brogan’s cloak and used it to wipe down Lion’s blade. “I mean to have words with this new fool of an armsmaster, Sir Albron.” Rachel’s eyes flashed. “Sir Nathan would never have let something like this happen.” An armsman shouted and ran at Mazael. Mazael rammed the palm of his hand into the armsman's face, sent him sprawling.

“Anyone else have any objections?” said Mazael, glaring at the armsmen. None of them did. "Good." He pointed. "You."

“Sir?” said another armsman.

“Cut them loose. Since Brogan saw fit to burn down their inn, they’ll have to come with me back to the castle. I mean to see that they get reparation,” said Mazael.

“Cut them loose?” repeated the armsman.

“Now!” said Mazael. The soldier leapt up the gallows and sawed at the ropes with his dagger. Cramton stumbled free from his noose and ran to his wife and children.

“Form up!” yelled Mazael to the armsmen. “You will provide an escort for Lady Rachel back to Castle Cravenlock.”

“Oh, my lord knight, thank you, thank you,” wailed the innkeeper’s wife, clutching her children. “Oh, thank you, thank you.”

“We did no treason, my lord knight,” said Cramton, sweating and weeping. “I just wanted to do right by my workers, I did.”

“The gods sent you,” Bethy declared. “The gods knew we were innocent, so they sent you.”

Mazael snorted. “Come long. Here, now. If the woman can’t walk, Sir Gerald and I have two extra horses. She and the little ones can ride.”

“I can take one up here with me,” Romaria said.

Eventually, the innkeeper’s wife, so overcome by relief that she could not walk, mounted with her youngest child on one of the dead bandits’ horses. Bethy went on the second horse, another child on her lap, while Romaria took still another with her. By then the milling mass of Cravenlock men had managed to form up in an escort. Romaria started to amuse the children with another coin trick.

“Go,” said Mazael.

Cramton walked next to Mazael’s horse and babbled thanks. Mazael nodded, his thoughts dark. Things were indeed wrong at Castle Cravenlock. He had just seen firsthand evidence of it. For the moment, he didn’t care about Rachel’s story of impending war, or Romaria’s tale of dark magic. The idiocy, the brutality of the armsmen, bothered him the most. Oh, yes, he would have words with Lord Mitor over this, and with this fool Sir Albron Eastwater.

Chapter III

1

The Brothers’ Reunion

Castle Cravenlock stood on a war footing.

Mazael saw camps of mercenaries arrayed around the base of the castle’s rocky hill, some standing in precise military order, others little more than a hodgepodge mess of tents and latrine ditches. At least three thousand men all told, Mazael reckoned. Nearby a blue banner with a silver star, the standard of the Knights Justiciar, flapped over a camp of five hundred men. Next to the Justiciar camp rose the banners of Lord Marcus Trand and Lord Roget Hunterson, their camps holding at least another two thousand men.

Mitor meant to challenge the might of Swordgrim with this rabble?

Spearmen patrolled the castle's ramparts, looking down as Mazael and the others rode up to the gates. Armsmen guarded both the gate and barbican, while crossbowmen waited atop the wall.

Mazael reined up before the gates.

“Halt!” called a man from the ramparts. “Who comes?”

“Gods almighty!” swore an armsman. “That’s Lady Rachel with him!”

“I am Sir Mazael Cravenlock!” said Mazael, standing up in his stirrups. “Behind me are Sir Gerald Roland of Knightcastle, Lady Romaria Greenshield of Deepforest Keep, and the wizard Timothy deBlanc. And no doubt you recognize Lady Rachel Cravenlock?”

“My gods!” exclaimed the gate’s lieutenant. “Sir Mazael, Sir Tanam Crowley abducted Lady Rachel a week past!  For you...to come with...”

“How do you think Lady Rachel won free?” said Mazael. “Do you think the Old Crow let her go?”

“Open the gate!” said the lieutenant. “Lord Mitor will want to meet with his brother and sister at once.”

“He damn well better,” muttered Mazael.

The castle’s portcullis rattled up, and Mazael rode into Castle Cravenlock’s courtyard and came home.

It was almost exactly as he remembered. A new roof had been put upon the stables, and three additional forges stood against the curtain walls, but nothing else had changed. The earth beneath Chariot’s hooves remained a mixture of hard-packed dirt and grassy patches, and the servants, peasants, and armsmen going about their business in the courtyard could have been the same men Mazael had seen fifteen years ago.

Someone touched his elbow. “Welcome home,” said Rachel.

Mazael laughed. “Yes, but I rather doubt home is glad to see me.”

Grooms hurried forward to take their mounts, and Chariot bared his teeth. Mazael handed the reins over, and the big war horse deigned the grooms to lead him.

“You ought to have that horse gelded, you know,” said Romaria. She slid down from her mare’s saddle. “He’s hasn’t stopped sniffing at my poor mare.”

Mazael snorted. “Why would I want to do that?  A gelding’s no good in battle.”

“A gelding would be easier to control,” said Romaria.

“Yes,” said Mazael, “but a gelding wouldn’t bite the faces off my enemies.”

A young boy in a page’s livery ran forward. “Sir Mazael Cravenlock,” he said in a high voice. “Lord Mitor commands your presence and the presence of your companions in the great hall at once.”

“There’s gratitude,” said Mazael. “I bring back his abducted sister and he cannot even rouse himself to come meet me?” The page flinched. No doubt Lord Mitor was not often questioned. “Very well. Tell him we will come presently.”

The page bowed and ran off.

“Master Cramton, accompany me,” said Mazael. He turned to the Cravenlock armsmen. “Make certain his family is comfortable. If they give me a single word of complaint, I’ll take you back down to those gallows and hang you myself. Oh, and try not to burn down any more inns while you’re at it?”

“Shall...shall some of us escort you to the great hall?” said an armsman.

“I know the way,” said Mazael.

He started for the great hall. Some of his mood must have shown on his face, and servants and armsmen alike melted out of his way. Mazael climbed the steps to the central keep and walked through the anteroom. The massive double doors to Castle Cravenlock’s great hall stood open.

The great hall had been built in imitation of the vast vaulted naves of the high cathedrals. Delicate pillars supported the ribbed roof, and crystal windows stretched from floor to ceilings. The banners of the Cravenlocks hung from the ceiling and balconies. The lord’s dais stood at the end of the hall, and a long table rested at its foot for the lord's councilors. Both dais and table stood empty.

“Where is everyone?” said Mazael.

A herald’s voice rang out from the balconies. “All hail for Mitor Cravenlock, Lord of Castle Cravenlock, and liege lord of the Grim Marches!”

“Oh dear,” said Gerald.

Lord Mitor Cravenlock appeared from the lord’s entrance behind the dais, the hem of his embroidered robe trailing against the floor. Unlike the castle, Mitor did not look as Mazael remembered. He looked worse. His face was milk white, and dark bags encircled his bloodshot green eyes. Sweat plastered his lank black hair to his pale scalp, making him resemble a poisonous mushroom, while his belly strained against the front of his robe. Mitor sat in the lord's chair, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Mazael and Rachel, and did not speak.

“All hail of Marcelle Cravenlock, lady of Castle Cravenlock and wife of Lord Mitor!” boomed the herald.

Mitor Cravenlock's wife and Marcus Trand's daughter was a thin woman in a rich green gown. As far as Mazael could see, she had no curves at all. She looked at Rachel with open contempt, and sat down with serpentine grace besides Mitor.

“Marcus Trand, Lord of Roseblood keep, vassal to Lord Mitor!”

Lord Marcus, built like an ale keg, looked nothing like his daughter. Muscles rippled beneath his fine tunic, yet Mazael saw the cringing sycophancy in his eyes. He took a seat at the table beneath the dais.

“Roget Hunterson, Lord of Hunter’s Hall, vassal to Lord Mitor!”

Lord Roget was a thin, stooped man with a long white beard and a bald head who looked as if he had not gotten much sleep.

“Sir Commander Galan Hawking, Commander of the Justiciar Knights of the Grim Marches, and Lord Mitor’s honored guest and friend!”

Sir Commander Galan gleamed, light reflecting from the polished silver of his breastplate. His blue cloak with its Justiciar silver star flowed out behind him, and he moved with the grace of a stalking lion. Once Lord of Hawk’s Reach, Galan had supported Lord Adalon against Lord Richard. But Lord Richard had won, Galan’s younger brother Astor became lord of Hawk’s Reach, and Galan found himself shipped off to the Knights Justiciar. He had done well in the order, it seemed, but Mazael saw bitterness in the Sir Commander’s eyes.

“Sir Albron Eastwater, armsmaster of Castle Cravenlock, vassal to Lord Mitor!”

Sir Albron looked like the sort of muscled, handsome knight that rescued pining damsels in jongleurs’ bawdy tales. His skin was tanned, his face chiseled, his eyes clear and strong. Sir Albron wore a black surcoat embroidered with the three silver swords of Cravenlock. A plain longsword with a leather-wrapped hilt hung from his belt. Mazael wondered if Sir Albron knew how to use that blade. Sir Albron smiled when he saw Rachel, and she returned the smile tenfold.

Mazael saw Romaria staring at Sir Albron as well, her eyes intent, and suppressed a laugh.

“Simonian, wizard of Briault, advisor to Lord Mitor!”

“A foreign wizard...my lord knight, he wouldn’t have been trained at Alborg,” whispered Timothy. “He could have learned dark arts. Briault is a land of warlocks and necromancers.”

Romaria looked away from Sir Albron and frowned.

“Of Briault?” said Mazael to Rachel. “You didn’t tell me that Mitor had hired a foreign wizard.”

Rachel blinked. “I...I forgot.”

A man wrapped in a voluminous brown robe followed Sir Albron. He wore a bushy gray beard, and unkempt iron-gray hair encircled his head like a lion's mane. His eyes were brown and muddy, the color of a pond choked with silt. He reminded Mazael of someone, but he could not place the recollection. Simonian’s murky eyes fixed on Mazael for a moment, and then he sat at the councilors' table.

The herald banged his staff against the floor three times to signal the beginning of court.

“You,” said Lord Mitor, his voice rusty.

“Correct,” said Mazael.

“What are you doing here?” said Mitor. “Why are you here?  Father sent you away fifteen years ago. Why did you come back?”

“Why did I come back?” said Mazael. “I’m gone for fifteen years, I rescue your sister from the likes of Sir Tanam, and return with her to Castle Cravenlock, and that’s all you have to say?”

“Will you tolerate this questioning from your younger brother?” said Lady Marcelle.

“I am lord of Castle Cravenlock,” said Mitor. “Not you. You do not question me.”

“My lord,” said Sir Albron. His voice was melodic. “Sir Mazael has accomplished a great feat! My men scoured the countryside and we found no trace of Sir Tanam. I had feared her lost to Lord Richard’s clutches. And now Sir Mazael has returned your sister, my dear betrothed,” a flush of pleasure rose in Rachel’s cheeks, “to our arms. We should greet Sir Mazael with gratitude, my lord, not with suspicion and angry accusations.”

“Indeed,” said Lord Roget. “Lord Mitor, Sir Mazael has rescued your sister. He may very well have saved the Grim Marches from another bloody war.”

“Don’t speak foolishness, old man,” said Mitor. “There will be war.” Gerald's frown deepened, and Timothy tugged at the spike of his beard. “I am the rightful liege lord of the Grim Marches. My father was liege lord, and I am his heir. Lord Richard Mandragon is a usurper and a craven murderer, and I mean to see him cast down. I may even kill him myself.”

The thought of Mitor facing battle-hardened Lord Richard in single combat was absurd. Mazael could not stop his laugh.

Lord Marcus’s ruddy face darkened. “See, my lord!  He laughs at you. Your own brother laughs at you. This is unacceptable, I say, unacceptable. How do we know Sir Mazael had no hand in Lady Rachel’s abduction?  Yes, perhaps he had her kidnapped, and then returned her to raise his standing in your eyes?”

Lord Roget grimaced. “Pardons, my lord of Roseblood, but that is absurd!”

“Is it?” said Sir Commander Galan. “My own brother stood by and did nothing while Lord Richard stripped me of my lands and titles. This Sir Mazael is no different.”

Marcelle reared up like a venomous snake. “Perhaps Rachel and Mazael both are traitors, hmm?  For all we know, they both could be in league with...”

“Silence!” Gerald’s voice rang across the hall. “Is this how courtesy is done in the Grim Marches? Perhaps the men of Knightrealm and the High Plain are right to call this a land of barbarians. My brothers and I have had our differences, but we always spoke to each other with courtesy. And Sir Mazael has done more than speak, my lord of Cravenlock!  We cut through Sir Tanam’s soldiers and whisked away Lady Rachel. Sir Mazael has returned with him your kidnapped sister, and you greet him with accusations?  What madness is this?  What utter madness?  I half-think Lady Rachel would be better off in the hands of Sir Tanam Crowley!”

Shocked silence followed Gerald’s speech.

Simonian’s harsh laughter broke the silence. “Well spoken, my lord knight,” he said, speaking with a guttural Briaultan accent. “Honest counsel is often rare at Castle Cravenlock.”

Marcelle’s thin lips twisted with fury. “You...you dare...”

Mitor raised a spindly hand. “No, my wife. Sir Gerald...is right, I fear. I see his father Lord Malden has raised him very well, yes. Very well, brother. I apologize.”

Mazael grinned. “Accepted.”

“Now, please...tell me why my brother and...lawful heir...should return so suddenly, without warning, after fifteen years?” said Mitor. His hands twitched in his lap.

Mazael frowned. “Lawful heir?” And then it hit him. Mitor had no children. Though it was hardly surprising, given how fertile Lady Marcelle looked. If Mitor had fathered no children, Mazael was the rightful heir to Castle Cravenlock and its lands.

And that mean Mitor feared Mazael had returned after all these years to kill him and claim Castle Cravenlock. And why not?  Mitor was fat and weak. Mazael could run up the dais and tear his older brother into a dozen pieces before his councilors could react.

But Mazael did not want Castle Cravenlock.

“Very well, my lord brother," said Mazael. "First, I didn’t know I was your lawful heir. I haven’t heard anything about Castle Cravenlock since I rode out the barbican without looking back. I had assumed that you would have had a brood of squalling sons by now, but it appears that I was wrong.” Lady Marcelle's expression was nothing short of venomous. “Second, I have been in service to Lord Malden Roland, you’ve heard of him, no doubt, for the last nine years. It was only at his command I returned to Castle Cravenlock. Lord Malden had heard rumors of the difficulties in the Grim Marches, and sent me with Sir Gerald to investigate and report back to him. And third, the matter of Lady Rachel’s rescue. As I said, I knew nothing of the troubles. I happened upon Lady Rachel and Sir Tanam at the inn near the Northwater bridge. Sir Tanam claimed he was taking Lady Rachel back to Swordgrim for crimes of witchcraft and sorcery. These were obviously false charges, so I cut through Sir Tanam’s men, burned the bridge behind me, and rode for Castle Cravenlock.”

Mitor did not look pleased. “You...you burned the bridge?  I shall have to pay to have it replaced...”

“I brought Lady Rachel back, and you’re quibbling about a damned bridge?” said Mazael.

“You destroyed my property!” said Mitor. “Do you have any idea how much it costs to raise a bridge over those rivers?  I shall expect remuneration.”

“I brought you sister back, fool,” said Mazael. “That is remuneration enough, I should think!”

“You do not call the Lord of Castle Cravenlock a fool,” said Marcelle.

“Shall I lie to the Lord of Castle Cravenlock, then?” said Mazael.

Mitor stood. “You...”

Simonian folded his gnarled fingers beneath his bearded chin. “My lord Mitor...in my homeland of Briault, it is often said that everything carries a price. You can have your heart’s desire, so long as you pay for it. A wooden bridge...well, is that not a small price to pay for your sister’s life?”

“Yes, but...” said Mitor.

“After all, suppose for a moment that Sir Tanam had delivered Lady Rachel to Lord Richard at Swordgrim. You would have been at Lord Richard’s mercy,” said Simonian. The wizard seemed almost amused at the prospect.

“I am at no one’s mercy!” said Mitor. “I am the liege lord of the Grim Marches...the rightful liege lord!  If my sister had to die to further my cause, then so...” Rachel flinched, and Mitor’s voice trailed off. Mazael knew full well what Mitor had meant to say, and he hated him for it.

The cavorting amusement never left Simonian’s eyes. “My lord Mitor, your brother has done you great service in returning Lady Rachel. Lord Richard could have forced Lady Rachel to marry his son Toraine. Or, he could have demanded you submit to him at doom of your sister’s life. And if you had refused, if your sister had to die to further your cause...what lord or knight would have followed you then?  If you had forsaken her, why, you could forsake them.”

“You mock my honor?” demanded Mitor.

“Of course not, my lord,” said Simonian. “I know that you are the most honorable of men.” Mazael sensed the mockery in his words. Couldn’t Mitor hear it?  “But do the lords of the Grim Marches know it?  My lord, by returning your sister, Sir Mazael has overcome all these difficulties!  Now all the kingdom knows Sir Tanam and his lord the Dragonslayer as kidnappers and oath breakers.”

Mitor sighed. “Ah, Simonian...as always, you are correct. Truly, you are the wisest of my advisors.”

The mocking glint never left Simonian's murky eyes. “I live but to serve you, my lord.”

“We must have a feast tonight,” said Mitor, settling into his high-backed chair. “Yes, a great feast, a celebration of thanksgiving to the gods for bringing Lady Rachel back to us.”

“And Sir Mazael,” said Sir Albron, smiling. “He must be honored. I fear he had a greater hand in returning my betrothed than did the gods.”

“Yes, yes of course,” said Mitor, waving a hand. “Honor Sir Mazael. And we must also show the might of Castle Cravenlock for the Grim Marches to see!  Lord Richard the great Dragonslayer has been shown as a betrayer who sends his knights to kidnap weak women. Yes, I am liege lord of the Grim Marches, and we shall show it for all the kingdom!”

“Is that wise?” said Mazael. “Between the combined forces of Castle Cravenlock, Hunter’s Hall, Roseblood Keep, the Justiciars, and the mercenaries, you will have just under ten thousand men. Lord Richard can call twenty, maybe twenty-five thousand to his banners.”

Sir Commander Galan laughed. “I can bring another two thousand sergeant foot soldiers and mounted knights from the Justiciar estates under my command. Besides, Lord Richard is a usurper and a murderer. Our cause is just!  We cannot lose.”

Mitor smiled. “Lord Alamis Castanagent has pledged nothing, but the liege lord of the High Plain has no love for the Mandragons. He will come to support me, yes. And your own father, Sir Gerald, your father burns for justice on the Mandragons. Lord Malden would stand with the Old Demon if he went to war against Lord Richard!”

Gerald frowned. “My father wants justice for Sir Belifane, yes, but he is not a foolish man. He will not rush into war.” Mazael knew better. Lord Malden hated Lord Richard, and would drag the kingdom into war to bring the Dragonslayer down.

Mitor smirked. “We shall see, yes. Sir Albron, please see Sir Mazael and Sir Gerald to guest rooms...”

“There are a few matters we must first discuss,” said Mazael.

Mitor scowled. “What? It had best be important.”

Mazael gestured at Cramton. “This is master Cramton, an innkeeper...a former innkeeper...from the town.”

“I assumed he was one of your servants,” said Mitor. “Well, why should I care?”

“Your soldiers burned his inn,” said Mazael, “and when I rode into the town, I found them preparing to hang master Cramton and his family.”

“Well, what did they do to warrant hanging?” said Mitor.

“Captain Brogan had accused them of treason, of aiding Sir Tanam...”

Mitor waved a hand. “There it is, then. Why is this peasant fool still alive?”

“He committed no treason,” snapped Mazael. “Captain Brogan and his men tried to rape Cramton’s serving girls. He refused to allow it, and so Brogan imprisoned Cramton and burned his inn!”

“Sir Mazael is right,” said Rachel. “Master Cramton and his family and his workers had nothing to do with my kidnapping. It was entirely the work of Sir Tanam and his men.”

“I commanded my men to keep order in the town,” said Sir Albron, his voice calm and pleasant. “How they carry out their orders is of no concern to me, so long as they are carried out.”

Annoyance flashed across Mitor’s face. “If this peasant’s workers refused to service my soldiers, that, too, is treason!”

“No, that is arson and murder!” yelled Mazael. “I killed Captain Brogan for...”

Mitor lurched out of his seat. “You killed Brogan?  You killed one of my armsmen? How dare you?  Who do you think you are, to ride into my town and my lands and kill my soldiers?” Cramton shrunk down into himself.

“Who do you think you are?” roared Mazael. “A lord is supposed to do justice for his people! And where is the justice in murder and fire? Your armsmen, bandits, I’d call them, torched this man’s inn and tried to hang his family. Children, Mitor, they tried to hang children!  You were complaining about remuneration?  I demand you pay it to master Cramton for the loss of his inn!”

“Demand?” said Mitor, his voice shrill. “You demand nothing of me!  I am Lord of Castle Cravenlock and liege lord of the Grim Marches!  You are a landless knight!  You demand nothing of me, and certainly demand nothing for damned peasants!”

“You call yourself a lord, then be a lord!” said Mazael. Red rage howled through him, and he wanted to draw Lion, run up the dais, and kill every last one of those fools before the guards could react. “Do you know what a lord is who won’t do justice?  A bandit, a thug in an oversized robe!  So, go ahead, Mitor, gorge yourself and get drunk and call yourself liege lord and ignore your people. And when Lord Richard comes for you, they’ll rise up for him, and the Dragonslayer will mount your head above his gates.” He cast his glare over the council table. “Alongside the heads of your fool advisors!”

Sir Commander Galan and Sir Albron reached for their swords, while Simonian only smiled. Lord Marcus got redder. “You dare insult me so...”

“Shut up, you bag of wind!” said Mitor.

For a long moment Mitor and Mazael glared at each other.

Mitor looked away first. “Very well. Remuneration. So be it. One hundred crowns.”

“That’s all?” said Mazael.

“We have need of servants here in the castle. The peasant and his family can work here until their inn is rebuilt,” said Mitor. “I trust you are satisfied.”

“My...my lord is generous,” said Cramton, staring at the floor.

“Yes. See that you don’t forget it,” said Mitor.

“Why is Sir Nathan Greatheart not armsmaster?” said Mazael. “He kept the armsmen of Castle Cravenlock in better order than this Sir Albron.”

“Sir Nathan is too old,” said Mitor. “He is incapable of carrying out my orders. That fat slug Master Othar, as well. Simonian serves me far better.” Mitor smiled. “He can do things that Othar could never dream of...”

Mazael took another step forward. “If you had them killed...”

“Of course not!” shouted Mitor. “No! I did no such thing!  They are in my service, under my protection. They serve here still. When war comes, I will find some post suitable for Sir Nathan’s skills. Guarding the baggage, perhaps.”

“Very well,” said Mazael. “There is one more matter. While on the road west of here, near the Cirstarcian monastery I met Lady Romaria Greenshield, of Deepforest Keep, who wishes a word with you.”

Romaria gave another strange glance to Sir Albron and stepped forward. “My Lord Mitor."

“Lady Romaria,” said Mitor. He snickered. “Or is it Lord Romaria?  I find myself unable to tell, from your garments.” Mitor’s councilors all laughed, save for Simonian.

Romaria smiled. “A beardless man in a long robe, and one who has fathered no children as well. What shall I make of that?  I was looking for Lord Mitor...but I seem to have found a eunuch instead. Pray tell, where shall I find the Lord of Castle Cravenlock?”

Mitor slammed a fist down on the arm of his chair. “Watch your tongue, woman. You are in the presence of civilized men, not the wood demons and the barbarians of your home.”

Romaria laughed at him. “I assumed I was in the presence of courteous men, but it appears that I was wrong. Sir Gerald Roland was correct. Did you learn your courtesies from a toad? Shall I return to Deepforest Keep and tell my father Lord Athaelin that you would not speak with me?  Perhaps I should pay a visit to Swordgrim next.”

Mitor’s thick lips pulled back in a snarl.

“My lord,” said Simonian. “It would be wise to gain the friendship of Deepforest Keep. Lord Athaelin’s lands border on your own. When you march to fight Lord Richard, Athaelin could make a powerful friend...or a dangerous enemy.”

“I am the liege lord of the Grim Marches!” said Mitor. “I do not need to ask for Lord Athaelin’s friendship. It is mine by rights. And if he refuses it...why, then I shall have to take it.”

“I did not come to offer my father’s friendship,” said Romaria. “I came to bring you his warning.”

“Oh?” said Mitor. “So now the Lord of Deepforest Keep threatens me?  Does he truly wish my wrath so much?”

A smile twitched across Romaria’s face. “Oh, no, Lord Mitor. Your wrath is something that keeps my father awake long into the night, I am sure. But I came to bring a warning of the danger you face, not threats.”

“And what dangers do I face?” said Mitor. “Asides from having queerly dressed women strut through my castle, that is.”

“Something far more dangerous than I,” said Romaria, “and that is saying quite a bit. Dark magic is loose in your lands, Lord Mitor. The dead rise from their graves and walk the earth, and no one is safe at night. My father believes that a renegade wizard is to blame.” She looked at Simonian for that.

Silence answered her pronouncement. Then Lady Marcelle began to chuckle. Soon Lord Mitor laughed, and the rest of his councilors joined him. Simonian only smiled at Romaria over his folded hands.

“The dead live, eh?” snorted Sir Commander Galan. “If that is so, then should you not be on your knees praising the gods for such a miracle rather than wasting Lord Mitor’s time?”

“These...creatures...do not live,” said Romaria. “They are dead things, given a semblance, a mockery, of life through dark necromancy.”

“So, the dead walk in my lands,” said Mitor. “Bah!  You say they were raised by dark magic. Who wielded this dark magic, eh?”

“Some wizard, some renegade,” said Romaria. “Perhaps from Briault.”

“I confess!” said Simonian. “I am the guilty party!  I had hoped to use these walking dead men as an entertainment at Lady Rachel’s wedding!” A fresh gale of laughter answered his jest. Even Rachel chuckled.

Romaria smiled. “Laugh if you wish, Lord Mitor...but I assure you, when you see these creatures with your own eyes, the laughter will stop.”

“I have heard enough,” declared Mitor. “I will not be made mock in my own hall. Corpses crawling from their graves?  Bah!  If you come to bring me lies, woman, why not bring some more interesting ones...gold falling from the sky, perhaps, or a forest where jewels grow upon trees?”

Romaria’s smile grew thin. “Because gold does not fall from the sky, nor have I found any trees that bear gems in place of fruit. I bring you no lies, Lord Mitor...ignore my warnings at your peril.”

“Enough,” said Mitor. “This audience is over. I wish a private word with my sister and with Sir Albron. Once we are finished, Sir Albron will escort our...guests...to their chambers. Now, be gone.”

Rachel climbed the steps to the dais, and Sir Albron took her arm. For an instant revulsion touched Rachel’s features, and then she smiled. Mitor’s guards came forward to escort Mazael and his companions from the hall. The audience was over.

2

Rachel’s Love

“That went well,” said Gerald.

“I hope you’re joking,” said Mazael. He looked over Castle Cravenlock’s courtyard, watching as the servants and armsmen went about their business. “If you aren’t, then your wits have gone addled.”

“I confess, Mazael, for years I thought your stories about your brother were exaggerations,” said Gerald, “but now I see that you were generous!  There is no way that Lord Mitor could hope to defeat Lord Richard in battle.”

“Sir Gerald is correct,” said Romaria. “Such a slug as Lord Mitor isn’t fit to rule a dunghill, let alone the Grim Marches.”

Mazael snorted and turned to Cramton. “I’m sorry Lord Mitor would not pay more. The wreck of your livelihood deserves more than one hundred crowns.”

Cramton gave Mazael a wan smile. “It will do, my lord knight. After all, I am grateful to the gods we live at all!  Thank you, my lord knight, for everything. If you ever need a favor, just come to me or my own. We can’t ever repay you.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Mazael. He caught a passing armsman by the elbow. “Take this man to his family. See that they’re given comfortable quarters. Lord Mitor has promised them work in the castle. Once they are settled in their new chambers, take them to the head steward.”

The armsman started to sneer a response, then got a good look at Mazael’s face. He bowed and hurried away with Cramton.

“Idiot,” said Mazael. “What sort of fools has this Sir Albron Eastwater trained?”

“Numerous fools,” said Sir Gerald. “We saw quite a few in the town.”

“Sir Nathan would never have allowed these ruffians into the garrison,” said Mazael. “Maybe that’s why Mitor dismissed him. My brother seems to want bully boys in his armies, not soldiers.”

“Aye,” said Gerald, “and how long do you think those bully boys will stand up to Lord Richard’s horsemen?”

“I fear we’re going to find out,” said Mazael. “Lady Romaria, I regret my brother’s rudeness.”

Romaria shrugged. “You warned me, didn’t you?  In truth, I expected little help from him. If I’m to find this renegade necromancer, I shall have to do so on my own.”

“What of this Briaultan wizard, this Simonian of Briault?” said Mazael. “Do you think it is him?”

Gerald laughed. “Lord Mitor has surrounded himself with...ah, how did you put it, Mazael? A covey of clucking hens? Likely Simonian is likely another clucking fool.”

“No,” said Mazael. “He’s no fool. I think he has his own game.”

“What would it gain him to unleash dark magic in the lands of the lord he serves?” said Gerald.

“Who knows?  It would be part of some wizard’s trickery, no doubt,” said Mazael. “Once again, no insult, Timothy.”

Timothy smiled. “Once again, none taken, my lord knight.”

“You were staring at him rather oddly, my lady,” said Mazael. “Both him and Sir Albron. My sister seems infatuated with the fool. Don’t tell me he’s drawn you into his spell as well.”

Romaria laughed. “I prefer real men in my bed, not crowing roosters or clucking hens.” She shrugged. “I can’t say why. There was something strange around them. I couldn’t tell you what it was. They were just...odd.”

“Well, Simonian is strange enough,” said Mazael. “I’ll wager this Sir Albron Eastwater is just another fool...”

The door behind them creaked. Mazael spun, saw a hulking shadow in the doorway, and his hand shot to Lion's hilt. Then the shadow stepped forward and resolved into Sir Albron Eastwater.

He smiled, exposing brilliant white teeth. “I see you were speaking of me.” He looked at Mazael and frowned. “Did I startle you? My apologizes.” Rachel followed him, her arm in his.

“No need for apologizes,” said Mazael. “Preparedness...is something I have been taught with great force, time and time again.”

Sir Albron laughed. He did not look as young as Mazael had thought. Wings of silver rose from his temples, and fine lines chiseled his face. He was a big man, but moved with a light grace, as if he didn’t carry the weight of his muscle and bone.

“Ah, I know it well,” Albron said. “I have seen my share of wars as well.”

“Albron is a great fighter,” said Rachel. She stared up at her betrothed with worshipful adoration, all trace of her earlier revulsion gone.

“Is that so?” said Mazael.

Sir Albron smiled. “Lord Mitor has given you guest quarters in the King’s Tower.” That was good, at least. The King’s Tower held the most comfortable rooms in the castle. “I would be pleased to tell you my history on the way, if you’re curious.”

“I should like that,” said Mazael. He wondered what sort of man had replaced Sir Nathan Greatheart as armsmaster of Castle Cravenlock.

“This way,” said Sir Albron.

“I know the way,” said Mazael. “I used to live here.”

Sir Albron laughed. “Of course...I had forgotten.” He walked towards the King’s Tower, Rachel on his arm. “Sir Gerald and I have something in common. We both come from Knightrealm.”

“You do?” said Gerald. “From where do you hail?”

“Krago Town, south of Ironcastle,” said Sir Albron.

Gerald frowned. “Krago Town?” he said. “I fear you have me, Sir Albron. I have never heard of the place.”

Albron laughed. “Few have, indeed. There’s not much there. It lies on the north end of the swamplands between the hills of Stillwater, the Great Southern Forest, and the Mastarian Mountains.”

“I know of the region,” said Gerald, “but I don’t recall ever visiting. It has something of an ill reputation. I did meet a noble from that region once, Lord Alfred Karagon. Unpleasant fellow, as I recall.”

“That is not surprising,” said Sir Albron. “The main road from Knightcastle does not pass through Krago Town, and the surrounding lands are full of thick swamps. Naturally all sorts of queer tales have sprung up over the years.” He laughed again. “And if you’ve met Lord Alfred, then the bad reputation of Krago Town is secured. He really is quite an unpleasant old fellow, to say the least.”

“How does a knight from a backwater become armsmaster of Castle Cravenlock?” said Mazael. “That’s a tale for the jongleurs, certainly.”

“Doubly so,” said Albron, “for I was not born noble. My mother was a milkmaid, and my father worked in tanner’s shop, you could say. I fear I grew up with the crudest of country boors. I took service with Lord Alfred’s guard, maintaining the peace, chasing bandits, and slaying the Karwulf monsters when they raided over the Stillwater hills.”

“The Karwulf are not monsters,” said Romaria. “They’re different from humans, aye, just as the Elderborn, but that doesn’t make them monsters.”

Albron smiled. “You speak truly, my lady. But you of Deepforest Keep have a different way. You have lived in harmony with the forest peoples since...why, since the old kingdom of Dracaryl fell to the Malrags. But we of Krago must defend our own lands in our own way.”

Romaria frowned, but said nothing.

“At any rate,” said Sir Albron, “I served as an armsman in Lord Alfred’s guard until the uprising began on the Grim Marches fifteen years past. When Sir Belifane called for men to accompany him to Castle Cravenlock, I volunteered and rode with him. And then Lord Richard rose up against Lord Adalon, and I saw more of war than I ever did in Krago Town. Sir Belifane and Lord Adalon fought well,” Mazael held back his laugh, “but in the end it was for naught. Sir Belifane was slain and Lord Adalon defeated. But your father, Sir Mazael, was a good and kindly man. I saved his life during the battle, and in return, he knighted me and gave me lands along the Eastwater. When Lord Adalon died a few years later, I swore to his son Lord Mitor, and have served him ever since.”

“Indeed a tale for the jongleurs,” said Mazael. He thought how a man like Mattias Comorian would mock the tale. “Yet how did you become armsmaster?  I thought that Sir Nathan Greatheart had filled the post most admirably.”

Sir Albron sighed. “Sir Nathan was growing older, Sir Mazael. I know that you thought most highly of him, yet Lord Mitor felt he could no longer adequately carry out his many duties.”

“Mitor felt?” said Mazael. “Mitor doesn't know which end of a sword is the blade and which is the hilt. He knows less about war than my father.”

“Perhaps,” said Albron, “but he is the Lord of Castle Cravenlock, and his judgment is the correct one.”

Mazael frowned. “Why did Lord Mitor choose you as the new armsmaster?”

Sir Albron shrugged. “Experience, mostly. I had fought in the battles of Lord Richard’s uprising. And loyalty, perhaps. I had served Sir Belifane to the bitter end, and was sworn directly to the house of Cravenlock.” That explained it. Sir Nathan would never have given a fool like Brogan an officer’s rank. “Sir Nathan was a good man, and loyal...it was most kind of Lord Mitor to let Nathan live out his remaining years in peace.”

“It’s a good thing Sir Nathan still has years remaining,” said Mazael. “I think you could take a lesson from him.”

“Mazael!” said Rachel.

“Is that so?” said Albron, smiling. “I understand you are a most accomplished knight, Sir Mazael. I would be pleased to take any advice you can offer.”

“The armsmen I saw in the village were an undisciplined mess. You heard what I said to Mitor,” said Mazael.

“I did,” said Sir Albron. “In all truth, Sir Mazael, I thought the criticism was unwarranted.”

“And why is that?” said Mazael. “Brogan tried to rape Cramton’s barmaids, burned his inn, and tried to kill his family when he refused. Cramton’s youngest daughter is three. Three, Sir Albron! Tell me, do the armsmen of the Cravenlocks now swear to terrorize innocent children as part of their oath?”

Sir Albron smiled. “Hardly. Yet...peasants are an undisciplined, unruly...filthy lot. They are much like...oh, small children, I suppose, or frightened little mice that scurry about and spend their time pursuing cheese. That is why the gods created the nobility, Sir Mazael. The peasantry needs a strong, firm hand.”

“Interesting words, coming from a man who was once a peasant himself,” said Romaria.

Albron flashed his brilliant white smile at her. “Yet I improved myself, and rose above my meager beginnings. Most peasants...alas, are incapable of such. Ah!  Here were are.”

The King’s Tower loomed above them like a granite fist. “Sir Gerald, you have been given the apartments on the top floor as Lord Mitor’s honored guest,” said Sir Albron. “Lady Romaria, the chambers on the fourth floor are yours. A wardrobe has been provided. I suggest you dress and prepare yourself for the feast. Sir Mazael, your rooms are on the third.” Sir Albron bowed and disengaged himself from Rachel’s arm. “My lady, my love, I must be on my way. Duty calls.” He bowed, kissed her fingers, and set off in a quick walk for the stables.

“What an utter ass,” said Mazael.

“He is not!” said Rachel.

“I’m sure he has many fine qualities,” said Mazael. “Perhaps he will display them someday.” Rachel glared at him and stalked away.

Sir Albron mounted a horse and rode for the barbican. His steed moved with a light walk. Mazael frowned. Sir Albron was a big man ...yet the horse...

“What is it?” said Gerald.

“The horse,” said Mazael, shaking his head. “It’s moving too fast for a rider Sir Albron’s size. Ah, perhaps he’s lighter than he looks.”

Romaria laughed. “It wouldn’t surprise me if those bulges in his arms were clumped rags.” Timothy snorted and covered his mouth.

3

Mazael’s Fathers

Mazael examined his reflection in the silvered looking glass. He wore boots, clean trousers, and a tunic. Over his shoulders went a black cloak embroidered with the three-swords sigil of Cravenlock.

The quarters Mitor had given them were comfortable enough. Tapestries covered the stark stone walls, depicting scenes of Castle Cravenlock’s past glories, and a large double bed rested against one wall, covered with a feather mattress and an enormous pile of pillows. A huge paneled wardrobe, a large desk, and a pair of chairs made from red oak and carved with Cravenlock sigil stood against the walls. Mazael had spent the greater part his life sleeping on cold ground under the stars and found the chambers excessive. Gerald, though, was right at home.

Mazael picked up his worn sword belt and wrapped it around his waist. Lion dangled from his left hip and a dagger rested on his right. Lion was ornate enough for a feast and dagger was necessary as an eating utensil. He grimaced and rubbed his beard. He was rarely adverse to feasting, revelry, and wine. But eating at Mitor’s table would leave a sour taste in his mouth.

But there was nothing to do but to get on with it. With luck, he and Gerald could depart for Knightcastle within a week. He felt a twinge of anger when he thought of Rachel. She had changed in the last fifteen years, and not for the better. Her betrothal to smiling Sir Albron Eastwater proved that.

Mazael shook his head and left his chambers, intending to see if Gerald was ready yet. Gerald took more time to primp than the vainest of noble ladies.

He rounded a curve in the staircase and almost walked into Romaria. She stumbled, and his hand shot out and caught her arm.

“Gods of the earth,” swore Romaria. “You’re fast.” She grinned. “I thought I was going to have a headlong tumble.”

“We can’t have that,” said Mazael. Her bare arm felt warm and soft under his fingers, despite the corded muscles beneath her skin. She wore a gown of patterned green and blue fabric that left her arms bare. It suited her very well. Around her neck was a stole of black fur. Mazael laughed.

“What?” said Romaria. She did not try to pull away from him.

Mazael reached up with his free hand and fingered the black fur. “It seems you’ve found more than one use for that cat.”

Romaria grinned. “I cleaned it this afternoon.” Her smile turned mischievous. “So, are you going to let go of my arm...or do you want to take a different sort of tumble together?”

Mazael slid his hand over her shoulder and onto her other arm. “Right here, against the wall? Direct, aren’t you?”

“What, would you have me play the blushing virgin?” said Romaria.

“You?  I didn’t think so?” said Mazael. He wanted to kiss her.

“So perceptive,” said Romaria. “For a man, that is. And so good with that fancy sword, and so fast. I think you might be worthy of me.”

“I should hope so,” said Mazael.

Romaria smiled. “Your friend would be shocked if he saw us.”

“Gerald shocks easily. I’ve tried to train him out of it,” Mazael said. Romaria’s strange ice-blue eyes sparkled, a flush spreading through her pale cheeks. “Gods, you have lovely eyes.”

“Do you say that to all your women?” said Romaria.

“No, I usually say ‘how much for the night?’” said Mazael.

Romaria went silent, and Mazael realized that he had blundered.

Then she laughed, her shoulders shaking with amusement. “You would, wouldn’t you?  What a strange man you are!  It wouldn’t surprise me if you’d had every whore from here to Knightcastle, yet you put your life on the line for those peasants in the town. You stood up to Mitor, when no one else was brave enough.”

Mazael shrugged. “Mitor’s cruel and stupid. What right does he have to terrorize his peasants?  As for the whores, well, I have urges, as does any man, and the women need to eat, as does anyone. I always pay them triple what they ask. I can afford it, and it seems only fair.”

“How generous. The Church should make you into a saint.”

Mazael laughed. “Somehow, I doubt it.”

“I wonder if you’re the one the Seer saw,” said Romaria. “I wouldn’t mind that, not at all.” Her voice had that odd note of fear again.

“Who?” said Mazael.

Romaria’s grin reappeared, as wicked as the flashing edge of a sword. “No one." She leaned up, gave him a quick kiss on the lips, and pulled away. “At least...not yet.”

“I’m disappointed,” said Mazael. “Could you trip again?”

Romaria laughed. “Maybe later. After all, we wouldn’t want to shock Sir Gerald.”

“I suppose I’ll see you at the feast, then,” said Mazael.

Romaria grinned. “I look forward to it.” Then she was gone.

Mazael leaned against the wall and blew out a sigh. He’d had numerous women in his life, but never an encounter quite like that. Then again, he’d never met a woman like Romaria before.

He shook his head. Nothing clouded the mind like lust, and he needed his wits clear for Lord Mitor’s feast. After a few moments, he put Romaria from his mind and climbed the stairs. He thought of what Gerald would have said if he had seen them together and laughed.

A moment later he reached Gerald’s door. “No, no,” he heard Gerald say. “Fetch that tunic...no, the blue one, I say!”

Gerald stood before the mirror, his torso bare. His hair and his mustache had been trimmed with razor precision, his boots polished to mirror sheen. His sword lay across the bed, sharpened and polished.

Wesson stood at the wardrobe, digging through a pile of tunics. He gave Mazael a despairing glance.

“Ah...good...Sir Mazael!” said Gerald, shaking out a tunic. “I didn’t expect you so early.”

“Actually, I’m late,” said Mazael.

Gerald pulled the tunic on, stared at his reflection, shook his head, and pulled the tunic off. Wesson stifled a groan.

“Really?” said Gerald. “So soon?  Were you delayed?”

“What?” said Mazael. “I suppose so.”

Gerald grunted. “Say, Wesson, hand me the, ah...red one. Red and blue usually go well together.” Wesson grunted and began to dig through the pile of tunics.

Mazael sat on the edge of the bed. “This is fastidious, even for you.”

“Well, I haven’t mentioned it before,” said Gerald. “But my father considered arranging a marriage for me with one of the ladies in the southern half of the Grim Marches.”

A chill tugged at Mazael. He glanced out the window, and lurched to his feet, eyes wide. A sea of blood covered the plains surrounding the castle, churning in froth-crowned waves, splashing and staining the castle walls...

“Mazael?” said Gerald. “Is something wrong?”

Mazael blinked. He saw the plains and the town through the window, and nothing more. “What...nothing. I almost sat on your sword, that’s all.”

Gerald laughed. “That would make for an unpleasant wound.”

“What were you saying about a marriage?” said Mazael. He sat in one of the chairs, away from the window.

Gerald scrutinized his reflection, tugged at his mustache, and smiled. “Well, I am the only one of my father’s sons to remain unwed. Before he sent us to the Grim Marches, he suggested that a marriage with one of the daughters of the southern Marcher lords might lie in my future.”

Mazael laughed. “So, a future Lady Roland might feast in Mitor’s hall tonight?” A gleam came into his eye. “I hear that Lord Marcus has another daughter.”

Gerald shuddered. “The gods forbid!  If she’s anything like her sister, I fear that I would rather join a celibate order.”

“You realize, of course, it’s all intrigue?” said Mazael. “Your father would marry you to my sister if she wasn’t betrothed already. He wants an alliance with the Cravenlocks, should they rise up against the Mandragons.”

Gerald sighed. “Wesson! My surcoat, please. I’m well aware of that. You have something of an advantage over me, I fear. You left Lord Mitor’s household, so your brother has no hold over you and cannot command you to marry.” Mazael shuddered at the thought. “Yet you are not one of my father’s vassals, nor are you of his blood. You could marry whomever you wish. You could marry a comely peasant wench, and no one would object, though I imagine the court would whisper.”

Mazael snorted. “Once you’ve been hit with a sword a few times, words lose their sting.”

“Truly,” said Gerald. “Yet I must marry as my father commands, and I can only hope for a wife who does not have the countenance of a sow and the temperament of a porcupine.”

“Good luck,” said Mazael.

“A pity your sister is already betrothed,” said Gerald, pulling on his surcoat, the fine blue cloth embroidered with the greathelm of Roland in silver thread. “She seems quite a proper lady, and is very comely, to boot. Wesson, my sword and belt, please.”

Mazael tugged his fingers through his beard. “Betrothed to that smiling fool Sir Albron. You ought to court her anyway. Gods know you’d make a better husband. Sir Albron would likely stand there and smile while you wooed her away.”

Gerald tucked his dagger into his belt. “Well...I agree with you, but it hardly seems honorable...”

“Honorable,” said Mazael. “Albron has all the honor of a jackal. I wonder if Rachel is merely infatuated. She gets cow-eyed whenever he comes near.”

Gerald tossed a blue cloak over his shoulders with a flourish. “Well, that’s a consideration for later. Right now, there is a feast with food and wine and music awaiting. I, for one, do not want to keep it waiting any longer than necessary.”

Mazael laughed. “Then by all means, let’s go.”

They descended the steps of the King’s Tower. Mazael passed the spot where he had walked into Romaria and grinned.

Only a thin line of light glimmered in the western sky when they entered the castle’s courtyard. The doors to the central keep stood open, torchlight spilling out. Six armsmen in formal armor stood on either side of the doors, and four other men waited nearby. One lumbered ponderously, while the other moved with fluid grace. Mazael turned towards them, a smile spreading across his face.

“Who is it, Mazael?” said Gerald.

“Sir Gerald Roland,” said Mazael, “may I introduce Master Othar, court wizard of Castle Cravenlock, and Sir Nathan Greatheart, armsmaster...former armsmaster, of Castle Cravenlock...and the men who managed to keep me from getting killed as a child.”

Master Othar boomed laughter. Six feet tall and half as wide, a tangled white beard covered his double chin. Othar walked with the ponderous majesty of a lumbering elephant, barely using the cane in his meaty right fist. The much shorter and thinner Timothy deBlanc walked after him.

“Well, boy!” said Othar. “You’ve gotten taller.”

“And you’ve gotten fatter,” said Mazael.

Othar laughed and slapped his belly with his free hand. “Aye, boy, so I have! At my age, I reserve the right to eat any damn thing I want. Sir Nathan here has been telling me that he expects my heart to burst any day now for the last twenty years. Well, my heart’s still pounding along just fine.” He laughed again. “Though I do expect I’ll make a misery for the gravediggers when I finally go.”

“That is not something to jest about,” said a deep voice. Sir Nathan Greatheart was lean and gaunt. Deep lines marked his weathered face, and ropes of sinewy muscle corded his arms. The hilt of a two-handed greatsword, bigger than Romaria’s bastard blade, rose from over his shoulder. A young man, Nathan’s squire, Mazael assumed, stood behind the old knight. “I have been admonishing you to take better care of yourself for twenty years. I cannot recall a single time when you heeded my advice. Mazael.”

“Sir Nathan,” said Mazael.

“Sir Mazael, I should say,” said Nathan. He smiled, something he did rarely. “You have earned that title. Even here, we have heard tales of your exploits during the Mastarian war.”

“Thank you,” said Mazael.

“Sir Nathan and I have been visiting the villages north of here for the last few days,” said Othar, “raising fresh men for Lord Mitor’s army. When we returned earlier today, it seems you were the talk of the town. According to one peasant, you cut your way through a thousand Mandragon soldiers and snatched Lady Rachel from their grasp.”

“It was more like thirty,” said Mazael. “And Sir Gerald helped.”

“And then, when you return in triumph to Castle Cravenlock, you save an innocent innkeeper and his wife from unjust execution at the hands of a cruel knight,” said Othar. “Sounds like a jongleur’s song, boy!  You have had a few busy days. I told you, Nathan, this one’s destined for legend.”

Remembering the sorry scene made Mazael angry all over again. “Captain Brogan was a cruel fool. He should have been scraping dung from the stable floors, not commanding men. And for Albron to give a man like that free reign in the village, gods, that went from mere foolishness to stupidity.”

“Albron and I have our disagreements,” said Nathan. “The appointment of Brogan stands among them.”

Othar snorted. “It’s possible that the gods have made worse men, but not many.”

Mazael grunted and looked at the sky. The stars had begun to come out. “How are things here, really?”

“What do you mean?” said Othar.

Mazael made a see-saw motion with his hand. “I talk to Rachel and get one version of events. I talk to Mitor and get grandiose ramblings. I talked to Sir Tanam, briefly, and he accused Rachel of witchcraft and sorcery. What is happening here, truly?”

Sir Nathan sighed. “Mazael, things have not been well at Castle Cravenlock since Lord Richard rose up against your father Lord Adalon. You know that.”

Mazael nodded.

“In truth, I think things have not been well here since Lord Adalon married Lady Arissa Dreadjon, your mother. No man was more kind and generous than your father, Mazael, but he was weak. It shames me to say it of the lord I served for most my life, but he was not a man of strong will, a quality Lady Arissa possessed in abundance. She rode over him without mercy. Were it not for her, I believe Lord Adalon would have surrendered the liege lordship of the Grim Marches to Lord Richard without struggle,” said Sir Nathan.

“Oft times the sorrows of the present are rooted in the miseries of the past,” said Timothy.

“Ah...the writings of the magister Aristor. I see you are familiar with the works of the great wizards. Very good, young man,” said Othar. Timothy beamed.

“What is happening now?” said Mazael. “The Grim Marches were peaceful when I left.”

“I thought Mitor would be content as Lord of Castle Cravenlock,” said Nathan. “Then that whispering schemer Simonian came...”

“No,” said Othar. “It began earlier, when Albron came...”

“You are right,” said Sir Nathan. “Albron came to Castle Cravenlock six years ago...”

“Six years?” said Mazael. “Albron told me that he had fought in the uprising, and received his knighthood from my father.”

Nathan grimaced. “A lie. Albron is full of them. He may have fought in the uprising. Thousands did. But he did not set foot in Castle Cravenlock until six years past. He took service as an armsman. Somehow he gained Lady Rachel’s favor, and Lord Mitor knighted him after a year. I wanted him gone from the garrison. The man had less truth in him than a thief. Yet he courted Lady Rachel, and she insisted that he stay.”

“Then Simonian came,” said Othar. “Watch yourself around that one, Mazael my boy. He’s sly and powerful. It would not surprise me if he knows black arts.”

“Simonian came three years past,” said Nathan. “I urged Lord Mitor to banish him. Foreign wizards are notorious for knowledge of dark arts. From time to time the magisters simply assassinate those they suspect of practicing forbidden magic. It is legal for them to do so, sanctioned by both Church and king. I feared Lord Mitor would become caught in Simonian’s eventual fall.”

“Mitor bobs his fat head up and down whenever that wizard speaks,” said Mazael.

“Lord Mitor made him court wizard,” said Othar, scowling, “but he carries out none of the duties. Simonian is often gone for weeks at a time. I continue on, as I always have, and neither Simonian nor Lord Mitor seems to care. After a few months of this, Lord Mitor demanded harsher taxes of the local peasantry to pay for his mercenaries. Sir Nathan protested, calling it banditry. So Lord Mitor dismissed him...”

“And replaced him with Sir Albron Eastwater. A liar, but a liar that would carry out Mitor’s instructions without question,” said Mazael.

“Yes,” said Sir Nathan.

“Are Albron and Simonian in league together?” said Mazael.

Othar shrugged. “It is possible. If they are, Simonian is the greater. When they disagree, Albron always backs down.”

“What about this business with Sir Tanam Crowley and Rachel’s abduction?” said Mazael.

“Gods,” swore Sir Nathan. “If Albron and Lord Mitor had listened to me, it would never have happened. Albron had holes in his guards that an army could stroll through. And if Lord Mitor hadn’t planned to take Crowley captive...”

“What?” said Mazael. Rachel certainly hadn’t mentioned that. “Rachel told me that Lord Richard had sent Crowley to offer Toraine Mandragon in marriage. Mitor rebuffed him, Sir Tanam rode back to Swordgrim, returned to begin dickering, and rode away with Rachel!”

“That’s almost what happened,” said Othar. He pulled a battered wooden pipe from a pocket of his robes and stuffed it with tobacco leaves from his belt. A brief spell kindled the pipe, and Othar took a long pull, sighing in satisfaction. “Lady Rachel neglected to add that Lord Mitor planned to capture Crowley and hang him in the town’s square.”

“Gods of heaven!” said Mazael. “If he had...nothing could have stopped war. Lord Richard and the Black Dragon would have fallen on Castle Cravenlock like a storm out of hell. Mitor would find himself dangling from a gibbet. Gods!  Sir Tanam might have seized Rachel out of fear for his life!” Mazael wanted to kill someone. Preferably Mitor

“Oh, yes,” said Othar, puffing on his pipe. He wiggled his fingers, whispering a spell, and the smoke rising from his pipe formed the ghostly image of a noose. “Simonian and Sir Albron had been telling Mitor lies of grandeur for years...how he deserved the liege lordship of the Grim Marches, how Lord Richard was nothing but a murdering usurper...”

“Yet they failed to remind Lord Mitor how the Dragonslayer spared his life,” said Nathan. “Another man would have killed every one of the Cravenlocks.”

“Truly,” said Othar, “but tell that to Lord Mitor. Simonian and Albron have filled his head to bursting with these foolish dreams. I’m afraid this business with the Old Crow has sealed the matter. There will be war. Lord Mitor will charge Lord Richard with the abduction of Lady Rachel...and Lord Richard claims...”

“What?” said Mazael. He thought of Sir Tanam’s charge of “witchcraft and sorcery”, Romaria’s tales of walking dead men, and Othar’s suspicions of Simonian. Something clicked together in his head. “What does Lord Richard claim?”

Othar raised an eyebrow. “He claims that members of House Cravenlock are practicing ungodly witchcraft and unholy sorcery. Utterly absurd, of course...”

Mazael shook his head. “No, it’s not. It’s not Mitor or Rachel or Marcelle. It’s Simonian who’s doing this ‘vile sorcery’. On my way to the castle, I met a woman named Romaria Greenshield...”

Nathan blinked. “One of Lord Athaelin’s sisters?”

“His daughter,” said Mazael. “He sent her north to find and deal with a renegade wizard. She claims that dark magic is loose in the Great Southern Forest, that corpses...zuvembies, she called them, rise to kill. I’m inclined to believe her. She seems a remarkable woman.”

“Mazael suspected before that a ‘wizard’s trickery’ lay behind the troubles,” said Gerald. “No insult, of course.”

“None taken,” said Othar and Timothy together.

“I would not find it hard to believe that a creature like Simonian traffics with demons and conjures dark magic,” said Sir Nathan.

“Then let us march into the great hall and put an end to him right now,” said Mazael.

“I taught you better than that,” said Sir Nathan. “We have suspicions, but no proof. Lady Romaria claims to have seen dead men rising. The folk of Deepforest Keep are known for strange things. Master Othar and several other visiting wizards have scoured Castle Cravenlock and the surrounding lands for dark magic and have had found nothing. For all we know, Lord Richard has seized upon this tale of witchcraft to rid himself of Lord Mitor once and for all. The Dragonslayer has mercy in him, but far more ruthlessness than compassion.”

“You’re right,” said Mazael. “But if Simonian is here for a benevolent purpose, I’ll believe it when I see pigs flying over the castle.”

“I as well,” said Sir Nathan. “But we have suspicions, suppositions, and rumors. Not fact. We may believe what we will, but Lord Mitor will never believe us without proof.”

“Damnation,” said Mazael.

“Speaking of messes,” said Master Othar, “why did you come back to Castle Cravenlock?  You were always good at staying out of the messes of other people...but you had an unfailing tendency to create messes of your own, as I recall.”

Mazael laughed. “That’s true enough.” He told Sir Nathan and Master Othar everything that had happened in the last few months.

“So, Lord Malden plans to involve himself our mess?” said Othar.

“I expected as much,” said Sir Nathan. “Lord Malden has never forgiven Lord Richard for his son's death. Pardons, Sir Gerald, but Lord Malden would welcome vengeance against Lord Richard.”

“None taken, Sir Nathan,” said Gerald. “I know my father. But I am sure he will see reason.”

“And Lord Alamis Castanagent will not sit by while a war rages on the eastern borders of his lands,” said Sir Nathan. “And if Lord Alamis involves himself, then so will every great lord in the kingdom.”

“The king would have to take a hand,” said Othar.

Sir Nathan sighed. “And then we will have war across the kingdom.”

Mazael blinked. For an instant he saw blood gushing from within the castle keep, bursting from the windows, and pouring down the stone walls in crimson rivers. He blinked again and shook his head.

“Is something amiss?” said Sir Nathan.

“No,” said Mazael. “I’ve been suffering from headaches recently.”

Othar laughed. “Too much ale, I’ll warrant.”

“Do not project your bad habits onto Sir Mazael,” said Sir Nathan.

“No, it’s not ale,” said Mazael. “I haven’t had enough to make me drunk since I left Knightcastle.”

“I could give you an elixir,” said Master Othar.

“If they still trouble me tomorrow,” said Mazael.

“Let us speak of happier things,” said Sir Nathan. “Master Othar and I have not seen you in fifteen years, Sir Mazael, and the gods have decided to bring us together again. Let us commiserate and share what has happened over the years.”

“Truly,” said Othar. “All this talk of war and necromancy spoils my appetite. A man can’t eat properly when he’s worried.”

Sir Nathan raised an eyebrow. “That has never stopped you before.”

Othar shrugged. “It is the principle of the matter.”

“Indeed. Sir Mazael...there is something I would ask of you,” said Sir Nathan.

“What is it?” said Mazael.

“Come here, Adalar,” said Sir Nathan. Nathan’s squire stepped forward. The boy was about thirteen, with brown eyes, a narrow face, and a grave expression.

“This is your son!” said Mazael.

Nathan smiled. “Yes.”

“But you were certain that you and Lady Leah would never have children,” said Mazael.

A shadow passed over Nathan’s gaunt face. “I...was wrong, it seems. Leah conceived a year or so after Lord Richard’s victory. Nine months later she gave birth to Adalar. The...birth went hard. Othar tended her, and she lived through it, but...”

“It took most of her strength,” said Othar, holding his pipe in one hand. “I thought she would pull through...but, the gods have mercy, she died five months later.”

“I’m sorry,” said Mazael. He remembered Sir Nathan’s wife very well. She had always given Mazael a treat when he had accompanied Sir Nathan to his keep.

“The gods give with one hand and take with the other,” said Nathan. “It had always been her fondest wish to have children.” Nathan looked away for a moment. “Regardless, I have a request to ask of you, Sir Mazael. I ask that you take Adalar for your squire.”

“Squire?” said Mazael. “Why me?  Surely you could find some great knight to take Adalar as a squire. I am sworn to Lord Malden, and spend most my time riding about fulfilling his commands...”

“That is why I want you to take him as your squire,” said Sir Nathan. “I have raised my son as best I know how, and now it is time for another knight to complete his training. You are the best knight for that task. Granted, you are often reckless, and have several bad habits.” Gerald smiled. “But you are the best sword, the best fighter, I have ever met. And you fulfill the true spirit of a knight’s vows, as your actions against Sir Tanam and Brogan show. Too many knights are hollow suits of armor, following the letter of vows they do not believe.”

“Sir Albron Eastwater,” said Mazael.

Nathan nodded. “Aye. He offered to take Adalar as his squire. Do you think I would entrust my son’s training to that one?”

That decided Mazael. “Very well.” He drew Lion. “Kneel.” Adalar knelt, his head bowed. Mazael spun his sword and placed the flat of the blade on Adalar’s left shoulder. “Adalar Greatheart,” he said. He tried to remember how the oath went.

Fortunately, it came. “Do you swear to serve me in all things, to obey me without question, to care for my weapons, mounts, and other possessions, and to pay me due respect?”

“Yes, sir knight,” said Adalar. His voice cracked on the second word. The boy grimaced and spoke again. “Yes, I swear, Sir Mazael.”

Mazael tapped Adalar and switched the blade to the boy’s right shoulder. “And I swear to feed and keep you, to train in you in the use of weapons and horses, and to teach in you in all the ways of a knight. Do you accept my oath?”

“Yes, Sir Mazael,” said Adalar.

“Splendid,” said Mazael. He sheathed Lion and pulled his dagger from his belt. He offered it hilt first to Adalar. “Well, get up, Adalar. You’re a squire now.”

Adalar took the dagger and stuck it through his belt. He was smiling. “Yes, Sir Mazael. Thank you.”

“I’d offer you congratulations,” said Gerald, “but I fear you’ll come to regret this, after the first time Sir Mazael decides to charge an army by himself.”

“Hilarious,” said Mazael.

“Wesson should be glad for the reprieve, since he will no longer have to squire for both of us,” said Gerald.

“Yes, Sir Gerald,” said Wesson. Mazael could not recall ever hearing such sincerity in the boy’s voice.

“I am proud of you, my son,” said Nathan.

Othar clapped his free hand on Adalar’s shoulder. “Very good, my boy! I have no doubt you’ll make a splendid squire. You take after your father that way.” The old wizard grinned. “You’ll make a far better squire than Sir Mazael was, I’ll wager.”

“No challenge there,” said Mazael.

Othar laughter. “Ha!  If Sir Mazael rides you too hard, boy, come to me and I’ll tell you about the time he broke the leg of Lord Willard Highmarch’s eldest son.”

Adalar’s eyes widened. “You did, Sir Mazael?  Robert Highmarch is lord of Highgate now.”

Mazael had forgotten about that. “The fool had it coming. His father’s armsmaster hadn’t trained him to guard for blows below the waist.”

“Lord Willard was furious, as I recall,” said Sir Nathan.

“Why?  I did him a favor. It’s good someone taught Robert Highmarch that lesson. If I hadn’t, I doubt Lord Willard would have ever had any grandchildren,” said Mazael.

Sir Nathan cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should go to the great hall. Lord Mitor will be waiting on us...or upon you and Sir Gerald, rather.”

“I wouldn’t mind making Lord Mitor wait a little longer, in truth,” said Gerald. “I wish my father would meet Lord Mitor before deciding his course. I do not doubt that speaking with Lord Mitor in person would drastically change my father’s opinion regarding certain matters.”

The guards bowed as they stepped through the keep doors. Lord Mitor, his wife, and his advisors waited within the anteroom to the great hall, clad in their richest finery. Mitor looked like a pear in his green doublet, and Marcelle's gown somehow made her look more vulpine. Rachel was beautiful in a green gown that matched her eyes, but Mazael thought Sir Albron’s arm around her waist ruined her appearance.

Simonian of Briault stood in the corner, still in his rough brown robes, shadows playing across the craggy planes of his face. Mazael saw the amusement in his murky eyes.

Lord Marcus quivered with indignation. “You are late!  One does not keep the liege lord of the Grim Marches waiting!”

Mitor waved his hand. “Bah!  One does not keep you waiting for your food, that is what you mean to say, Marcus. Sir Mazael has merely ensured that we enter a few moments late, as is appropriate to our high stations.”

“That’s exactly it,” said Mazael.

“I was afraid you were not coming, Sir Mazael,” said Rachel.

“Why?  I wouldn’t miss this for all of Lord Richard’s gold,” said Mazael.

Simonian laughed. “That is generous of you, my lord knight. Richard Mandragon has quite a lot of gold.”

Mitor’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. His pallor was worse than it had been this morning. Mazael wondered if Mitor was drunk. “That is my gold, by rights.”

“Truly, my lord,” said Simonian. “Lord Richard shall soon learn that, to his everlasting sorrow. But if your humble servant may make a suggestion, should you not commence with the feasting? Your subjects within the hall grow anxious, my lord, and wish to bask in the light of your wisdom.”

Flatterers and liars, Mazael thought.

“Do not presume to advise Lord Mitor, sorcerer,” said Sir Commander Galan.

Simonian bowed his head. “Forgive me, my lord knight, but I cannot wield sword and shield as you do, or lead armies, or inspire the masses. I can only serve my lord as best I can.”

“Do not concern yourself, my friend,” said Mitor to Sir Commander Galan. “Simonian only seeks to serve me...and I seek to restore the Justiciar order to its ancient rights in the Grim Marches once I am liege lord. Therefore, we are all of one purpose, no?”

Sir Commander Galan looked anything but pleased. “Very well, Lord Mitor.”

“Let us proceed, then,” said Mitor. “Mazael, you and Sir Gerald will join me at the high table, as befits my brother and a son of Lord Malden Roland.”

“Really,” said Mazael. “What of Sir Nathan and Master Othar?  They have served the house of Cravenlock well all their lives. Surely they deserve a seat at the high table?”

Mitor snorted. “They are old and have outlived their usefulness to me.” Mazael saw Adalar tense at the insult to his father, but the old knight remained calm. “Do not quibble with me, Mazael. After all, once Lord Malden comes to my cause, yes, we shall all indeed be of one purpose.”

Sir Nathan bowed. “If you will excuse me, my lords, Master Othar and I must find our places at the benches. Adalar, remain with Sir Mazael.”

“Yes, Father,” said Adalar.

“Now, shall we feast, or shall we stand here and talk all night?” said Mitor. “Tell the herald to begin.”

Armsmen threw open the double doors to the great hall. Mitor’s herald banged his staff against the marble floor thrice and called out the names. “Lord Mitor Cravenlock, lord of Castle Cravenlock and liege lord of the Grim Marches. Lady Marcelle Cravenlock, his wife!” Mitor and his wife marched arm in arm down the aisle between the low tables, almost appearing regal.

“Lord Marcus Trand, lord of Roseblood Keep!”

“Mazael,” said Rachel, “I’m sorry we exchanged harsh words earlier today. You were only trying to tell me the truth...at least, the truth as you see it...and there are so few people who will be honest with me.”

“Now, Rachel,” said Albron. “If Sir Mazael has offended you, he should apologize to you, not the other way around.” He smiled at Mazael. “True knights should remain courteous to ladies at all times.”

“Lord Roget Hunterson, Lord of Hunter’s Hall!” Old Lord Roget sighed and began the long shuffle down the great hall.

“Knights are also supposed to speak the truth at all times,” said Mazael. “Didn’t Lord Mitor...oh, wait, Lord Adalon...tell you that when he knighted you?” Mazael had the satisfaction of seeing Albron’s eternal smile turn sour.

“Sir Commander Galan Hawking, Justiciar Knight, Commander of Justiciar Knights in the Grim Marches!” Sir Commander Galan adjusted his blue cloak with a flourish and marched into the hall, boots clacking against the stone floor.

Sir Albron laughed. “Now, now, Sir Mazael. You’re setting a poor example for young Adalar Greatheart. We should not bicker like this. It is most unseemly.”

“Did Lord Adalon tell you that?” said Mazael. “That would be an interesting trick, since you never met him.”

“Mazael,” said Rachel. “Please, stop this. Albron will be your brother-in-law within the year.”

“Truly,” said Sir Albron. “There’s no need for such pettiness. I have no doubt that you have a few embellishments in your personal history. Did you really defeat Sir Commander Aeternis in the Mastarian war?  Oh, wait, my mistake. That was Sir Mandor Roland, as I recall. And that sword with such a pretty gold lion’s head for the hilt?  A trophy of battle, or a bauble picked up in some Knightport vendor’s stall?”

“Sir Albron Eastwater, armsmaster of Castle Cravenlock, and his betrothed, Lady Rachel Cravenlock, sister of Lord Mitor!”

“Ah,” said Albron. “Duty calls. Well, I shall see you at the high table, Sir Mazael, Sir Gerald.” He marched away, Rachel on his arm. Mazael wanted to ram Lion into the man’s back. Rachel gave Mazael a single sad glance over her shoulder, and then walked with her betrothed to the high table.

“What a remarkably loathsome little man,” said Gerald. “Wesson, take note. When you are a knight, never act as Sir Albron did.”

“I must apologize for Sir Albron,” said a gravelly voice. Simonian stepped out of the shadows. “He has risen high most quickly. Seven years ago he was a common mercenary. Now, he is armsmaster of Castle Cravenlock and betrothed to Lady Rachel. I fear his pride has risen just as high. He is almost unmanageable at times.”

“Lord Mitor does not find it so,” said Mazael.

Simonian laughed. “Indeed. Why would Sir Albron bite the hand that feeds him?  So long as Lord Mitor’s star rises, Sir Albron will rise with it.”

“Until this ship starts to sink,” said Gerald. “Then Albron and all the other rats will swarm out.”

This seemed to amuse Simonian. “I had not viewed in that way, my lord knight.”

“Sir Gerald Roland, son of Lord Malden Roland!”

Gerald straightened. “Well, that’s it, I suppose. Come along, Wesson.” Gerald strode down the hall, scrutinizing every noblewoman in sight.

“And what of you, wizard?” said Mazael. “What stripe of rat are you?”

Simonian smiled. “You are direct, are you not?  I imagine Sir Tanam Crowley found that out quite well. No doubt our fair young Lady Romaria has accused me of all sorts of vile necromancy. And I shudder to think what Sir Nathan has told you.”

“How would you know?” said Mazael.

Simonian spread his callused hands wide. “My lord knight, you know better than that. When there’s a plague, or a famine, or a woman births a deformed child, who is first to catch blame?  Why, the wizard, of course. The common folk of Briault always believed such twaddle. And a foreign wizard...even better!  Fetch the oil and the torches!” Simonian sighed. “I fear I am misjudged and misunderstood on every turn. I am a simple servant. I simply wish to help Lord Mitor reach his full potential, the heights of greatness.”

“Really,” said Mazael. “I have difficulty connecting Mitor with greatness.”

Simonian sighed. “As do I.” His murky eyes glimmered. “But you, my lord knight, you’re different, aren’t you?  You always have been, I judge. That fine sword must dance like lightning when you wield it. Who has ever been able to stand against you?  None, I should think. Killing comes so naturally to you. And you enjoy it, do you not?  Yes, I can see it in your face, in your eyes.”

Mazael wanted to draw Lion and silence the wizard. But another part wanted to listen. “What are you babbling about?”

“Potential,” said Simonian. “Mitor is nothing. But you, Mazael Cravenlock, you could be so much more. The herald will call your name soon. When he does, why not march up to the dais, draw that magnificent blade, and separate Mitor’s ugly head from his fat body?”

Mazael saw it clearly. He saw himself stride up to Mitor, saw Lion flash from its sheath, and saw Mitor’s head roll and bounce down the hall.

“Think of it,” murmured Simonian. “You could become a greater lord that Mitor ever was. You can end your sister’s absurd betrothal to that strutting fool...marry her to your friend Gerald, perhaps. And Mitor deserves to die, does he not?  And you want to kill him, I know you do. I see it in your face. You would enjoy it. Do it.”

Mazael looked into the hall. He saw Mitor sitting at the high table, fat and weak, his harridan wife perched besides. Around him, Mitor’s covey of fools and allies sat and babbled, Rachel caught in their midst like a rose in a ring of thorns. His gaze wandered down the hall and settled upon Sir Nathan and Master Othar. Yes, Mazael could kill Mitor, but what would they say? What example would that set for Adalar?

“What sort of lying serpent are you?” said Mazael. “Mitor’s advisor, indeed!  What game are you playing?  I’ll warrant you’re the one behind all the rumors of witchcraft and necromancy I’ve heard!”

“No serpent, I assure you," said Simonian.

“I ought to tell Mitor all this,” said Mazael. “Let’s see how he reacts when he’s confronted with real treason.”

Simonian’s amusement increased. “He’d never believe you. You do realize that he’s terrified of you?”

“Get out of my sight,” said Mazael, “else I’ll kill you, and deal with the consequences later.”

Simonian flinched, then his smile returned. “Yes...I rather believe you would." He bowed and departed for the great hall.

“Sir Mazael Cravenlock,” boomed the herald, “brother of Lord Mitor.”

“Adalar,” said Mazael.

Adalar didn’t answer.

“Adalar!”

Adalar twitched. “What...oh, my apologizes, Sir Mazael. My...my attention wandered.” He frowned. “Where did everyone go?”

“To the feast,” said Mazael. “Didn’t you see?”

Adalar’s frown deepened. “I...I suppose not.”

Mazael stared after Simonian. “Go to your father, and tell him that I gave you permission to attend with him.”

“Are you not coming?” said Adalar.

“I feel ill,” said Mazael. “The prospect of eating with that pack of serpents is enough to steal anyone’s appetite.”

“As you command.” Sir Nathan had trained Adalar well. The boy walked through the doors and went to his father’s side.

Mazael walked out into the comforting coolness of the courtyard. His stomach churned and his head ached, and he felt so tired. Gerald will laugh at this tomorrow, Mazael thought. He went to the King’s Tower to find his bed.

4

The Dream

Mazael stood atop the castle’s curtain wall and looked over the land.

The Grim Marches had become a desert of cracked earth. The plains lay blasted and dead, the swollen sun hanging in a blood-colored sky.  A jumble of broken stone and burned timbers marked the ruins of the town, bleached skeletons strewn about the ruins.

“It all ends like this, eventually.”

Mazael turned. “Father?”

Lord Adalon Cravenlock stood next to him. He looked as Mazael remembered, gray-haired and thin, his face careworn. “Yes. I am.”

“No,” said Mazael. “You’re dead. You’ve been dead for more than ten years.”

“True...but I live on through my sons.” His voice was sardonic. He had never taken that tone in life. “Come, my son, let’s go for a walk. We can catch up, you and I. We have so much to talk about.”

“This is a dream,” said Mazael.

Lord Adalon nodded. “Most likely. Would you care to find out?” He walked along the rampart wall, Mazael following. Lord Adalon carried a black staff topped with a silver raven, the sun flashing like flame from the dark wood.

Lord Adalon swept his arm out over the wall. “Look at it!  An improvement, I’d say.”

“The people are dead,” said Mazael. “The land is a desert. You have a strange idea of improvement.”

Lord Adalon roared with laughter. “Now, if I had a copper coin for every time someone told me that...why, I could buy the world. Several times over. Not strange, my boy, not strange, correct.”

“And why is that?” said Mazael.

“Because they’re all dead,” said Lord Adalon. “Every last one of them. They destroyed each other. It always happens. It always ends this way. The heavens fell when the demons rose up. And again and again men build nations, and destroy themselves in war. Tristafel. Dracaryl. The Kingdom of Storm. All mighty nations, now nothing more than dust.” He laughed, his tired eyes sparkling with delight. “Do you know something, Mazael?  Do you know something, my son?”

“What?” said Mazael. Lord Adalon had never spoken like this.

“They say dark sorcery ruined Tristafel.” Lord Adalon grinned. “But...do you know what? They brought themselves down. The Tristafellin invited in the Great Demon. The wizards wanted more magic. And they created the Demonsouled. They destroyed themselves.” He swept his black staff over the plain. “It doesn’t matter, my boy. No matter how strong an empire is built, no matter how great a kingdom becomes, those nations are still built of mere men, and mere men always end like this. In utter ruin.”

“Why are you speaking this nonsense?” said Mazael.

Lord Adalon smiled. “Come with me.”

He hurried down the rampart stairs. The castle’s courtyard lay desolate and empty. Something gleamed in the courtyard’s scorched dirt, and Lord Adalon bent and picked up a silver dagger. His eyes blazed, and his wrist snapped.

The dagger hurtled for Mazael’s face.

“Catch!” said Lord Adalon.

Mazael’s right hand snapped up. He caught the dagger by the hilt. The blade quivered an inch from his eye. He threw it aside and reached for Lion.

Lord Adalon laughed. “Hold your wrath. I knew you would catch it.”

“How?” said Mazael.

“How old are you now, Mazael?  Two-and-thirty years?   Getting older, aren’t you?  When I was that age, I started to slow down. My eyes began to blur, my hands began to shake, and I couldn’t move so fast.”

He laughed harder. “But not you, my son!  Not you! You’ve only gotten faster. And stronger as well. A fellow your age should start to feel it...aches just beginning in his bones, death starting to chew just a little. But not you. What a fighter you are, Mazael!  What a man!  No wonder the lady desires you so.”

Mazael blinked. Romaria Greenshield stood next to his father, clad in a low-cut black gown. He saw the curves of her breasts and the shape of her hips.

Lord Adalon walked around her, running his hand over her bare shoulders. “She wants you, yes, but she’s terrified of you. And you don’t even know why, do you?” His fingers tangled in her dark hair. “She’s very beautiful, with hair like night...and those eyes. You’ve never seen eyes like that before, have you?  I find her too scrawny, myself. I prefer a woman with more to squeeze. Like your mother, for instance. But Romaria is such a formidable woman. So skilled with that bastard blade. Yet she’s helpless against you.”

Romaria’s bastard sword gleamed in her hand, and she charged him. Mazael snapped his sword out of its scabbard and parried. A dozen blows flashed in half as many seconds. Then Romaria’s sword went flying, and she fell backwards upon the ground, chest heaving with her breath. She raised her arms, as if inviting Mazael to take her.

“Helpless,” said Lord Adalon. “They’re all helpless against you. That primping dandy Sir Gerald Roland, Sir Nathan the Dull, even the Dragonslayer himself...what are they, next to you? Nothing.” He crooked a finger. “So sorry to tear you away from your pretty half-breed, but we have a walk to finish. After all, you can take her when you wake up. One more stop.”

Romaria vanished. Mazael sheathed Lion and followed his father across the courtyard. Lord Adalon jumped up the keep steps and rapped on the door with his staff. The great doors shuddered and opened with a loud groan.

“Come along, now!” said Lord Adalon, his voice cheerful. “There are a few more people I’d like you to meet.”

The great hall was empty, the vaulted ceiling arching away into darkness. The high windows glowed a dull red. The metal-shod butt of Lord Adalon’s staff clicked against the polished stone floor. He spun to face Mazael. “Tell me, my boy!  What do you think?”

“Think of what?” said Mazael.

“This!  All of it!  Lord Mazael, Lord of Castle Cravenlock...now how does that sound, eh?” Lord Adalon slammed the butt of his staff onto the floor. Ghostly images flitted past, the lords and knights of the Grim Marches came to swear fealty to Lord Mazael Cravenlock. Lord Adalon rapped his staff again, and the images vanished. “And the only thing that keeps Sir Mazael from becoming Lord Mazael is the feeble fluttering of Mitor’s shriveled heart.”

“No,” said Mazael. “I won’t kill him.”

Lord Adalon snorted. “And why not?”

“Because Sir Nathan and Master Othar taught me better than that,” said Mazael.

Lord Adalon howled laughter. “So they say it’s wrong, then?” He pointed his staff towards the dais. The silver raven’s eyes were red, glowing crystals. “Come then!  Let us just see whose life you have so generously spared!”

They walked to the end of the hall, to the lord's dais.

Mitor Cravenlock sat in the lord’s seat, his belly bulging against his fine clothes, his arms and legs like twitching sticks. Rachel sat next to him in the lady’s seat, pale and lovely.

“Older brother, younger sister,” said Mazael’s father. “Lord Adalon’s baby children!” He sneered. “I am so proud!” He tapped Mitor’s stomach with the head of his staff. “Look at this weakling. I doubt he could lift your sword, Sir Mazael.” Lord Adalon twined the fingers of his free hand in Mitor’s hair and yanked back his head. “And so stupid. So very, very stupid. Lord Richard might mount this head above his gates. I wouldn’t. It would make a hideous eyesore.” He let Mitor’s head drop and circled to Rachel.

“And the Lady Rachel Cravenlock,” said Lord Adalon. He grinned and caressed her cheek with a finger. “Pretty, yes. But I doubt there’s a thought in that comely little head that wasn’t put there by Sir Albron!  You know, Mazael, if he told her to jump from the castle walls, why, I’m quite certain she would do it!  Now wouldn’t that be a sight to see?”

“Be quiet,” said Mazael.

Lord Adalon laughed. “Oh, that’s right!  She was your best friend for a time...your only friend. And look what’s she’s become. Lady Rachel is a vase painted bright on the outside, but empty and dead on the inside.” Lord Adalon licked his lips and waggled his eyebrows. “And wanton...do you think she loves Albron for his charming conversation?  For his grace and charm?  Certainly not!  No, she wants him, she lusts for him...”

“Quiet,” said Mazael.

Lord Adalon’s laughter shrieked off the vaulted ceiling. “Feeling angry, my boy?  Want to take that fine sword and ram through my lying heart?” Lion glimmered in Mazael’s hand, and Lord Adalon's grin stretched from ear to ear. “Don’t kill the messenger!  It’s very bad form. Is it my fault Mitor is a cruel weakling? Is it my fault that Rachel is an empty-headed little flower?” He leveled his staff at Mazael. “And you’re so different from them, aren’t you?  So much stronger, so much faster, so much better...why, it’s hard to believe that you came from the same father.”

“Quiet!” roared Mazael.

“They hate you,” said Lord Adalon. “Mitor would sell you for power. And Rachel...ah, poor Rachel, how she’s drifted from you...”

Mazael swung Lion. The sword sheared through Mitor's neck, his head rolling down his chest to land on his lap. Mazael snarled and hacked again and again, Lion ripping and tearing into Mitor's flesh. Blood sprayed everywhere, pooling on the floor, staining the chair, covering Mazael's arms. The scent of Mitor’s lifeblood filled him with satisfaction and a yearning for more.

Lord Adalon laughed as Mitor's corpse fell in pieces to the floor. Mazael kicked the bloody chunks aside and stalked towards Rachel. She screamed, arms raised in front of her face. Lord Adalon’s laughter rang in his ears. Mazael brought Lion arcing down towards her head...

He woke up, screaming.

Mazael’s breath heaved in his chest, sweat dripping down his face, his stomach roiling and twisting. For a moment he could not remember where he was. He stumbled out of bed just in time to empty his guts into the chamber pot.

“Gods,” he said. “Mitor does disagree with me.” He found a clay pitcher of water on the desk and drained most of it to wash the bitter taste out of his mouth. His stomach lurched, but the water stayed down.

Mazael caught sight of his reflection in the mirror and grimaced. He had gone as pale as Mitor. Blood covered his hands, red and thick and gleaming...

He gaped down at his hands. They were clean.

“A dream,” he said. “That’s all. A dream.”

He walked to the window, half-expecting to see endless desert wastes and a burning sun. Instead he saw the castle courtyard and the grasses of the Grim Marches. He heard laughter and music from the great hall. Mazael had never given a damn what Mitor thought and wasn’t going to start now. But tomorrow he would make peace with Rachel. The dream had been too real. He remembered the way Rachel had screamed, and how he had enjoyed that scream and the fear in her eyes...

“A dream,” Mazael said. He went back to bed.

Chapter IV

1

Armsmaster

Sunlight rose over the eastern horizon of the Grim Marches and spilled across the plain.

Mazael walked the courtyard ramparts, as he had every morning of his youth. The bleary-eyed night watchmen bowed or offered a salute as he passed. Word of Captain Brogan’s fate had gotten around.

Mazael felt better. Sleeping from sunset to sunrise would do that. He bit into the apple had taken from the castle’s orchards.

The memory of the strange dream had faded. Most likely it had come from his anger at Mitor and Rachael. And he had been living off travel rations for a month, and a month of travel rations would sicken anyone. And Mitor Cravenlock could upset the strongest stomach.

He flicked the apple’s core into the courtyard. Another few days and he would depart Castle Cravenlock and leave Mitor to his ruin. But what would become of Rachel when Lord Richard crushed Mitor’s delusions of liege lordship?  Mazael considered abducting her himself and taking her back to Knightcastle. She would be better off at Lord Malden’s court than in the clutches of Mitor and Albron Eastwater.

Mazael decided to consider it later. Sleep had slowed his muscles, and he needed morning sword practice to loosen them.

“Sir Mazael?”

Timothy deBlanc climbed up the rampart stairs, his black cloak fluttering in the wind. On the collar and shoulders of his black cloak he wore a variety of small metal badges marked with different sigils. Each sigil represented a magical spell he had learned.

“You’re up early,” said Mazael.

“Revels...ah, do not agree with me, my lord knight,” said Timothy. “We appear to share that preference.”

“I enjoy a feast as well as any man,” said Mazael. “But I prefer my own company to that of certain others.”

“I cannot hold drink very well, I must confess. I left quickly. Yet Master Othar had already drained four tankards of ale!” said Timothy.

Mazael laughed. “He’s not what you expected?”

“No, my lord knight,” said Timothy. “Ah...I do not mean that as an insult, please understand. He’s skilled in the magical arts. In just the last afternoon, he showed me a dozen ways to improve upon my spells.”

Mazael nodded. “Lord Mitor should have kept him as court wizard.”

“Oh, certainly,” said Timothy. “Master Othar is a skilled master wizard, but this Simonian of Briault...Simonian is...unknown.”

“Simonian is a lying schemer, you mean to say,” said Mazael. “Lady Romaria thinks he is the wizard she seeks.”

“It is possible,” said Timothy. “Briault is full of practitioners of dark arts, warlocks and necromancers...or so I’ve read. I’ve never actually been there.” He coughed into his fist. “I...ah, well, it’s a terrible breach of etiquette, but my curiosity got the better...”

“What?” said Mazael.

“I cast one of the minor spells before I left the feast. One to sense the presence of magic,” said Timothy. “Simonian has a spell resting upon him.”

Mazael frowned. “What sort of spell?”

“I...don’t know, my lord knight,” said Timothy. “I didn’t recognize it. And I feared Simonian might notice me, so I released my spell before I could seek further.”

“That was likely wise,” said Mazael. He remembered the gleeful amusement in Simonian’s eyes. “He seems dangerous. If he suspected you of meddling, I doubt he would spare you harm.”

Timothy tugged at his beard. “I’ve lately had no shortage of men trying to kill me.”

“I’ll have to tell this to Master Othar,” said Mazael. “He likely has a spell that can reveal more about Simonian. Thank you.”

“Yes. And...there is another reason I’d like to speak with you this morning, my lord knight,” said Timothy.

“Well, out with it,” said Mazael.

Timothy cleared his throat. “Ah...I would like to swear to your service...if you’ll take me, that is.”

Mazael frowned. “You mean Lord Mitor’s service?”

Timothy shook his head. “No, Sir Mazael. Your service.”

“Why?” said Mazael. “I thought you had come all this way to learn from Master Othar.”

“Well, yes,” said Timothy. “But Master Othar hardly needs help executing his duties. And he is a good man, my lord knight...but this castle...” He shrugged. “I do not like it here. That is all I can say.”

Mazael laughed. “You’re not alone in that, wizard. Go on.”

“And...” Timothy shrugged. “I would rather serve you, my lord knight, than swear to your brother Lord Mitor.” He sighed. “The gallows in the town...I have seen many such executions in my life. I always wanted to put a stop to it, but I had not, and still do not have, the power. Sir Mazael, you are the sort of man who has that power, and I would follow you.”

Mazael snorted. “Don’t fill your head with notions of chivalry and adventure, wizard. My life is a hard one. If you swear to me, you’ll spend your days riding back and forth on Lord Malden’s errands in fair, and usually foul, weather, with bad food.”

“I understand,” said Timothy. “I spent most my youth sleeping under trees, and I slept in a bare stone cell during my time at Alborg.”

“If you’re determined...well, then, who am I to turn away help?” said Mazael. He drew Lion. “Kneel.” Timothy knelt, and Mazael laid the flat of the blade on the wizard’s right shoulder. “Timothy deBlanc, wizard of Travia, do you swear to be my true and faithful servant?”

“Yes, Sir Mazael,” said Timothy.

“In return, I swear to provide you with food, clothing, and the protection of my sword. Do you accept this oath?” said Mazael.

“Yes,” said Timothy.

“It’s done, then,” said Mazael. He offered his hand and helped Timothy back up.

“So quickly?” said Timothy.

Mazael frowned. “The full version of those oaths are longer. I don’t have the time or patience to recite them, even if I could remember them. First a squire and then a wizard. I’ll have a bloody court of my own by the time I return to Knightcastle.” He frowned. “Speaking of which, here’s your first task. Find where my squire has gotten...”

“Oh,” said Timothy. “He’s over there.”

Adalar Greatheart jogged up the rampart stairs. Mazael could have killed the boy with a quick push and a long fall to the courtyard, but he pushed the thought out of his mind.

“I went to your rooms, Sir Mazael,” said Adalar, “but you weren’t there.”

“I rose early," said Mazael. "Take a room in my chambers in the King’s Tower.”

“Would that be inconvenient?” said Adalar.

Mazael snorted. “Inconvenient?  There’s room to quarter an army in the King’s Tower.”

“Thank you, Sir Mazael,” said Adalar. “I’ll move my possessions in at once...”

Mazael waved his hand. “Do it later. Now, you can tell me where Sir Albron keeps morning arms practice.” He frowned. “Sir Albron does have morning arms practice, doesn’t he?”

“Of course,” said Adalar. “It is held over on the other side of the castle, in the courtyard between the armory and the barracks.”

“Let’s go.”

Below them, Castle Cravenlock came awake as servants hurried to their duties. Squires and grooms descended on the stables. The watch changed, tired night guards going for their beds, while rested men came to take their places on the ramparts. Singing rose from the castle's chapel, and a deep red glow and the sound of ringing metal came from the forges. Suits of chain mail rested on wooden stands, while completed swords and maces leaned against the forges’ walls. The smell of cooking bread rose from the kitchen, and Mazael's stomach rumbled. Perhaps he would pay a visit to the kitchens later.

They made a complete circuit of the castle’s walls and came to the stretch of rampart overlooking the yard between the barracks and the armory. Two hundred armsmen milled about, bearing wooden practice weapons, Sir Albron directing them. Further down the battlements, Mazael saw see Sir Nathan and Master Othar. Rachel stood with them, her eyes on Sir Albron. Mazael grimaced, stiffened his resolve, and went to join them.

“Father,” said Adalar.

“Adalar. Sir Mazael,” said Nathan. Rachel’s hands clutched at her sleeves.

“Sir Nathan,” said Mazael.

“I trust you are well?  Adalar told me of your sickness,” said Nathan.

“I’m well enough,” said Mazael. “After a night of sleep and emptying my guts into the chamber pot, I feel fine.”

“A pity you missed the feast, boy,” said Othar. He rapped the tip of his cane against a battlement. “A man should never pass up an opportunity for fine food and strong drink, I say.”

“You ate and drank to disgraceful excess, as always,” said Nathan.

“Absolutely!” said Othar. “I’m an old man, Sir Nathan. I want to enjoy my last years on earth. If I’d wanted a life of austerity, I’d have joined the Cirstarcians.”

“I’m older than you,” said Nathan.

Othar waved a meaty hand. “Yes, yes, obey your elders and all of that.” He winked at Adalar. “My boy, let me give you a piece of valuable advice. Just because a man is your elder does not necessarily mean that he is your better.”

“I know,” said Mazael, thinking of Mitor.

“Do not poison my son’s mind,” said Nathan.

Othar rolled his eyes. “Poison?  You wound me, old friend. I just want to insure that the boy has proper appreciation for the gift that is life.” He slapped Mazael on the shoulder. “Now, if it wasn’t for me, Mazael would be as dry and dull as you.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” said Nathan.

“Besides, if we do not enjoy life, then all that is left is our worries and cares,” said Othar. He frowned. “And there are so many of those.”

“Lady Rachel,” said Mazael, “how are you this morning?”

Rachel smiled, her eyes fever bright. “I...I am well. And you?”

“Fine,” said Mazael. “Where is Mitor?”

“Lord Mitor...does not usually rise before noon,” said Rachel. “Nor the lady Marcelle.”

Othar snorted. “Bah!  And you say I drink to excess, Nathan.”

“I left early, as well,” said Rachel. “Albron and Mitor often discuss matters of state during the meal. I find that leaves me with little appetite.”

“That’s understandable,” said Mazael, “considering ‘matters of state’ just gave you three days in the company of Sir Tanam Crowley.”

“I wanted to rise early,” said Rachel. “Albron likes it when I come to watch him train the men.”

“Does he, now?” said Mazael. “Rachel, I think you’re making a mistake, marrying him. But I suppose it’s your mistake to make.”

“It’s not a mistake!” said Rachel. “You just don’t know him as I do.”

“And how well do you know him?” said Mazael. “I hope better than I, for what I saw was not very complimentary.”

“He’s...a hard man to really know,” said Rachel. “But...inside, he’s very brave, and very daring.”

"But not brave enough to go after Sir Tanam to get you back," said Mazael.

Rachel had no answer for that.

“A brave man inside,” said Othar, shaking his bearded head, a strange look on his face. “If you’ll excuse me, I had best retreat to my workroom. Lord Mitor will have a thunderstorm of a hangover when he awakes. I had best have some medicinal elixir prepared.”

Mazael spat. “Lord Mitor has seen fit to make Simonian his court wizard. Is a medicinal elixir out of reach of his great arts?”

Othar shrugged. “I do not know. Besides, Simonian left on one of his ‘errands’ shortly after the feast. No one has seen him since.”

“Will you need my assistance?” said Timothy.

Othar laughed. “My boy, I prepared medicinal elixirs decades before you were born. I do believe I shall be fine.” He left, his cane thumping against the ramparts.

“Mazael,” said Rachel, “I know we don’t agree on everything, but you are right about Simonian.”

“I am?” said Mazael.

“I don’t know about all these rumors of dark magic and the like,” said Rachel, “but he is a very dangerous man. His eyes give me nightmares, sometimes. And he’s...powerful. He does things I don’t think any other wizard could do.”

“I see,” said Mazael.

Rachel’s voice fell lower. “I...I think Mitor should send him away, but he’ll never listen to me. Please, Mazael, stay far away from Simonian. It’s been so hard, here...if something were to happen to you, I think I would go mad.”

Mazael remembered the amusement in the wizard’s flat gaze as he spoke of Mitor’s death. “I’ll do what I can,” he said.

“He’s doing that wrong, you know,” said a woman’s voice.

Mazael's hand fell to Lion's hilt as he whirled. Romaria Greenshield stood behind them. Mazael hadn’t heard her approach. She wore again her trousers, boots, tunic and worn green cloak, though a suit of steel-studded leather armor covered her torso. The hilt of her bastard sword poked out over her shoulder.

Her grin cut like a dagger’s edge. “Did I startle you?”

“I nearly cut you in two,” said Mazael.

A flicker of fear flashed across Romaria's blue eyes. Mazael wondered if her bravado covered something else.

“You nearly tried to cut me in two,” Romaria said.

“I don’t try. I do,” said Mazael. He remembered how her skin felt and he grinned. Then he remembered the dream and his smile faded.

“You did startle us,” said Sir Nathan. "Your skill at stealth must be considerable."

Romaria smiled. “Thank you. It’s hard to keep in practice, but I try.” She bowed. “I am Romaria Greenshield, of Deepforest Keep.”

Nathan bowed in return. “I had hoped to speak with you. I saw you at the feast, but did not have the opportunity. I am Sir Nathan Greatheart. Is your father well, my lady?”

Romaria’s eyes widened. “Sir Nathan Greatheart?” She smiled. “Yes, he is well. In fact, he told me to give you his greetings, should I happen to meet you.”

“You know Lord Athaelin?” said Rachel. “But I didn’t think anyone knew the Greenshields. Until I met Romaria, I thought Deepforest Keep legendary.”

“Lord Athaelin and I knew each other in my youth,” said Nathan.

Romaria laughed. “You saved his life, you mean.”

Nathan shrugged. “I happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“My father tells it differently,” said Romaria.

“Knowing him, no doubt,” said Nathan. He watched her for a moment. “Is something amiss?”

Romaria pointed to the courtyard. “Sir Albron. Those men are a mess.”

Rachel’s eyes flashed. “Albron does his best.”

“Then despair for the future of Castle Cravenlock,” said Romaria. “Half those men aren’t holding their weapons correctly. The other half at least have correct grips, but haven’t the slightest idea what to do with a blade.”

Nathan grimaced. “I have offered to assist Sir Albron with training, but he has rebuffed my aid.”

“He needs it,” said Mazael. “Sir Tanam’s crows could take this lot. Lord Richard’s veterans would annihilate them. If Mitor plans to go to war with Sir Albron training his soldiers...”

“Mitor will win,” said Rachel. “You’ll see. He hasn’t told you...”

Mazael frowned. “Told me what?” Rachel blanched.

“Sir Mazael, I say!”

Sir Albron walked towards the rampart stairs. “Are you going to join us?” His smile widened. “I have heard so much about the daring of Sir Mazael. Is it true, or does the great knight spend all his time in the company of women and old men?”

“Albron!” said Rachel. “Please.”

Mazael laughed. “Sir Albron, this old man did a better job of training Cravenlock armsmen than you ever could. As for the company of women, I think Lady Romaria could split your head down the middle.”

“Oh, flattery,” said Romaria. A chorus of laughs burst from the armsmen, and Sir Albron silenced his men with a smiling glare.

“Easy to say standing up there,” said Albron. “Why not come down here and prove your words?”

“I think I will,” said Mazael. “Adalar, Timothy, with me.”

“I shall join, as well,” said Nathan. “Perhaps you can teach me a few lessons, Sir Albron.”

“And I,” said Romaria.

Rachel gaped. “Lady...that’s...that’s hardly proper.”

Albron laughed. “A woman? Lady Romaria, you mock me.”

Romaria grinned at him. “Indeed?  Consider this, Albron. If your men can defeat a woman of Deepforest Keep, then Lord Richard’s armies won’t even be a challenge.”

Albron shook his head. “I won’t have it. In the barbarian wilds, women might waddle about in a man’s garb and with a man’s weapons. But you are in civilization now, Lady Romaria, and you will act in a civilized fashion.”

“No,” said Sir Nathan. “If Lady Romaria possess a tenth part of her father’s nature, Sir Albron, then I would rather stand with her to death then spend an hour with the likes of you.”

Albron's face hardened, and for a moment fury seem to rise off him in waves. His smile returned, but Mazael was certain he had glimpsed Albron’s true feelings. Perhaps Rachel had as well.

“Well, then,” Albron said. “Humiliate yourself, Lady Romaria, if you wish. Stand with her, Sir Nathan, and prove yourself an old fool. It matters not to me. I did warn you. Come down, then, and let us practice the blades.”

2

Sword Dancers

Mazael descended the rampart steps alongside Sir Nathan and Romaria, followed by Adalar and Timothy.

“Cease!” Albron said. The armsmen stopped fighting, the clack of wooden swords fading. “Now it is time to watch and learn from a true master of the blade. Sir Mazael has bravely volunteered to fight me.”

“Oh, have I?” said Mazael. “Such a brave act.”

Another flicker of rage shadowed Albron’s face, and he gave orders to the armsmen. “Give your practice blade to Sir Mazael. You and you with the wooden bastard sword. Relinquish your weapons to Sir Nathan and...the lady.” Three armsmen ran forward. Mazael took a practice longsword made of heavy wood with a lead core. It was heavier and shorter than Lion, but Mazael had used far worse weapons.

He unbuckled his sword belt, Lion swinging in its scabbard. “Adalar, hold this for me."

“Perhaps Sir Mazael needs a bit of a primer, before he has to face me,” said Albron. “We wouldn’t want the great knight to overtax himself.”

“Albron,” said Rachel. She had come down from the ramparts. “Mazael is Lord Mitor’s brother and his guest. Please be more polite.”

Albron laughed. “My dear, how do you worry!  There’s no need to involve yourself in this. It is a matter for men. I only have Sir Mazael’s best interests at heart.”

Mazael smiled. “I’m sure you do.”

“Lady Romaria first, Sir Mazael,” said Albron. “After all, a mere woman should be no challenge for such a great fighter as yourself?” Romaria watched Mazael with intent blue eyes. “Or maybe the women of Deepforest Keep are just as wild as the wood demons!”

“Albron!” hissed Rachel. She fell silent at his glare.

“I’d be honored,” said Mazael. “Romaria is a skilled opponent, I’ve seen that for myself. I could use a challenge today.” He shrugged. “I doubt I’ll find one fighting you.”

Shocked silence rose from the soldiers.

“Very well, then!” said Albron. “Watch closely, men!  See if you can learn anything from the fighting of a wild woman!” More laughter rose up.

Romaria stepped towards Mazael with the wooden bastard sword in hand, her eyes like blue ice. She moved with the grace of the hunting cat she had killed in the hills. Mazael wanted her, drawn to her in a strange way he had never experienced before. She wore her usual confident grin, but Mazael saw something in her face. She was afraid of him.

Mazael raised his sword to a guard stance. “This wasn’t the sort of tumble I had in mind.”

Romaria took her sword in a two-handed grip. “Who knows? A good fight always gets my blood up. And no man can see the future...or so I hope.” Again he heard the fear in her voice.

Mazael stepped towards her. “What are you afraid of?"

Her eyes flashed. “Not anything. Not you.” Her sword blurred towards his chest, and Mazael barely got his parry in place.

“Ha!” Albron shouted. “This cat has claws!” Then Romaria’s attack drove all distractions from Mazael’s mind.

Her sword spun and stabbed for Mazael’s head. Her grip shifted from two hands to one and then back again. His sword worked circles as he blocked Romaria’s blows. Mazael parried a low blow, and Romaria twisted her wrist, the dulled tip of her longer sword nicking against Mazael’s leg.

Romaria laughed. “First blood, mine!”

Mazael grunted and sidestepped, Romaria's thrust shooting past his hip. His sword blurred in a two-handed swing for Romaria’s shoulder. She parried, but the force of his strike knocked her back. Mazael drove into the opening, sword flashing for her throat. But Romaria regained her balance, and beat back Mazael’s attacks. He hammered at her again and again, and so caught her off-guard when he fell to one knee and thrust at her legs. Romaria jumped aside, but Mazael’s sword banged into her knee.

“Second blood, mine,” said Mazael.

Romaria grinned at him. “Second blood, second best.”

“Let’s find out,” said Mazael.

Romaria flew at him. Her thrust flowed into a swing and then into a two-handed chop. Mazael blocked and parried, the wooden sword vibrating in his hand. His breath came rapidly, his heart pounding in his chest. Romaria was better than good. She was masterful. He had not fought anyone this skilled in years.

Mazael was enjoying this.

Romaria’s attack played out without landing a single hit, and Mazael launched his own attack. He threw a flurry of two-handed swings at Romaria’s head, forcing her to take the bastard sword in both hands to block his heavy blows. Mazael finished the attack with a high swing aimed for her head, and Romaria raised her sword to parry. But his swing had been a feint, and he reversed the momentum of his sword, sending it for her stomach. Few fighters would have seen it coming. But Romaria did. Not only did she block the blow, she turned her sword and clipped Mazael on the forearm. Mazael jerked away, his forearm stinging from the hit.

Romaria laughed, her blue eyes were ablaze. “Two for me, and one for you.”

Mazael stepped back. “First blood doesn’t matter. What matters is the last blood!”

Mazael rushed her, driving a lunge at her heart. Romaria sidestepped and batted his sword aside, splinters flying from the battered practice swords. Mazael turned her parry into an attack and twisted his sword around to strike at her legs. Romaria parried low, and Mazael sent his next attack high. His attacks and parries merged with Romaria’s, joining together in an intricate, blurring dance. Mazael moved with Romaria, fighting on instinct and trained reflexes, without thought, thrust left, thrust right, parry high, parry low, block, riposte, swing high, swing left, swing right...

Their swords came together with a great crash, the crosspieces jamming against each other. Mazael shoved forward and tried to push Romaria off balance, but she held her ground. They strained against each other, close enough that Mazael could feel Romaria’s hot breath on his face, that he could smell her sweat. Mazael couldn’t lower his blade, but neither could Romaria.

“Stalemate,” said Mazael.

“Think so?” said Romaria.

Mazael almost leaned forward and kissed her. “Unless you have some trick even I’ve never heard of.”

Romaria’s grin widened. “Tricks, is it?  You are in for a surprise!” She pushed backwards and broke free from their clinch. Mazael brought his sword up, knowing she could not regain her balance in time...

Romaria's free hand flew through an intricate gesture, and she vanished.

Mazael's mind overrode his shock. He remembered her tricks with the coins. She could do magic. Wizards knew how to make themselves unseen.

He moved his sword in a sweeping parry just as Romaria reappeared before him, beating aside the sword point darting for his throat, and brought his sword down in a two-handed swing. Their swords crashed together and shattered with a tremendous crack. The blades splintered into pieces, the leaden cores falling to the ground.

“A stalemate!” said Albron.

A thunderous cheer rose up from the armsmen. Mazael saw their rapt, amazed expressions.

“Now it’s a stalemate,” said Mazael.

An expression of relief washed across Romaria’s face. “That’s good to know.”

Mazael frowned. “Why?”

Romaria smiled. “You’re no more skilled than I am.”

Mazael snorted. “Just why is that important?”

Romaria put a finger over his lips. “You’ll see.” She stepped away from him, and he watched her go, entranced.

Albron’s voice jerked Mazael out of his reverie. “Well fought, Sir Mazael! A stalemate against a woman. Indeed, I see your reputation is not exaggerated. But let us see how you do against a real opponent.”

“Adalar,” said Mazael. “Another sword.” The squire fetched another wooden blade from the rack. Mazael took the sword and raised it to a guard position. His heart beat rapidly, but he was not tired.

He wanted to fight this liar who had usurped Sir Nathan’s place.

Albron swung his own wooden sword. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” said Mazael. "Perhaps you'll learn a lesson or two."

Albron came at him before he had finished speaking. Albron’s sword spun, flashed high, then low, then high again. Mazael shifted his sword to a two-handed grip and parried. He beat aside a thrust from Albron, side-stepped, and riposted. Albron danced away. The armsmaster was deadly quick. Mazael tossed his sword to his right hand.

Albron came at him again, slashing for Mazael’s chest. Mazael parried and shoved, pushing with all his way. Albron stumbled, and Mazael's sword lanced out. Albron jerked back, quick as a snake, but not before the wooden blade kissed his left shoulder.

The impact made an odd scraping sound.

Mazael grinned. “First blood. Good thing we’re not using steel swords.”

Albron snarled. “I’m waiting for that lesson.”

“Then I’ll give it to you.”

Albron whipped his sword over his head and brought it whistling down. Mazael blocked, the rapid crack-crack-crack of strained wood filling his ears, and twisted his wrist. Albron’s sword scraped to the ground, and Mazael's blade shot up, the point aimed for Albron’s face. Albron jerked back, but the pommel struck him hard enough to make his teeth click. Mazael reversed his sword and struck for Albron’s throat. The other knight danced away.

Albron went on the attack, his sword reaching for Mazael's neck. Mazael could not parry in time, so he rolled, tumbled past Albron’s legs, came to one knee, and gave the knight a solid hit across the back of his legs. A gasp of wonder rose from the watching soldiers.

Albron turned, growling, before Mazael could rise and hacked a vicious two-handed blow. Mazael parried high and caught the strike above his head. Albron hammered at Mazael like a smith pounding iron. Mazael parried every blow, his arms and shoulders aching from Albron's pounding.

Mazael took a chance and rolled to the side. Albron's overbalanced and stumbled as his blow missed, and Mazael shot to one knee and drove his sword forward. Albron twisted to the side, but Mazael's sword smacked into his hip, and Albron fell. Mazael jumped to his feet and brought his sword down in imitation of Albron’s two-handed blows. Albron jerked to the side and regained his feet.

Mazael tossed his sword from hand to hand as Albron backed away.

“First, second, and third blood,” said Mazael. “A very good thing we’re using wooden swords.”

Albron’s sneer said more than words. He ran at Mazael with a noticeable limp.

Albron was good, but his skills lacked something. Mazael was not surprised when Albron began to repeat the same attack routine over and over again. It was if he knew all the thrusts, parries, and blocks, but had never used them before. Albron fought as one who had been trained by the best tutors, but who had never before lifted a blade in mortal combat.

Albron swung high twice, his handsome face contorted with exertion. Mazael beat aside the reaching blade. Albron reversed the momentum of his sword, bringing it around in a high loop for Mazael’s head.

But Mazael moved, and Albron’s sword swished over his head. Mazael took his sword in both hands and swung into Albron’s guard. His sword crashed down on Albron’s wrist. Albron bellowed, his practice sword flying, and Mazael thrust to finish the fight.

The dull tip of his wooden sword plunged into Albron’s stomach, and six inches of splintered wood disappeared into Albron's belly. Mazael felt the sword scrape against bone. It was impossible. The wooden sword couldn’t have impaled Albron. Yet Mazael saw it with his own eyes. Mazael waited for Albron’s face to pale, for the blood to gush from his mouth and his stomach.

Instead, Albron shook his head and stepped free.

Mazael’s eyes darted from the tip of his sword to Albron’s stomach. No blood marked the wood.

“How?” said Mazael.

“You ought to know,” said Albron. “After all, you did win. I didn’t even hit you once. Well...fought.” His eyes were hard and angry.

“But I saw the sword go in!” said Mazael. “I felt it scrape against your spine!  You ought to be bleeding to death.”

Rachel ran to them. “Albron!  Oh, Albron, you’re hurt!” She frowned. “You’re...but...I saw Mazael run you through.”

Albron laughed. “Ah, you worry for me so. No need. Your brother can’t kill me.”

“But I saw the sword go in,” said Mazael.

Albron shrugged and a put an arm around Rachel’s shoulders. “Men see many strange things in the heat of battle. Most like your sword caught up in my clothes.”

Mazael stared at Albron. “That must be it.” He had seen the blade go in. He had felt it scrape against bone. Mazael had felt that scrape a hundred times before in battle. “That must be it, I suppose.”

“You must be more careful, Albron. If you were to die...well, what would we do, then?” said Rachel.

Albron jerked his arm away. “Wither and perish. If you’ll excuse me, I have business." He stalked from the practice field, Rachel trailing after him like a faithful dog. Mazael wiped sweat from his brow as Romaria and Sir Nathan came to join him.

“What a remarkably chivalrous loser,” said Romaria.

Adalar took the battered wooden sword and handed him a clay pitcher, and Mazael drank. “What a bad swordsman, you mean. The man has potential, I’ll give him that. But he doesn’t know...”

“It’s as if he learned perfectly how to use that sword yesterday,” said Romaria, “but hasn’t been able to practice the skill.”

“Yes. That’s exactly it,” said Mazael, handing the pitcher back to Adalar. “It’s like his hands but not his mind knew how to use a sword.”

“I noticed that, as well,” said Sir Nathan.

“Fighting with the blade is an art,” said Romaria, pushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “It combines mind and body and spirit. Albron’s body knew that art, I saw ...but his mind and spirit did not.”

Mazael stared after Albron. “And that sword. I saw it go into his belly. I would swear it.”

Sir Nathan frowned. “I thought it had, for a moment. But he stood. A man could not stand after taking such a wound.” He shrugged. “Besides, you were fighting with dulled wooden blades. You would have to fall with the sword beneath you to drive it into flesh.”

“I saw it as well,” said Adalar.

“As did I,” said Romaria. “So did half the garrison, I would wager.”

Timothy cleared his throat. “Ah, my lord knights and lady, if I may speak?  Sir Mazael, it concerns the matter we spoke of earlier ...”

“Go ahead,” said Mazael. “I trust everyone here.”

“Why, how flattering,” said Romaria.

“My lord...I observed, discreetly, of course, during your fight that Sir Albron carries an enchantment about him,” said Timothy.

Silence answered his pronouncement.

“As well?” said Romaria. “Who else?”

“Simonian of Briault, my lady,” said Timothy. “He and Sir Albron have similar spells cast upon them.”

“What sort of spell?” said Mazael.

“I do not know,” said Timothy.

“Could you determine who had cast the spells?” said Romaria.

Timothy shook his head, flustered. “Ah...no, Lady Romaria. I have yet to develop my skill to such a high degree.”

“A spell of protection,” said Mazael. “I knew that sword had gone in. Albron must have had some magic to keep him safe from injury.”

“Then who cast the spell on him?” said Romaria.

“Could Othar have done it?” said Mazael.

Nathan shook his head. “I doubt it.”

“That would leave Simonian,” said Romaria.

“Perhaps Albron is Simonian’s creature,” said Mazael.

Sir Nathan shrugged. “It is possible.”

“More wizard’s trickery,” said Mazael. He remembered Simonian's casual request for Mitor’s death.

Sir Nathan frowned. “You may be right, Mazael. But we have no proof. We cannot act without proof.”

“What are you going to do?” said Romaria.

“Find proof,” said Mazael. “But first, I’m going to find breakfast.”

Romaria smiled and touched his arm. “I think I’ll join you.”

3

Mazael Visits the Kitchens

“Sir Gerald!” said Mazael.

Sir Gerald descended the steps to the chapel, his sheathed longsword's pommel flashing in the morning son. Wesson trailed after, bearing Gerald’s shield.

“Sir Mazael,” said Gerald. “I missed you at the feast. What detained you?”

“I fell ill,” said Mazael.

“You?  You never take sick,” said Gerald. “Are you sure you are well?”

“I feel fine now,” said Mazael. “You missed morning practice, Gerald.”

“I wanted to attend morning prayer,” said Gerald with a sigh.

Mazael laughed. “Why so glum?  Confessing your sins puts you into a better mood for hours.”

Gerald scowled. “You should try it.” Romaria snickered. “No, what upsets me is the chapel’s condition.”

The ancient chapel dated back to the old kingdom of Dracaryl. The massive building had stone walls, high, narrow windows, and a domed roof. The three interlocked rings of Amatheon, Father of the Gods, rested atop the dome. “It looks fine to me.”

“The outside does, yes,” said Gerald. “These old chapels were built like fortresses. In Dracaryl I suppose they were built to take blasts of dragon fire. It’s the interior that troubles me.”

“What about it?” said Mazael.

“A mess,” said Gerald. “I’ve rarely seen such open disrespect, Mazael!  The floor looks as if it was used to stable horses. The pews are dusty and have been carved with all manner of vile obscenities. And those priests, and those acolytes.” Gerald shook his head. “I’ve never seen such an ill-trained bunch!  They stumbled through the liturgy. I doubt they even know more than five or six words of High Tristafellin.”

“Mitor was never one for piety,” said Mazael.

“Your whole family seems that way,” said Gerald.

“That’s insulting,” said Romaria.

Gerald shrugged. “Mazael is hardly the most pious of men, but he’s not a blasphemer. Lord Mitor borders upon it.”

“Perhaps we’ll be fortunate and the gods will strike Mitor dead,” said Mazael.

“Let’s leave this place,” said Gerald. “I do not like it. No doubt Lord Mitor is awaiting us for breakfast.”

Mazael laughed. “I doubt it. Lord Mitor feasted last night. He might rouse himself in time for supper, though I wouldn’t wager on it.”

“Lord Mitor reminds me of Wesson’s father,” said Gerald. “They call him Lord Tancred the Tankard. I’ve seen him drink like a fish. But Lord Mitor and Lady Marcelle.” Gerald shook his head. “I’ve never seen a man drink so much. It was as if they drank to escape all the demons of all the hells. And the court followed suit. Such debauchery. And I shudder to think what followed in the hay lofts and in the dark corners.”

Mazael laughed. “We need to find you a wife.”

“Why?” said Gerald.

Mazael laughed harder and clapped him on the back. “Let’s go get breakfast.”

He led Romaria and Gerald around the back of the chapel and towards the kitchen’s rear door. He felt eyes on him as he walked. Servants faltered in their stride and armsmen gaped.

“They’re staring at us,” said Gerald.

“No,” said Romaria. “They’re staring at Mazael. They saw the way he fought.”

“That’s hardly new,” said Gerald. “Sir Mazael has always fought well.”

“Yes, but he defeated Sir Albron in sword practice,” said Romaria.

Gerald whistled. “That will raise attention.”

Mazael snorted. “It shouldn’t. It wasn’t impressive. Yes, yes, I know, Romaria. If I could defeat him, then the great and powerful Lord Richard should have little difficulty vanquishing Albron.”

“Is Lord Mitor incapable of leading his own armies?” said Romaria.

Mazael snorted. “What do you think?  In armor, Mitor would look like a pear in chain mail.”

They came to the back of the kitchens. A stout old woman brandished a broom, herding a trio of clucking chickens back into an old coop. Mazael felt heat radiating from the ovens, and he stepped through the back door. The kitchens were vast, a dozen ovens ablaze as cooks labored to feed the castle's armsmen, servants, and nobles.

“Sir Mazael!”

Mazael turned. A young woman in a soot-stained apron approached. Her sweat-stained clothes stuck to her body. It made for a pleasant sight.

Especially since when Mazael had last seen her, Bethany had a noose around her neck.

“Do you remember me?” said Bethy. “Or do you go about saving women and children so often that it’s all another day’s work to you?”

Gerald laughed. “You’d be surprised what occupies Sir Mazael’s days, lady.”

“And how are you faring in the kitchens, Bethy?” said Mazael.

Bethy sighed. “Well enough, I suppose. Master Cramton has taken over the kitchens.” The fat man bellowed orders on the other side of the room. “Lord Mitor had no one running things, if you can believe it. I miss the old inn, though.”

“At least you’re alive,” said Romaria.

“That’s true,” said Bethy. She grinned, her teeth white in her sooty face. “I saw you beat Albron, Sir Mazael. You whipped him right and good.”

Mazael shrugged. “It wasn’t hard.”

“Aye, I’ve never seen a man fight like you, so I have!” said Bethy. “And if there’s ever a man that deserved a good whipping, it was that Sir Albron.”

Mazael thought of Rachel. “I couldn’t disagree.”

Bethy’s eyes sparkled. “But, oh, the way you and the lady fought!”

“You fought a woman?” said Gerald.

Romaria turned on him. “So? He couldn’t beat me.”

“He couldn’t?  But...it...is not chivalrous,” said Gerald.

“I’d never seen anything like it, Sir Gerald,” said Bethy. “They moved together, and so fast, so...graceful, it was like watching a great ball, where the lords and ladies wear their silks. Except it was swords, instead of silks, I suppose.”

“She beat you?” said Gerald, incredulous.

“Oh, no, my lord handsome knight,” said Bethy. “No one won. It was a stalemate, just like in the songs.”

“Songs?  I wonder what Mattias Comorian would say of that,” said Mazael.

“Who?” said Romaria.

“Just a jongleur I met,” said Mazael, wondering what had brought him to mind.

“Their swords crashed together,” said Bethy, “and then they shattered, and all that was left was the splintered hilts. I’d never seen anything so wondrous as that fight, so I have. Neither had half of those armsmen, too, the way they stood about with their mouths hanging open.” She snorted. “It’s the likes of them that are supposed to defend us from the Dragonslayer lord?  I’m betting that if Sir Mazael and the Lady Romaria stood together, they could fight his army themselves.”

“A pity I missed this,” said Gerald. “The gods know I wouldn’t have missed much by passing up on morning prayers.”

Bethy wrinkled her nose. “Bah, I don’t hold with that lot, those chapel priests with their mutterings. They spend half their time drunk and the other half staring at me and the other girls as if they’d like to see us with no clothes.” She winked at Gerald. “Of course, you do too, but with you, it’s different.” Wesson smothered a snicker.

“But...” said Gerald. “I most certainly—I did—I didn’t, I mean—”

“Oh, but I’m being rude!” said Bethy. “Why, you likely came here for food, not to listen to me babble!  Master Cramton would bellow my ears off if he saw me standing about chattering with you hungry. Let me run and get you some food.” She winked at Gerald again and hurried off, leaving the young knight speechless.

“Sir Mazael is right,” said Romaria. “He does need to find you a wife.”

Gerald sighed.

“And what of you, Sir Mazael?” said Romaria. “Have you no plans to wed?”

Mazael laughed and looked over the bustling kitchen. “I doubt it.”

Gerald laughed. “My father will likely find some pretty but brainless minor noblewoman for you. You’re almost two-and-thirty. He has said that it was past time you married.”

“I doubt it,” said Mazael. “Your father acts only for power and prestige. Were I Lord of Castle Cravenlock, he’d offer his daughter.”

“The Elderborn believe that marriages are fate, the joining of two hearts,” said Romaria.

“Not from what I’ve seen,” said Mazael. “Marriage is about lust and money. Love is a ploy for the jongleurs’ songs.”

“I am not hungry. Excuse me,” said Romaria.

“She’s a strange woman,” said Gerald, tugging at his mustache.

“Yes, but I don’t hold it against her,” said Mazael. Women either bored him or inspired lust, but he had never met anyone like her before. And he had never met anyone who could have fought him to a standstill.

Bethy returned, bearing hollowed heels of bread filled with steaming beef. “Here you are." She smiled at Gerald. “I put a bit of extra in yours.”

“I’m sure he’s flattered,” said Mazael. “Anything to drink?”

“Oh!” said Bethy. “I’d forgotten.” She disappeared into the chaos of the kitchen and returned a moment later with a pitcher of ale. “Now, drink up."

“Gladly,” said Mazael. He drained a large part of the pitcher and handed it to Gerald. “Thank you.”

“Oh, you’re welcome,” said Bethy. “For you, we’d prepare a feast, we would!  Besides, with Lord Mitor sick as an old dog from too much drink, we needn't worry about preparing his breakfast.”

Gerald snorted. “That’s hardly appropriate!”

Bethy smiled at him. “Oh, but it’s true, isn’t it?  I bet you tell the truth all the time, don’t you?”

“A knight must strive to act honestly and honorably at all times,” announced Gerald.

Bethy laughed. “Oh...so they swear,” she said. She shook her head. “But give me a copper coin for every one that doesn’t...why, I’d have more money than the Lord Dragonslayer. But you and Sir Mazael, you’re different. This isn’t your place.” Her eyes darted back and forth, and her voice fell to a whisper. “Lord Mitor and Lady Rachel and Sir Albron and...that wizard, the Briaultan fellow...they’re all bad sorts, all of them.”

“Not Rachel,” said Mazael. “What are you saying?”

“Leave,” said Bethy. “Right now. This isn’t a good place. I don’t think you’re welcome here. You take Lady Romaria and your squire and your friends and leave and don’t ever come back.”

“What are you talking about?” said Mazael.

Bethy paled. “I’ve...said too much...I’m just babbling...I’m a bit tired...”

She spun and ran away.

Chapter V

1

Romaria’s Tale

Mitor’s head exploded from his shoulders in a shower of gore, his body crumpling. Mazael sneered and kicked the head aside. Blood pooled on the marble floor, gleaming like liquid ruby, and Mazael heard Lord Adalon's laughter.

Rachel screamed and backed away. Mazael raised Lion, blood dripping down the sharp blade...

He awoke with a strangled scream, sweat dripping down his jaw. For a moment he thought he saw Rachel’s severed head lying its pool of blood, the green eyes staring at him...

“Sir Mazael?” Adalar stood near the bed.

“What?” said Mazael, his voice a rasp.

“I heard you shouting...” said Adalar.

“Nothing,” said Mazael. “It was nothing. Go back to sleep.” He stood and tried to find his boots. “I'll take a walk. The night air will clear my head.”

“If...if you say so, Sir Mazael,” said Adalar. The squire turned and went back to his chamber. Mazael wondered what he had shouted out in his sleep. His head ached, worse than any hangover he had ever had, and he shut his eyes and pressed his hands to his temple. After a few moments, the pain faded. He reached for his sword belt, remembered the dream, and let his blade fall.

He climbed the stairs to the top of the King’s Tower. A wooden ladder reached the tower's turret, and Mazael pulled himself onto the roof. The cool wind blew past him, tugging at his cloak and running chilled fingers through his hair. Mazael leaned against the battlements. He could see the land for miles around, the stars blazing overhead.

“What’s wrong with me?” Mazael said.

Killing came easily to him. He had often entertained the notion of killing Mitor. But the dreams were so vivid. He could still see the blood staining the marble stairs, could still smell Mitor's fear. And Rachel...gods, he loved Rachel, he had never wanted to hurt her, not even now.

It was Castle Cravenlock. He had memories here, some good, many dark. It was good to see Sir Nathan and Master Othar and Rachel again. But Mitor had grown from a cruel, lazy boy to a cruel, foolish man. No wonder Sir Nathan had given Adalar to Mazael as squire. The old knight likely wanted his son far away when Lord Richard dealt with Mitor’s rebellion.

Mazael decided to leave tomorrow. He would leave Mitor behind, he would leave the scheming Simonian behind, and he would leave the dreams behind. Let Mitor smash himself against the Dragonslayer. He would take Rachel with him tomorrow, whether she wanted to come or not. Better that he drag her to Lord Malden’s court than to leave her here in the grasp of a creature like Sir Albron.

Something scraped against the stone.

His hand shot to his sword hilt but banged against his hip, and he berated himself for leaving his sword in his room. He reached for his boot and yanked free a short dagger. Mazael peered over the battlement, glimpsed a dark form making its way across the roof of the keep.

Could the wealthy Lord Richard have hired assassins?  Mazael tucked the dagger into his belt, vaulted onto the battlements, and jumped. His boots hit the roof of the keep with a slap. The dark form spun, and Mazael raised the dagger for a throw.

It was Romaria. She wore tight-fitting trousers and a tunic with the sleeves cut away. Her marvelous eyes widened in fear as she saw him.

Then she recognized him and amusement almost replaced the fear. “Good to see you, too.”

“What in the gods’ name are you doing?  I could have killed you.”

Romaria shrugged. “Everyone dies. I could ask the same of you.”

“I saw you,” said Mazael. He slid his dagger back into its boot sheath. “I could not sleep. I came out to the tower’s roof to think and saw you crawling about. That wasn’t a good idea, my lady. And you still haven’t told me what you’re even doing up here.”

“I like to climb things,” said Romaria.

“Climb things?” said Mazael.

“I find it relaxing,” said Romaria.

Mazael’s annoyance evaporated. “You would, wouldn’t you?  Just don’t fall. Give the guards some warning, first. I would be displeased if someone put a crossbow bolt through your chest.”

“Would you?” said Romaria. “Flattering. And the guards didn’t see me. Lord Richard could march his whole army into the castle, and Mitor wouldn’t notice them until his hangover passed.”

Mazael laughed. “Gods, I suppose you’re right.”

Romaria tossed her head, hair sliding over her shoulder. “And they couldn’t hit me. You saw the way they stumbled over each other this morning. I doubt they could hit the side of the castle...”

He noticed something.

Her voice broke off as Mazael stepped towards her. A dozen expressions flashed across her face, and for a moment she trembled like a deer mesmerized by a wolf.. Mazael reached for her neck, pushing back her thick black hair to reveal her ears.

They came to delicate points.

“Who are you?” said Mazael. “You don’t look like one of the Elderborn. But you move like one, and those eyes...”

“I am who I told you I am,” Romaria said. “Romaria Greenshield, the daughter of Lord Athaelin of Deepforest Keep.”

“Are the Greenshields all Elderborn?” asked Mazael.

“No,” said Romaria. “My father is human, but my mother was the Elderborn high priestess. I have the blood of both races.”

“How did that happen?” said Mazael. He drew back his hand, his fingers lingering on the skin of her neck. “I thought the two races never mated with each other.”

“It’s always been this way,” said Romaria. “The old Dragon Kings of Dracaryl sent the first Greenshield to the Great Forest to conquer the tribes. Instead he made a peace with them and took the high priestess to wife...though they rarely have children. It’s been that way ever since, for thousands of years. Deepforest Keep has outlasted Malrag invasions, the great Holy War, and a dozen other battles.” She smiled. “It will outlast Lord Mitor and Lord Richard, and even you and me.”

“Why do you hide it?” said Mazael.

“I didn’t want to,” Romaria said, “but I know how the peasants feel about the Elderborn...wood demons and other nonsense. And even the other Elderborn believe ‘half-breeds’ are...inferior.” Her eyes turned flinty for a moment. “You don’t think that, do you?”

Mazael kissed her on the forehead. “What do you think?”

Romaria kissed him back on the lips. “I knew it.”

Mazael snorted. “Gods forbid I should agree with Mitor.”

Romaria laughed. “And if you do, should I kill you?”

“Probably,” said Mazael. “At least, you should try.”

“You ought to kill Mitor,” said Romaria, “and save us all a horrible amount of bloodshed.”

Mazael frowned, remembering Simonian’s words. “I won’t kill Mitor. I don’t like him. I detest him, in truth. But he’s my brother and I can’t kill him.”

“I was half-joking,” said Romaria. “He would never survive the Ritual of Rulership.”

“What’s that?” said Mazael.

“It’s a test,” said Romaria. “When the old lord of Deepforest Keep dies, his heir undergoes the Ritual in the druids’ caverns under the Keep. It’s a test of strength of will and strength of body. No one knows what goes into it, save the heir and the druids. If the heir succeeds, he walks out of the caverns as the new Lord of Deepforest Keep. If the heir fails...well, he doesn’t walk out at all, and the nearest blood relation takes the Ritual.”

“Sounds efficient, I suppose,” said Mazael.

“Oh, it is,” said Romaria. “It ensures that only one worthy takes the mantle of ruling.” Her smile turned mocking. “Deepforest Keep has never had a lord like Mitor.”

“Then your home’s the better for it,” said Mazael. “What’s it like?”

“What?” said Romaria.

“Your home,” said Mazael. “Deepforest Keep.”

This time Romaria's smile held no mockery. “It’s the most beautiful place in the world. The castle’s been built with the trees, over the years. Great oaks taller than this castle form the pillars of the great hall. The town, humans and Elderborn alike, live in the trees, in houses built within the branches. And the gardens...the druids blessed the gardens with their earth magic. You’ll never see larger fruits and vegetables, Mazael, no matter how long you live and how far you travel.” Starlight glinted in her eyes. “I’ve visited the Old Kingdoms in the south and Travia in the north, and many places in between, but there is nowhere more beautiful than my home.”

“Perhaps I’ll see it for myself, one day,” said Mazael.

“Where’s home for you?” said Romaria.

“Home?” said Mazael. “I never gave it much thought.” He shrugged. “Not here, that’s for certain. Knightcastle, maybe...but I’ve rarely stayed there more than four months out of the year. My home is on the road. I’ve spent most of the last fifteen years riding from place to place.”

“You were a knight-errant?” said Romaria.

Mazael nodded. “My father turned me out after Lord Richard’s victory.”

“Where have you traveled?” said Romaria. “You must have seen most of the kingdom.”

Mazael shrugged. “Here and there. Through the Stormvales and the Green Plain, and then I rode with the Iron Lancers of Barellion.”

“What’s the most beautiful place you’ve seen?” said Romaria.

Mazael thought it over for a moment. “Stillwater...the lands and castle of Wesson’s father. It’s this little valley in the Knightrealm hills, near the River of Jarrsen. The mists come down from the hills in the morning ...” He shook his head. “But I think the most beautiful thing I’ve seen is you.”

Romaria looked away. “Flatterer. You really mean that, don’t you?”

“I do,” said Mazael. He laughed. “Gods help me, I do. I don’t know why. But I do.”

“He told me I would meet you,” said Romaria, voice distant.

“Who?” said Mazael.

“The Seer,” said Romaria.

“Who is that?” said Mazael.

“He’s a druid, I suppose. I don’t know,” she said. “He’s a Elderborn and has no other name. We all call him the Seer. He has visions. They come true.”

“Is he some sort of wizard?” said Mazael.

“No. A druid,” said Romaria. “There’s only one Seer born every generation...for the Elderborn, that’s around a hundred and fifty years. He receives his powers and his mantle in a ceremony.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “When Father sent me north, to find the wizard raising the zuvembies, the Seer...the Seer told me I would meet you.”

“How would he know that I was coming?” said Mazael.

“I don’t know,” said Romaria. “He said I would face a demon...and that I would meet you.” Her voice became hysterical. “He said...he said you were a man with a lion’s fang for a sword, who could move faster than any other, and could kill any man...and that you...that I would...”

And to Mazael’s astonishment she began to cry. He took her in his arms, and her face fell against his shoulder. It had been a very strange day. He held her and tried to think of something to say.

Romaria sniffled and wiped at her eyes. “Gods, look at me.”

“What did he say?” said Mazael.

“I...don’t...I don’t want to talk about it now,” said Romaria. She managed a feeble smile. “I just hope that for the first time the Seer was wrong.”

Mazael laughed. “When I was in Barellion, this old gypsy woman predicted that I would rise to great power and fame. Unless spending my nights sleeping on cold ground is greatness, she was wrong. Your Seer is probably no better.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Romaria.

“Come with me,” said Mazael.

Romaria laughed. “What?”

“Come with me,” said Mazael. “Mitor’s a sinking ship. Lord Richard will crush him and most likely he’ll kill your dark wizard. I’m leaving tomorrow, and taking Master Othar and Sir Nathan if they’ll come. Why don’t you come with me?  You’ve seen the Old Kingdoms and Travia...why not see the rest of the kingdom?  I would like you would come with me.” He could not believe what he had just said. He wondered what Lord Malden would say when he saw Romaria Greenshield. Mazael decided that he didn’t care.

“I can’t,” said Romaria. “I would like to, but I must stay. I was sent to kill this dark wizard, and that is what I mean to do. You have to stay, as well.”

“Why?” said Mazael.

“Because if you had seen a zuvembie, you would know that whoever would raise such a monstrosity must be stopped,” said Romaria. “And you can’t leave. This is your family, where you were born. I know you don’t care for Lord Mitor, but I think you loved your sister, once. Will you leave her to the mercy of Lord Richard?”

Mazael was silent. “I don’t know. She’s changed.”

“Then stay,” said Romaria.

Mazael kept silent and stared out over the courtyard.

“I think I shall retire,” said Romaria. “Climbing up the keep is tiring.”

Mazael reached out and took her hand. “I’ll stay. Don’t go. I haven’t been sleeping well, lately.”

Romaria smiled. She stayed.

2

Mitor’s Plans

“Lord Mitor commands your presence at once in the great hall,” said the page.

Mazael stared at the boy. “Does he, now?”

The page’s face whitened. “Ah...he sent me to tell you, Sir Mazael, if you please.”

Mazael waved a hand. “Go. Tell him I shall be there shortly.”

The page ran from the room. Mazael yawned, leaned back in his chair, and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. He had not slept at all last night. That was fine. If he did not sleep, he did not dream.

Timothy returned, bearing a clay cup filled with a vile-smelling black fluid. “It is ready, my lord knight.”

Mazael took the cup and sniffed. “What is it?”

“A southern elixir made from the beans of a wild plant,” said Timothy. “It is called coffee. I understand it is quite popular among scholars.”

Mazael sipped at it. “Tastes vile.”

“It does,” said Timothy.

“Will it keep me awake?” said Mazael.

“Oh, yes,” said Timothy.

Mazael shrugged and drained the cup in one long draught. The black liquid burned like hot pitch going down. “Strong stuff. Thank you. Adalar!” Adalar handed Mazael his sword belt. Mazael rose, exited his chambers, and started down the stairs. The wizard and the squire followed him.

He found Gerald waiting in the courtyard, with Wesson standing behind him. Gerald’s armor had been polished, and the leather of his sword belt and boots gleamed. No doubt Gerald had kept Wesson quite busy last night.

“You look awful!” said Gerald.

“And a fine morning to you, as well,” said Mazael.

“I mean no insult,” said Gerald. “You look ill again, Mazael. You should speak with Master Othar.”

“I’ve spoken to a wizard,” said Mazael. He felt the aftertaste of the coffee. Gods, that was foul stuff. “I’m fine. I didn’t sleep well last night, that’s all.”

“He didn’t.” Romaria stepped out from the entrance to the King’s Tower. She wore her traveling clothes and her worn green cloak. “I should know. I was with him.”

Color flushed Gerald’s cheeks. Mazael heard Wesson’s ribald snicker. “Ah...I see...I did not mean to pry...”

Mazael laughed. “Never mind, Gerald. Let’s go see what Mitor wants.”

They crossed the courtyard and entered the anteroom to the great hall. A herald in Cravenlock livery raised a hand for them to halt. Mazael walked past, and left the flustered herald behind.

Mitor stood at the high table with Marcelle, his advisors, his allies, and his vassals - Sir Commander Galan in his armor, Lord Marcus and Lord Roget in their finery, Albron in his mail, Rachel at his side. And Simonian, watching Mazael with a smile. Mazael wanted to sprint up the dais and gut the wizard, but he did not. Perhaps Sir Nathan and Master Othar’s presence stopped Mazael. They stood with Mitor and his advisors on the dais.

Mitor’s bloodshot eyes locked on Mazael. “It is customary to wait for the herald,” he said.

Mazael strode up the dais. “You did summon me here, my lord brother. Should the business of the Lord of Castle Cravenlock wait upon mere formalities?”

Sir Albron smirked. “Is it customary for a landless knight to ignore his lord brother’s preferences?”

Lord Marcus puffed up. “Lord Mitor is your elder and your lord, Sir Mazael!  It is your duty to heed his wishes.”

Simonian drummed his gnarled fingers on the table. “Sir Mazael may speak wisdom, my lord.”

“What?” said Mitor and Marcus.

“Have the great men of history waited upon mere formality when events moved about them?” said Simonian. “No, my lord, they moved with speed and acted with decisive power!  Now history taps upon your shoulder, my lord, and it is time for you to seize the liege lordship of the Grim Marches.”

Mazael heard Mitor’s teeth grinding. “Very well. Come here, Mazael. There are events afoot that we should discuss.”

Mazael and his companions stepped up to the dais. The wrist of Albron’s sword hand had been bound with a bandage. Mazael wished he could kill Albron and Simonian both and have done with them.

“I have just received word,” said Mitor. “Lord Richard has marched from Swordgrim.”

Dead silence answered his announcement.

“With him is the entire might of Swordgrim, nine thousand foot and horse,” said Mitor. “Marching with him are Sir Tanam Crowley,” he shot a sour glance at Mazael, “Sir Commander Galan’s brother, the Lord Astor of Hawk’s Reach, the Lord of Drakehall, the Lords of Highgate and the other mountains passes, for a total force of perhaps twenty-two thousand men.”

“My Lord Mitor,” said Lord Roget. “Our own hosts number under ten thousand fighting men. The Dragonslayer brings two armsmen for every one of ours. How can we hope to defend against him, let alone defeat him?”

Lord Marcus sneered. “You doubt our Lord Mitor?”

“No need to fear, old man,” said Sir Commander Galan. “My brother Astor is a traitor and a usurper. The gods are on our side. More importantly, I bring the might of the Knights Justiciar to deal with this traitor Richard Mandragon. Two thousand sergeant foot and Justiciar knights, and ten thousand more once I inform the Grand Master in Swordor that we stand to regain our ancient estates!”

“Sir Commander,” said Sir Nathan. “The forces of the Justiciars are scattered across the kingdom, and your two thousand, however strong, are still only two thousand. By the time your order marches, they will arrive to see the Mandragon banner over Castle Cravenlock.”

“Have you lost your courage, old man?” said Sir Commander Galan.

“I have lost my youth,” said Sir Nathan, “in the service of Lord Adalon and Lord Mitor, but I have gained the experience of years. My lord Mitor, I beg that you heed my words. Meeting Lord Richard in open battle is folly.”

“Folly, eh?” said Mitor, waving his spindly hand. “Well, we shall see what is folly!  My father had twice the men that Lord Richard did, and the Mandragons defeated him nonetheless. Now the tables are turned, yes?  Lord Richard has twice the men, but justice and the gods are on our side, and we shall prevail!  Besides, Sir Albron shall lead my host, and he has a few tricks for the mighty Dragonslayer.”

“He had better,” said Romaria. “Else you’ll get to personally explain to Lord Richard why you are the rightful liege lord of the Grim Marches.”

Mitor’s face soured. “When I want your counsel, woman, I shall ask for it.”

“She is right and you know it,” said Mazael. “Unless you have some brilliant strategy, Lord Richard will tear your army to shreds.”

“Do not fear, Sir Mazael,” said Albron. His smile turned wolfish. “I plan to kill Richard myself and present his head to Lord Mitor.”

“Oh, I should like to see that,” said Mazael. “Especially with the broken wrist.”

“Enough,” said Mitor. “I did not summon you here for advice, Mazael. I will not entrust my plans to a brother who has not visited his home in fifteen years. I have a task for you. I hope you can carry it out.”

“What sort of task?” said Mazael.

Mitor waved him over. A detailed map of the Grim Marches had been laid out across the table, its corners weighed down by empty wine goblets. The map was old, but accurate. The towns and villages that had been destroyed in Lord Richard’s uprising were underlined in red ink, while additions and notes had been made in Master Othar’s firm hand.

Mitor tapped a thin finger on Swordgrim. “Lord Richard marches for us. I shall face him and crush him. But if I am to do so, then my flanks and rear must remain secure.”

Mazael snorted. “What threat do you face from behind?  The Castanagents and the Rolands will support you. The lords of the Green Plain might side against you, but they would have to march around the Dim Mire. The nearest army, other than Lord Richard’s, will take weeks to arrive. The only threat you face is Lord Richard.”

Mitor smirked. “Oh, is that so?  Well, it seems your reputation is inflated. You forgot a potential foe.”

Mazael laughed at him. “Then enlighten me, my lord brother.”

“Oh, not them,” said Mitor. He reached across the map and tapped Deepforest Keep.

They stared in silence at the map.

“What is this?” said Romaria. “You mean to make an enemy of Deepforest Keep?  That is not a wise course. I...”

“Bah!” said Mitor. “Deepforest Keep? What is there that any lord would wish to rule?  Trees?  Perhaps some rocks, with a bit of moss, as well?  And if Lord Athaelin does side with Lord Richard, what shall he send, hmm?  Wenches painted up to be war-women like you, my lady?”

Romaria’s smile was chill. “You should hope not, my lord Mitor. You had best keep your guards close. If one of those war-women would get past them, I fear that you would not live long.”

“Must your brother bring this odious creature to court?” said Marcelle. “I fear her stench is quite overpowering.” Romaria ignored her, which seem to infuriate Marcelle all the more.

“You said you do not wish an enemy in your flank,” said Mazael. “Why make one now, by offending Lord Athaelin’s emissary and daughter?  Rein in your wife, my brother, lest her lips make you an enemy.”

“How dare you mock me?” said Marcelle.

“How dare you mock my daughter?” bellowed Lord Marcus, shaking a fist.

“Have him removed,” said Marcelle. “He does not mock me. No one mocks me.”

“Ha!” said Mitor. “Even if they are right?  You talk too much, woman. Remove yourself. You are giving me a headache.”

Marcelle staggered. “What...but...but he...”

Mitor fluttered his fingers at her. “Go. This is not business for a lady, but a matter for men. You as well, Rachel.”

A dozen expressions fluttered across Marcelle’s face, rage, pride, hate, and a deep and profound misery. Mazael almost felt sorry for her. Was it Rachel’s fate to end as Marcelle had, married to a proud wretch? Marcelle descended from the dais, shot a venom-filled glance at Mazael, and then glided from the throne room. Rachel looked relieved as she slipped out through the lord’s entrance.

“I must apologize for my daughter,” said Lord Marcus. “She has always been proud...”

“Quiet,” said Mitor. He pointed at a servant. “You, bring me wine!” The servant scampered from sight. “Sometimes I envy you, brother. You have not had to marry. All women are base creatures, full of cunning and envy and deceitful tricks.”

“No,” said Mazael. “Not all.”

Mitor sneered. “All. Your savage woodland woman can stay. After all, she is no proper lady.”

Romaria looked at Marcelle’s retreating back. “I should hope not.”

Mitor ignored her. “I do not speak of Deepforest Keep as the enemy in our flanks. After all, not one man in a hundred knows the place exists. No, it’s the wood elves who threaten us. The Elderborn, as the wizards and the scholars call the creatures.”

“The wood elves?” said Sir Nathan. “My lord, that is absurd. The Elderborn venture out of their forests only when their lands are threatened. War looms with Lord Richard in the north, not in the south. The only village near the Great Southern Forest is White Rock. The others were destroyed during Lord Richard’s uprising.”

Romaria shook her head. “Sir Nathan is right. The Elderborn have no reason to make war on Castle Cravenlock. I doubt that the tribes know, or care, who rules the Grim Marches.”

“Your father sent you, did he not?” said Mitor.

“My father sent me to find the dark wizard,” said Romaria. “I learned about the other troubles riding through the countryside.”

Mitor smirked. “Oh, we may have found your dark wizard, Lady. It seems your father does not know his neighbors as well as he may think.”

“We have all heard the rumors,” said Simonian. “The dark creatures that hunt the night, the disappearances, the tales of sorcery. It is all hogwash!  It is the wood elves, I say.”

“That is hogwash,” said Romaria. “The Elderborn don’t creep through the night and kidnap peasant farmers from their hovels.”

“Lord Richard has hired them, most likely,” said Albron. “He fears to face Lord Mitor’s might in open battle, and has sent these sneaking wood demons to harass his lands.”

“And just why would the Elderborn work for Lord Richard?” said Romaria.

Simonian shrugged. “Who can say? The wood elves are wicked creatures, full of fey enchantment and devilish cunning. Perhaps they commit atrocities for amusement. Or perhaps they have kidnapped innocent men and women from their homes for sacrifice to their demon gods.”

“The Elderborn do not worship demon gods,” said Romaria.

“We should not trust her words, my lord!” said Albron. “After all, by her own word, she has dwelt in the forest of these creatures all her life. Perhaps they have bewitched her.”

“Bewitched?” said Romaria. “I tell you the truth, and you call it bewitchment?  If I hand you a fistful of gold, will you call it dung?”

“Enough!” said Mitor. “I will not listen to a wild woman quibble with my armsmaster!  My armsmen have seen these wood elves prowling the edge of the forests near White Rock.” He pointed at Romaria. “You have been sent north to chase a dark wizard, yes?  Well, you were sent to chase your own neighbors. A pity you did not stay at Deepforest Keep. You would have saved yourself a long journey.”

“You believe that the Elderborn raid your southern border and are responsible for the rumors?” said Mazael. “Why is this my concern?”

“You were always blunt,” said Mitor. “The wood elves and whatever dark sorcery they practice are an irritant, nothing more, but an irritant I need removed. I must have my full attention focused upon Lord Richard and his vassals.”

“I still fail to see why this is my problem,” said Mazael. “You need the wood elves removed? You have no lack of willing servants. Albron certainly seems eager. Or why not Lord Marcus? Let him serve you in deed as well as fawning word.” Lord Marcus sputtered, but Mazael ignored him.

“I need them at my side,” said Mitor. “But you, my brother, you appeared out of nowhere, as if the gods had sent you to my cause. So, this is what I would have of you, Mazael. I will give you some men. Take them south and drive these wood elves from my land. We have all heard tales of your exploits in the Mastarian war. Now let us see if they were truth or mere lies.”

Mazael frowned. “No.”

“No? You would tell me no?”

“I just did, didn’t I?” said Mazael. “No. I don’t believe the Elderborn are behind these troubles.”

Mitor’s flabby face twisted with rage. “You...you believe the ramblings of this wild wood woman...”

“She’s more credible than you,” said Mazael. “When was the last time you left Castle Cravenlock?  I doubt you would know a Elderborn from a zuvembie.”

Mitor’s bloodshot eyes bulged. “You defy me?”

“You want to start a war with the Elderborn tribes, then find someone else to do it. I won’t,” said Mazael.

“You are my younger brother,” said Mitor. Flecks of spittle flew from his lips. “You will do as I command.”

“I am sworn to Lord Malden Roland,” said Mazael, “not you. I obey him, not you. Someday, I will obey Lord Malden’s eldest son Sir Garain, or Sir Tobias, or if death takes them both, then Sir Gerald. But not you.”

Mitor’s voice was a harsh whisper. “Careful where you tread, brother. The steps are perilous.”

“Is that a threat?” said Mazael.

“Oh, no,” said Mitor. “But remember, then...that you are in my castle, in my lands, surrounded by ten thousand of my men. You’re right, of course. I cannot command you. But I can strongly suggest that you follow my requests.”

Mazael drummed his fingers against Lion’s hilt. “You suggest, then, hmm?”

“Enough!” said Sir Nathan. “Sir Mazael, my lord Mitor, we have enough enemies without bickering amongst ourselves. We do not know who or what is behind these rumors. It might be dark magic and walking dead, as Lady Romaria claims. It might indeed be the Elderborn. For all we know, it might be Sir Tanam and his crows, or raiders searching for plunder. I propose we send Sir Mazael to search out the cause of these rumors and to deal with them, since we do not know what is really happening.”

“My lord knight,” said Simonian. “I believe that is folly. My divinations have revealed that the Elderborn are indeed behind these dark tidings.”

Master Othar cleared his throat with a deep rumble. “Is that so?  Well, Master Simonian, I have cast my own divinations, and they have reached different results than yours. The Elderborn are not behind these tidings...although my divinations have revealed some very interesting things.”

Simonian laughed. “Ah, you wizards of Alborg limit yourselves, my friend, to such minor magic. Just give me the chance, and I will teach you spells the likes of which you have never imagined.”

“I prefer not,” said Othar. “I would not enjoy burning at the stake for practicing dark magic.”

Simonian sounded amused. “The magic I practice is not dark, oh, no...just merely different.” His muddy eyes shifted to Timothy. “And what of you, my young friend?  You are young, not yet set in your ways. Learn from me, and I’ll show you magic no man of Alborg has seen in generations.”

Timothy tugged at his beard. “Ah...no, thank you.”

“Ah,” said Simonian. “A pity. The young are so unwilling to learn, these days. I have so much to teach.”

Master Othar smiled. “You have nothing I need learn.”

“We shall see,” said Simonian.

“Enough!” said Mitor. “I have neither the time nor the patience to listen to wizards gloat about their learning! Very well, Sir Nathan, despite your advanced age you yet have some wisdom about you.”

Sir Nathan bowed stiffly. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Mazael, if you will not go out to hunt the wood demons, then go and...investigate,” said Mitor. “I will give you four hundred of my best men. Take them, go south, and do not return until you have found and dealt with these rumors of dark magic. I care not who or what is the cause. Most likely Simonian is correct and it is these wood demons. But find it and deal with it.” He fluttered his fingers at Mazael. “Now, leave me. I must consult with my captains. Sir Nathan, you will see to the arrangement of the troops and accompany Sir Mazael. Sir Albron, Simonian, with me.” Mitor walked through the lord’s entrance with Simonian and Albron.  Sir Commander Galan marched away, while Lord Marcus and Lord Roget looked like dogs abandoned by their masters. Mazael glanced at them with contempt and turned to Gerald.

“That went well,” said Gerald.

Mazael frowned. “Oh, did it? Mitor’s given me four hundred men to go and chase rumors. How could it possibly have gone any better?"

“He’s getting you out the way,” said Romaria.

“What do you mean, my lady?” said Gerald.

“Mitor’s never shown any concern about the zuvembies and their master before,” said Romaria. “Now he’s told Mazael to go hunt them. He’s getting you out the way, Mazael. For whatever reason, he doesn’t want you here over the next few days.”

“Why?” said Mazael.

Romaria shrugged. “I don’t know. Between Albron and Simonian and your brother, this place has more secrets than a courtesan’s diary.” She looked at Sir Nathan. “And he has sent you away, as well. He doesn’t trust you or Mazael.”

“Perhaps I should refuse him,” said Mazael.

“No!” said Romaria. “You and Sir Gerald and Sir Nathan may think this fight between Lord Richard and Mitor is important. But finding this necromancer and his zuvembies is more important by far.”

“I thought you believed that Simonian raised these creatures,” said Mazael.

“I do. Or, at least, he and Albron are allied with the necromancer,” said Romaria. “Hear me out. I know that a wizard can use an enchanted object to track the enchantment’s caster.”

Master Othar grunted. “It is true. If you could bring me a bone from one of these undead creatures, I have a spell that could trace the necromancy back to its caster.”

“I suspect that all that has befallen us recently, the difficulties with Sir Tanam, the coming war with Lord Richard Mandragon, and these creatures are all tied together in some wizard’s trickery,” said Sir Nathan.

“But to what purpose?” said Sir Gerald.

Nathan shrugged. “The wizard knows, the gods know, but I do not. It is up to us to discover.”

“But if you find and destroy a zuvembie," said Othar, "then we can find out who is behind it."

“Simonian, most like,” said Timothy. “I do not like that man, and I have told you about the enchantments I sensed upon him and Sir Albron. You should see the way the servants react to his presence. The castle’s dogs howl at him as if he were a wolf!”

“Perhaps he’s not a man,” said Gerald. “Perhaps he’s a ghost...or a demon.”

“Perhaps Demonsouled,” said Romaria.

Mazael laughed. “You believe in Demonsouled?”

Romaria shrugged. “I believe in the gods, I’ve seen a zuvembie. After seeing such a creature, Demonsouled are not so hard to believe.”

“Milady Romaria is correct,” said Timothy. “I told you how I saw San-keth writings at Alborg. I have read of darker things, as well.”

Master Othar fumbled for his pipe. “The boy’s right, of course. Why, in this very castle, a thousand years past, the histories tell of a lord that led a cult of serpent worshippers.”

Mazael shrugged. “There may be serpent people, there might be serpent kissers, and there may be Demonsouled, but right now I have more immediate problems. Chasing ghosts, zuvembies, and Elderborn, for one.” He turned to Sir Nathan. “I’ll start gathering the necessary supplies and arms. We can depart by noon, I believe, if you...”

Sir Nathan held up a hand. “No. Lord Mitor gave you the command.”

Mazael sputtered. “Me?  But you, you’re...”

“Older?” said Sir Nathan.

Othar lit his pipe with a burst of magical flame from his finger. “Aren’t we all.”

Nathan sighed. “I had noticed, thank you, Othar. Sir Mazael, I am no longer armsmaster of Castle Cravenlock. I am just another knight in the service of the Cravenlocks. You are Lord Mitor’s brother. He has seen fit to give you the command.” He smiled and a glint came into his eyes. “Besides, I have heard you led Lord Malden Roland’s armies well in the Mastarian war. I should like to see how well you have learned those lessons Othar and I tried to teach.”

Othar snorted. “Tried to pound into his head, you mean.”

“We shall see,” said Nathan.

Mazael sighed. “Very well. I suppose if Mitor intends to lay blame on someone, it had best be me. I don’t plan to remain here long. Gerald, Sir Nathan. Go to the barracks and round up our four hundred men. You know the garrison best, Sir Nathan, pick men you would trust, and not fools like Brogan. Gerald, then go to the armory and select the weapons. Adalar, go with him, you can learn...what are you grinning at?”

“This reminds me of Mastaria,” said Gerald, “after you took command.”

Mazael snorted. “Pleasant memory, too, isn’t it?  Marching through mud and rain with Grand Master Malleus’s army dogging our heels. We can reminisce later. Get going.”

Gerald grinned and marched off, followed by the squires.

“It will take me a few hours to find the best men,” said Sir Nathan. “Sir Albron scattered those who displeased him.”

“Take all the time you need. Timothy, assist him,” said Mazael. Sir Nathan nodded and left with the wizard.

Romaria cleared her throat.

“I suppose you’ll want to come, too,” said Mazael.

Romaria smirked. “This concerns my home and my people, lord knight. You couldn’t stop me from coming. And I will find this wizard and his creatures, and I will kill them.”

“Then I won’t try to stop you,” said Mazael. “I hope to leave by midday.” Romaria left, leaving Mazael alone with Master Othar.

“I’d like you to come,” said Mazael. “If we do indeed find zuvembies or some necromancer, I’d like your spells with us.”

“Bah,” said Othar. “I’m too old and too fat for much traveling. I pity the horse that would have to bear my arse. Besides, young Timothy is more than adequate to the task.”

“Timothy is...well, Timothy is not you,” said Mazael.

Othar boomed laughter. Puffs of smoke drifted towards the ceiling. “Of course he’s not!  I’m pleased to see all the effort we expended to teach you perception didn’t go to waste.” Mazael grimaced. “In seriousness, though...do not underestimate that young man. He survived the war of Travian succession. He knows his way around a fight. Timothy deBlanc has some depths, I think, that will surprise you.”

“I hope so,” said Mazael, “though I don’t wish to test that claim in a battle.”

Othar took a draw on this pipe. “I would go with you, boy, if I could. Fat and old I may be, but a good adventure still gets my blood up. But...I can’t leave, not right now.”

Mazael frowned. “Why not?”

Othar sighed and tapped the stem of his smoking pipe against his jaw. “Nathan’s right, you know. There’s more to all this. It’s like one of pretty young Romaria’s coin tricks. You see depths within depths, until you’re not sure what’s really there.” He sighed. “She is a fine young woman. I wish I was thirty...well, forty years younger.”

“What do you mean?” said Mazael.

Othar hooted. “Do you mean I have to explain that to you?  Ho, ho, ho!  You always were a lusty lad, I thought you would have bedded a wench or three by...”

“No!” said Mazael. “ Master Othar, say what you mean, and say it plain.”

Othar sighed. “I have a theory, more of a suspicion. No proof, not yet, at least. The entire thing could prove to be some fantasy of smoke, mirrors, and balanced cards. Do you know what begins tomorrow?”

“No,” said Mazael.

“A new moon. Or the Black Nights, as they’re called by some circles,” said Othar. “I will have a chance to test my theory. I’m wrong, most like. Gods, I hope I’m wrong.”

“Wrong about what?” said Mazael.

Othar chuckled. “Nothing, most likely. I will tell you my suspicions when you return, and we shall have a good laugh, my boy, at the foolish ravings of an old man!” His old face hardened. “But if I’m right...if I’m right...gods, Mazael...you think Timothy’s stories about old dark books are bad?”

“What are you talking about?” said Mazael.

“I can’t tell you,” said Othar. “Not yet, anyway. But when you return, and if I’m right, then we’ll take some steps, you and Sir Nathan and I. By all the gods, we’ll take steps.”

The old wizard turned and left.

3

White Rock and Ride

Mazael left Castle Cravenlock three hours later at the head of four hundred men. To his surprise, the armsmen were disciplined and tough, with shaven faces and well-maintained armor and arms. Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising; Albron surrounded himself with bootlickers, cowards, and thugs, while the good men were left to rot.

The village of White Rock lay two days’ ride southwest of Castle Cravenlock, and Mazael led his men along the main road. A pity that the Old Crow had likely headed north for Swordgrim by now. Mazael would have liked to renew their acquaintance now that he had four hundred armed men at his back.

He planned to travel south to White Rock and to question the villagers. White Rock sat on the main road to Castle Cravenlock, and the village had seen every traveler for the last few months. Mazael hoped that the village was still there. He knew that some of Mitor’s mercenaries would not hesitate to burn and rape White Rock off the map.

They rode past many fields and hamlets, the farmers staring at them with suspicious faces. Bit by bit the cultivated fields changed to empty plains filled with blood roses. Past the cultivated lands near Castle Cravenlock the land was empty but for the ruined villages destroyed during Lord Richard’s uprising. They made camp the first night in one of the ruins. Romaria insisted that they light dozens of watch fires, and kept watch almost all night.

But they saw nothing, whether human foe or eldritch creature.

The next day they broke camp and continued their ride along the road. What few peasants they saw fled indoors.

“We are not welcome here, it seems,” said Gerald.

Mazael grimaced. “Not surprising. With a lord like Mitor, how can you fault them?”

When night fell, they made camp in the open. Romaria lit her fires and kept watch once again. No foes showed themselves.

They came within sight of White Rock before noon on the third day.

“Look at those fortifications,” said Gerald. “Heavens above, Mazael, we saw smaller castles in Mastaria!”

A palisade of sharpened wooden logs encircled the small village, straddled by wooden watch platforms. A ditch had been dug at the base of the palisade wall and lined with fire-scorched wooden stakes  Large patches of earth beneath the wall had been blackened by flame.

“The mercenaries,” said Gerald. “The villagers must have raised the wall for defense.”

“Perhaps they have memories of the last war,” said Sir Nathan. “Many unprepared villages were destroyed.”

“No,” said Romaria. “Not mercenaries. See those burned spots?  They built that wall to keep out zuvembies.”

“They built that wall to keep someone out,” said Mazael. “Let’s find out who. Adalar, the banner. The rest of you, wait here.”

Adalar raised up the banner Mitor had given them before they departed, a black field with the three crossed swords of Cravenlock.

Mazael spurred Chariot towards the gate, Adalar following, and reined up about thirty paces from the wall. “Hello, the gate!”

A ragged peasant farmer stood over the closed gate, crossbow in hand. “Who are you and what’s your business here?”

“I am Sir Mazael Cravenlock,” said Mazael.

His words caused a stir atop the walls. Men rushed atop the crude ramparts, bearing crossbows, spears, and even pitchforks.

“Cravenlock!” said the peasant. “We’ve already paid our taxes, and we’ve only enough food to last until the harvest. Leave us in peace.”

“I am not here for your gold or your grain,” said Mazael. “We have heard rumors of disturbances. I have been sent to investigate.”

“Investigate!” said the man. He spat over the wall. “You know full well who brought this darkness down on our heads, you and the castle lordlings!”

“Shut your mouth!” said another man. “You’ll bring them down on us!”

Mazael laughed and held out his hands. “If I had come to kill you, you’d all be dead already. Who is in charge here?”

“Don’t see why you’d need to know,” said the first man.

“Gods, grow some sense!” said the scarred man. “Sir knight, Sir Albert Krondig holds this village. When we heard rumors that Lord Dragonslayer was going to war against Cravenlock again, he had us build the wall.” The man forked his first and fourth fingers and spat through them. “Damned good thing he did. Right after that...those hell-spawned creatures started coming down on us.”

Mazael saw Romaria sit straighter. “Creatures?” he said.

“You heard me right,” said the scarred man. “Creatures.”

“Laugh all you want,” said the first man. “You’ll laugh no more when they come for you, when these demons turn on those that summoned them!”

“What are you babbling about?” said Mazael.

“He wouldn’t know,” said the scarred man. “You said you're Sir Mazael, right?”

“Yes,” said Mazael. “Get on with it.”

“The Sir Mazael that went off to fight the Mastarian war?” said the first man. “The Sir Mazael that killed a hundred Dominiars and defeated their Grand Master? That Sir Mazael?”

Mazael snorted. “Close enough, once you take away the jongleurs’ exaggerations.”

“That Sir Mazael!” said the first man, his eyes still wide. “Gods!”

Mazael realized he would get nothing useful from this lot. “Can you send word to Sir Albert that I would like to see him?”

“Aye, that I will,” said the scarred man. “Sir Albert and Brother Silar like to see you, I’m thinking. You can come in, but only you and four others.”

“Four?” said Mazael. “I already said I wasn’t here for your gold, your grain, or your women!”

“That you did,” said the scarred man, “but we’re not for trusting anyone from the castle these days.”

“Knowing my brother, I’m not surprised,” said Mazael. “Very well, give me a moment.”

The scarred man gestured with his crossbow. “Go ahead.”

Mazael and Adalar rode back to the waiting lines of armsmen.

“They seem suspicious,” said Gerald.

“No. It’s the zuvembies,” said Romaria. “You heard them, they mentioned creatures.”

“They blame Lord Mitor?” said Mazael. “What does that mean?”

Sir Gerald shrugged. “It’s not uncommon for the peasants to blame every misfortune upon their lords.”

“There have always been a number of legends surrounding Castle Cravenlock,” said Nathan.

Romaria laughed. “Not surprising. That place looks like the dark wizard’s tower from a children’s tale.”

Mazael snorted. “They can blame these creatures of theirs on Simonian or whatever necromancer has raised them. When Lord Richard’s army comes and burns their homes, steals their crops, and rapes their women, they can blame that on Mitor.” He wheeled Chariot around. “Sir Nathan, I’d like you to accompany me. They may know of you. If they do, they’ll undoubtedly respect you. Romaria, come as well. You’ve seen these creatures. You can see if their descriptions match your observations. Gerald, watch my back.”

Gerald snorted. “Your back doesn’t usually need watching.”

“Timothy, come as well,” said Mazael. The wizard sat atop the horse Mazael had given him. “Use your arts to watch for any ambush. And keep an eye out for any magic.”

Timothy nodded, closed his eyes, and began spell casting. He tumbled a piece of quartz wrapped with silver wire across his fingers. The crystal glowed when he finished his spell, and he tucked it away in his pocket.

“What spell did you use?” said Romaria.

“Ah...one to sense the presence of foes,” said Timothy. “The spell to sense the presence of magic is far simpler.”

“Good,” said Mazael. “Now let’s go meet Sir Albert and this Brother Silar.”

Mazael felt the villagers watching him as he rode closer, fear on their faces. Not surprising, given the brutality he had seen Mitor display.  The crude gates opened with a groaning creak, and Mazael rode Chariot into the village.

The scarred man waited for them. “Sir Albert and Brother Silar will see you in the church."

White Rock’s church was a looming edifice of dark stone, similar Castle Cravenlock’s chapel with its thick walls, high windows, and domed ceiling. The three interlocked rings of Amatheon adorned the dome’s crest, and over the iron-banded doors rested the weathered bronze symbols of Joraviar the Knight and Amater the Holy Lady. Mazael reined Chariot up before the church and waited for the others to dismount. When they had, he pushed open the church’s doors and strode inside.

The only illumination came from the narrow windows and the altar candles. Mazael smelled the old wood of the pews, and he saw specks of dust dancing in the thin beams of light. Two men stood before the altar. One was old and leaned on a cane for support, his face a labyrinth of meandering wrinkles, left eye masked beneath a yellow film. Despite his age, the old man wore chain mail, a sword, and a green tabard embroidered with a pair of coins and a shield.

The other man was younger. His leathery skin was weathered, and what little hair he had left had been cropped to stubble. He wore a coarse brown robe, and the rings of Amatheon hung from his rope belt alongside a strangely shaped star.

The man was a Cirstarcian monk.

The old man stepped forward, his cane clicking against the stone floor. “Sir Mazael Cravenlock, I assume. My men told me of your coming. Well met. I am Sir Albert Krondig. I do not know your companions, I fear.”

“Then I shall have to rectify that,” said Mazael. “This is Sir Nathan Greatheart, former armsmaster of Castle Cravenlock, Sir Gerald Roland, youngest son of Lord Malden Roland, Lady Romaria Greenshield, of Deepforest Keep, and Timothy deBlanc, a wizard.”

“A wizard,” said the man in the monk’s robe. “That is well. With all that has transpired here, a wizard’s skills would be most welcome.”

“Well met, all of you,” said Sir Albert. “Ah, I recognize you now, Sir Nathan. I remember the tournament Lord Adalon held at Swordgrim to celebrate his marriage. That must have been thirty-five years past.”

Nathan laughed. “Forty-two, more like it.”

“Sir Nathan was a humble squire then,” said Sir Albert. “No more than a lad of fifteen or sixteen, I’ll warrant. He won the squires’ melee. I remember it well.”

“You did quite well at the lance, I recall,” said Nathan.

Albert laughed. “Hardly. Ah, but thank you, sir knight. It is well to remember the good times in these dark days.” He gestured at the monk. “This grinning fool is Brother Silar, a monk of the Cirstarcine Order.”

The monk laughed and bowed. “Sir Albert is too kind. I have been called much worse in my day.”

“The Cirstarcine Order is famous for taking a hand in the kind of troubles we have been lately experiencing,” said Sir Albert. “The monastery sent Brother Silar as an emissary to aid us. The good brother and I have known each other for some time. Despite his rampant foolishness, the man has been a great help.”

“Speaking of those troubles,” said Mazael. “That’s quite an impressive palisade you’ve got. Why did you build it?”

Sir Albert’s face tightened with anger. “You would know, my lord knight.”

“Just why is that?” said Mazael.

“You came from the castle,” said Sir Albert.

Mazael sighed and pounded a fist into his leg. “Sir Albert, I shall be blunt. Until last week, I hadn’t set foot in the Grim Marches for fifteen years. And in these last weeks, I’ve seen my sister abducted by one of Lord Richard’s vassals, bands of pillaging mercenaries roving the countryside, and heard rumors that dead men stalk the plains at night. Do you know something, Sir Albert?  I’m damned tired of people assuming I know what’s going on, and I want some bloody answers!” His voice had risen to a shout, and he forced himself to calm down. “Lord Mitor seems to think that the Elderborn are behind the rumors.”

Sir Albert looked incredulous. “Sir Mazael, I beg your forgiveness...but Lord Mitor is a fool.”

Nathan flinched. “That is treason.”

“Regrettably, truth and treason are often one and the same,” said Silar. “In this case, doubly so.”

“Lord Mitor could not have chosen a worse time to begin this uprising against the Dragonslayer,” said Albert. “It is folly of the worst sort. He should be sending for the magisters of Alborg and the Masters of the Cirstarcine Order to combat this evil. Instead, he fritters away his men and his gold raising an army to fight the Mandragons. He stripped away the best men from the villages. All that is left are the old men, the injured, and women and children to fend off...”

“To fend off what?” said Mazael.

“You really don’t know, do you, my lord knight?” said Albert.

“That’s what I just said,” said Mazael. “Lord Mitor says they’re Elderborn. Sir Albron thinks they’re wandering bandits. Lady Romaria thinks they’re zuvembies...”

“Zuvembies?” said Silar. “Demon-corpses?  Yes, that’s quite apt. I called them animations, but 'zuvembies' is a more apt description of the necromancy that raised these fiends.”

“I had best start at the beginning, I fear,” said Sir Albert. “Will you take offense if I sit?  My bones are old, and they ache terribly this time of year.” He sighed. “Or any other time of the year, for that matter.”

Mazael gestured at the pews. “By all means.”

They sat in the pews. Gerald started to fold his hands and bow his head on reflex. Mazael hid a smile as the younger knight shook his head and sat up.

“This misery all began about six months ago,” said Sir Albert.

“Six months?” said Gerald. “Mazael, wasn’t that when Lady Rachel said that Sir Tanam first came to Castle Cravenlock to offer Toraine Mandragon’s hand?”

“It was,” said Mazael. “Sir Albert, please continue.”

Sir Albert frowned. “I had heard nothing of that, though we of White Rock soon had our own concerns.” He shifted in his seat. “In truth, Sir Mazael, I am uncertain how to broach this.”

“Well, get on with it,” said Mazael. “I’d rather have the ugly truth than some perfumed lies.”

Sir Albert cleared his throat. “As you wish. About that time we started hearing some dark rumors about Castle Cravenlock.”

Sir Nathan frowned. “What sort of rumors?”

“If the tales could be believed, a cult of serpent worshippers had arisen at Castle Cravenlock,” said Sir Albert.

“What?” said Sir Nathan. “That’s absurd. I have seen no such thing.”

“Regardless,” said Sir Albert. “Travelers went to Castle Cravenlock and never returned. The peasants saw strange things happening at night. Some even claimed that Lord Mitor and Lady Marcelle were the high priest and priestess of that cult, and that Lady Rachel had promised herself in marriage to the dark powers.”

“Absurd,” repeated Sir Nathan.

“These rumors have their foundations in fact,” said Silar. “According to the histories of my order, Castle Cravenlock has been home to three separate San-keth cults. In fact, the castle was raised by the serpent worshippers. According to legend, the house of Cravenlock was founded when the younger brother of the high priest turned away from the dark path and slew his entire family and all the cultists. In fact, that is what Cravenlock means in bastardized Tristafellin... betrayer’s sword. My home monastery was founded to keep watch over the castle so no cult would rise again.” A wry smile formed on his lips. “It appears we failed.”

“An interesting tale,” said Mazael. “But what of it?  You speak of history a thousand years dead. It is the present that concerns me.”

“I will speak of that later,” said Sir Albert. “The troubles started a soon after we first heard of the cult. It began with a pair of courting peasants who crept out of the village for a tryst. Their bodies were found the next morn. At first I assumed the hunting cats, or a pack of wolves from the forest. Then people began disappearing in the village, snatched out of their homes. And there were sightings of creatures, monsters out of the priests’ descriptions of the fires of hell.”

“What do they look like?” said Romaria.

“Like dead men, my lady,” said Albert. “I’ve seen many corpses in my days, I fear. That is exactly what these things look like. Walking corpses, rotting and foul and torn. Their eyes and mouths glow with a sick green light. They are slow, and shamble along, but they are as strong as ten mortal men.”

“Necromancy,” said Timothy. Gerald made a sign to ward off evil.

“Aye,” said Romaria, “that matches the things I’ve seen near Deepforest Keep.”

“I ordered the palisade constructed,” said Albert. “We were fortunate to have finished it before Lord Mitor stripped away the most able-bodied men for his armies. We also lit watch fires at night, and they seem to keep the creatures away. Fire has the power to end their wretched existence. Mortal weapons cannot touch them. We killed, if you can say that, several of the creatures with flaming arrows. Yet we can still see their eyes watching us out of the darkness of the night.” The old knight shook his wrinkled head. “I am too old. Would that I had died before I had seen such evil. The wars of men are one thing, but this is a violation of heaven’s laws.”

“What does this have to do with a San-keth cult at the castle?” said Mazael.

“Necromancy goes hand and glove with these cults,” said Silar. “It is one of the foul arts the serpent god teaches his people and his race. I believe that the cult is raising these creatures.”

“A cult?” said Mazael. “Romaria and the druids of Deepforest Keep believed it to be one man, a renegade dark wizard or necromancer.”

Silar shrugged. “That would not surprise me. Often only the high priest, or an actual San-keth cleric, possesses power enough to perform such dark arts.”

Sir Albert frowned. “Do you suspect anyone?”

“Yes,” said Romaria and Mazael together.

“Simonian of Briault, a wizard Mitor has employed in his court,” said Romaria.

Sir Albert did not recognize the name, but Silar’s dark eyes widened.

“You know the name?” said Mazael.

“Oh, yes,” said Silar. “Yes, indeed. Most of my order and certainly all of Briault does. Simonian was a necromancer and a warlock of the worst sort, one who consorted with the dead and with demons in equal measure. He terrorized Briault for decades until the Briaultan lords united to fight him. My order had a death mark on him. We assumed that he had died in the fighting. It appears that we were wrong.”

“Your order isn’t right too often, is it?” said Mazael.

Silar grinned. “All too true, I fear. We try our best, but alas, we are mortal and prone to error of all sort.”

“If Mitor’s Simonian is the same man you described,” said Mazael, “then he is undoubtedly the wizard raising these creatures.”

“Perhaps,” said Sir Albert. He hesitated. “My lord knights...have you considered that Lord Mitor brought him here with just that purpose in mind?”

“What do you mean?” said Mazael.

“Lord Richard Mandragon’s army is twice the size of Lord Mitor’s,” said Albert. “Lord Richard’s potential allies can reach the Grim Marches with greater speed, as well. It...” Albert fell silent.

“What my friend is unable to say,” said Silar, “is that my order believes Lord Mitor Cravenlock invited the San-keth and Simonian to Castle Cravenlock to help defeat his enemies.”

“That’s absurd,” said Mazael after a long pause.

“Why?” said Silar.

“Because,” Mazael said. “Because...Mitor’s a fool, but... even he could not do something so wretched.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Romaria.

“Besides,” said Mazael. “How could Mitor even know where find these San-keth?”

“Because,” said Silar. “Your mother brought the cult to Castle Cravenlock in the first place.”

“That is treason,” said Sir Nathan. “Dare you say that Lord Adalon or Lady Arissa involved themselves in such filth, I will...

“Lord Adalon had nothing to do with the San-keth,” said Silar. “It was Lady Arissa who brought the serpent priests to Castle Cravenlock, to assure her husband’s success against Lord Richard. It was her undoing. Did you know that Lord Richard rose up because he knew of the San-keth cult?  We Cirstarcians knew, Lord Richard knew, and yet Lord Adalon never did, the poor old fool.”

Mazael shoved to his feet. “My father was a kindly fool, but even he could not have missed something so dark!”

“Ah, but he did,” said Silar. “History doesn’t repeat itself, you know, but certain patterns do. Lady Arissa consorted with dark powers to try and hold her grip on power. She ruled Lord Adalon, you know that as well as I. And now her son Lord Mitor consorts with those same dark powers to regain his father’s title. And once again Lord Richard marches to meet the armies of the house of Cravenlock.”

“This is madness,” Mazael said.  “Even if Mitor was cunning enough to ally himself with the San-keth, Rachel...Rachel would never stand by to something so vile...”

Silar sighed. “Sir Mazael, your sister is not the girl you grew up with, just as you are not the boy you were. You said you had left the Grim Marches for fifteen years, correct?  Much can happen in fifteen years. Much can change.”

Mazael mastered his rage before he drew his blade and slew the old man and the monk. “Do you have any proof?”

Silar grimaced. “None. Yet.”

Mazael sat back down. “Then this is all supposition. Simonian is the cause of all this. You said your order had put a death mark on him. He is playing some trickery on Mitor, I don’t doubt it. Gods, I should have simply killed him.”

“You may yet have the chance,” said Sir Albert. “My lord knights, I am honor-bound to tell you. I have seen enough. When Lord Richard’s army comes, I plan to stand with him.”

“Now, that is treason!” said Gerald.

Mazael’s words caught in his throat. He wished that he had stayed in Knightcastle. Everything the old knight and the monk had said rang true in Mazael’s mind. He could almost believe it of Mitor and his harridan wife. But there was no way Rachel could have been involved in something as twisted as a San-keth cult. There was no way. He felt tired. He felt like killing someone.

He remembered how bitter his mother had become. Had she truly worshipped the god of the serpents?  She had had no use for him, but had often spent time with Mitor. Had she drawn him into her perversion?  He could believe it of Mitor, perhaps, but not Rachel.

“Fine,” said Mazael. “Stand with Lord Mitor, or stand with Lord Richard, it means naught to me. And if that’s all, we’ll be going.”

Chapter VI

1

Parley

They rode over White Rock’s splintering drawbridge.

“We should go back,” said Gerald.

Mazael glared at him. “Why?”

Gerald met Mazael’s gaze. “Because Sir Albert and Brother Silar could have told us much more. Sir Albert has dealt with these creatures from the beginning.”

“So has Romaria,” said Mazael.

“True,” said Gerald. “But Brother Silar is a Cirstarcian. He has access to all the histories of his order. He could help us.”

“No,” said Mazael. “The Cirstarcians will support Lord Richard. Silar said as much.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” said Romaria.

Mazael reined Chariot up hard and turned the big horse around. Romaria had to snap the reins to keep her mount under control.

“What did you say?” said Mazael.

“Everything the old knight and the monk said seems plausible,” said Romaria. “I’ve only been at Castle Cravenlock a few days, yet even I have seen your brother for a wretch.”

“I don’t disagree,” said Mazael.

“If Mitor is willing to plunge the Grim Marches into years of death and blood for the sake of his pride, what’s to keep him from selling his soul to the San-keth?” said Romaria.

“That’s different,” said Mazael.

“How?” said Romaria.

“Because,” said Mazael, “Rachel would never go along with him.”

“Your sister agrees with him on all other matters,” said Romaria.

Mazael’s fist tightened on Chariot’s reins. “We’re going.”

“We should stay,” said Romaria.

Mazael stared at her. “If we did, we would sign the death warrant of the village, do you realize that?  Mitor has gathered an army of thousands. If he learns that Sir Albert means to declare for Lord Richard, Mitor will raze White Rock. You thought what Brogan did was bad?  White Rock would make that seem like a actor’s farce.”

Romaria frowned. “I...hadn’t thought of that.” Her eyes flashed. “But surely you don’t mean to abandon the search for the zuvembies...”

“Of course not,” said Mazael. “We’ll camp out in the open this night. If the creatures are at hunt, they’ll find us. We’ll ward them off with fire, destroy one, and take its remains back to Castle Cravenlock. This talk of a San-keth cult is all hot air. Simonian is behind this business, I believe. Master Othar will cast his spell over the remains and prove that Simonian raised the creatures. With luck, I can also prove that our honorable Albron Eastwater is Simonian’s lackey.”

“A fine plan,” said Romaria, “but what of Lord Richard, and what of this war Mitor seems intent on starting?”

Mazael grinned. “It’s like I told Sir Gerald, back at the Northwater inn.” Gerald groaned. “We’ll take things one step at a time.”

They rode back to the armsmen waiting beneath the Cravenlock banner. The men milled about, gripping their weapons. Mazael spotted the captain he had left in charge and rode over.

“I thought I told you to keep the men in order,” said Mazael.

The captain flinched. “I did, my lord knight!  Or so I tried. You ordered scouts and outriders be kept out at all times. One of them has come back with a report.”

“Report of what?” said Mazael.

The captain’s face tightened. “There are creatures approaching, my lord.”

“Creatures?” said Mazael, turning to Romaria. “I thought you said the zuvembies came out at night.”

Romaria frowned. “They do.”

“No!” said the captain. “Not zu...zuh...not those. Wood elves, my lord. Wood demons out of the Great Southern Forest to raid the countryside!  Lord Mitor was right!  The wood demons have allied with Lord Dragonslayer against us.”

“Ridiculous!” said Romaria.

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but I can only tell you what I see,” said the captain.

“Do you have any idea why a band of Elderborn would have ventured this far north?” said Mazael.

Romaria shook her head. Dark locks spilled from the hood of her cloak. “No. The northernmost tribes in the forest are the Tribe of the Wolf and the Tribe of the Oak,” she said. “And they’re probably looking for us.”

“Why?” said Mazael.

“The Elderborn are the best scouts and trackers in the world,” said Romaria. “If your scouts saw them, then they wanted to be seen.”

“The men did say the wood demons—” the captain flinched under Romaria’s furious glare, “—the wood elves were headed this way.”

“Yes, but why are they coming for us?” said Mazael.

Romaria shrugged. “Gods only know. The Elderborn do as they will, when they will it. It’s possible they’re here to hunt down zuvembies.” She hesitated. “If they are, and they’ve the same reasoning as Sir Albert’s...then they’ve likely come to kill us.”

“Amatheon and Amater,” Mazael swore. “If they’re so eager to pin blame on the Cravenlocks, why don’t they go and pay a visit to Mitor?  I haven’t set foot in the Grim Marches for the last fifteen years. Romaria, come with me, you’ll know these Elderborn and how to deal with them. Adalar, you’ll come as well, as standard-bearer. I shall take our fifty lancers on horse. If it comes to blows, we can either run for it or ride them down. Sir Nathan, Gerald, take command of the remaining men and follow us at a distance. If battle seems likely, come to our aid.”

Sir Nathan grimaced. “This does not bode well. The presence of Elderborn hunters in the Grim Marches will lend credence to Simonian’s claims. Lady Romaria, do you truly believe the Elderborn have come to make war?”

“I don’t think so, Sir Nathan,” said Romaria. “But if they believe Lord Mitor is responsible for raising the zuvembies, they could do anything.”

“I’ve no intention of waiting here to find out,” said Mazael. He pointed at a scout. “You will show us the way. Gerald, Sir Nathan, give us a few minutes and then follow. Let’s ride.”

They rode away across the plains. Scattered trees stood here and there, casting long black shadows across the waving grasses. The clouds began to break up, shafts of sunlight stabbing down.

An hour later, the scout pointed. “There, my lord, I can see them.”

“They’re waiting,” said Romaria.

The ground rose in a low hill topped by a ring of eroded boulders. An ancient statue, some forgotten monument, stood in the center of the ring. Mazael could saw figures waiting atop the hill, tall, slim shapes clad in gray mantles.

“The Tribe of the Wolf," said Romaria.

“Do you know of them?” said Mazael.

Romaria nodded. “They’re the northernmost of the tribes. They visit Deepforest Keep from time to time.”

Mazael could feel their gazes. “Would they know of you?”

Romaria brushed a stray lock of hair back into her hood. “They might. The morgans...ah, the chiefs, you would say, have often visited Deepforest Keep.”

Mazael decided. “Then let’s go meet them.” He ordered the men to wait, and rode forward with Romaria. Details became visible as they drew closer. The Elderborn wore trousers and vests of animal skins and mantles of gray wolf fur. Their features were angular and sharp, with large eyes and slender ears that rose to delicate points past their hair. Their knives and spears had blades of chipped obsidian, but their great bows looked deadlier than any Mazael had ever seen.

One of the Elderborn stepped forward as Mazael and Romaria’s mounts trotted up the hill. His mantle of wolf fur was silver, his skin weathered and marked with many scars. His eyes were a deep, unsettling purple, and he carried an oaken staff in his sinewy left hand.

Romaria reined up. “Dismount,” she said, her voice soft and respectful. “This is Morgan Sil Tarithyn, Mazael. The ardmorgan...the high chief...of the Tribe of the Wolf.”

Mazael slid from the saddle and put his hand over Chariot’s face to keep the skittish horse from acting up.

Romaria walked to the ardmorgan, bowed before him, and began to speak in a melodic, rhythmic tongue. Sil Tarithyn answered, repeating many of the words Romaria had said. His voice was rough and soft, like a stone rasping on steel. Then the ardmorgan said something else, and all the Elderborn burst into laughter.

“What did he say?” said Mazael.

“I’ll tell you later,” said Romaria.

“Greetings, war-knight Mazael of Cravenlock,” said Sil Tarithyn in the kingdom's common tongue.

“Ah...greetings to you as well, ardmorgan of the Tribe of the Wolf,” said Mazael.

The old Elderborn grinned. “Romaria has told you of the Mother’s People, I see. That is well.” He tapped the earth with his staff. “We know of you, war-knight. In the south, the tribes speak of the defeat of Malleus, and how the humans who revere the Mother were saved.”

Mazael smiled. “You attribute too much to me, I fear. My lord wished to seize some of the Dominiars’ lands for himself. Concern for the Old Kingdoms meant nothing to him.”

Sil Tarithyn chuckled. It made Mazael uneasy. “You will learn, war-knight. You will learn.”

“Learn what?” said Mazael.

Sil Tarithyn did not answer.

“With respect, ardmorgan,” said Mazael. “Why have you come here?  It is unusual for any Elderborn to come to the plains, let alone for the ardmorgan of the Tribe of the Wolf.”

Sil Tarithyn watched him for a while. Mazael met that violet, inhuman gaze and did not blink.

The old Elderborn nodded. “The Seer was true, when he said you were to be feared."

The Seer? Was that the same Seer Romaria had mentioned?

“I do not understand,” said Mazael.

“You will, young one,” said Sil Tarithyn. “You know why we have come. The daughter of Athaelin has told you. Dark sorcery defiles our land. The shells of those who have moved onward are raped by this necromancy and forced to walk the temporal world once more.”

“You mean the zuvembies, I assume?” said Mazael.

Sil Tarithyn’s face tightened. “Say not that word!  It speaks of demon magic. We have come to remove that word, war-knight, to make this sorcerer face the Mother’s wrath. We have come for justice.”

“Do you know who raises these creatures?” said Mazael.

“Not who,” said Sil Tarithyn. “What. The San-keth have returned to this land. Fifteen turns of the sun have passed since they were defeated. Yet they have returned to our land to spread their filth once more. It is the people of the Serpent who spread this poison across the land, who blaspheme the Mother with their unholy ways.” His face seemed a mask of wrath. “And the great dark one has come back with them, that monger of lies and the weaver of deceits. He was here in the days of your father, do not doubt it, before the Slayer of Dragons destroyed his web of lies.”

“My father?” said Mazael. “You can’t mean that this San-keth cult and this dark one were here during Lord Richard’s uprising...”

“I say what I mean, young one,” said Sil Tarithyn. “The dark one wears many faces and many names. His is the power to trick and deceive, to wear lies as one of the Mother’s People wears a garment. And the San-keth have been in this land during many turns of the sun, many turns. They built the stone house of your family, the castle of Cravenlock. It is the curse of your family. Always there is one to defeat the serpent people. Yet always there is one to invite them back. Much misery has been wrought from the house of Cravenlock.”

“I don’t believe this,” said Mazael. “First Krondig and now you?  How do you know all this?”

“The Mother has told us, young one,” said Sil Tarithyn. “And you know it in your heart and in your soul. You know the truth.”

“Do I?” said Mazael. “And what truth is that?”

“The nature of your house,” said the old Elderborn. “The darkness in their souls, the blight in their hearts.”

“Oh, truly?” said Mazael. “I’m a Cravenlock, as well. Your people are fingering those bows so eagerly. Why not give them the chance to try feathering my blighted black heart?  I wouldn’t advise it, though.”

“Mazael!” said Romaria.

“You are not like the others,” said Morgan Sil Tarithyn. “Your soul is not black. Your heart is fire and your sword arm is power, but you are not tainted. Not yet.”

“Tainted,” said Mazael. “What does that mean?”

“You know,” said Sil Tarithyn, and all at once Mazael remembered the dreams. “The daughter of Athaelin knows it true, as well.” Romaria looked away.

“Mitor thinks you’re behind the zuvembies,” said Mazael. “He blames you.”

“The Lord of Cravenlock is unworthy,” said Sil Tarithyn

“We agree on that,” said Mazael, “but he’s a powerful unworthy, one with many soldiers. My original task was to slay any Elderborn I found north of the Great Southern Forest.”

“A task you do not carry out,” said Sil Tarithyn.

Mazael snorted. “Mitor and I share parents, that is all. And sometimes I even doubt that.”

“Then what is your purpose, coming here?” said Sil Tarithyn.

“Master Othar, the wizard of Castle Cravenlock, has a spell that can trace an enchantment back to its caster,” said Mazael. “My purpose is to destroy a zuvembie and take its remains back to Castle Cravenlock. Then I will know who has raised the creatures, and I will kill him.”

“You do not believe in the San-keth,” said Sil Tarithyn. “Who do you believe is responsible for these heinous acts?”

“Simonian of Briault,” said Mazael. “An outlander wizard. I believe he is the necromancer.”

“So you do,” said Sil Tarithyn. “Perhaps you have it true. But do you have the why?”

“Why?” said Mazael. “I don’t care why.”

“To defeat your enemy, you must know him and know his reasons,” said Sil Tarithyn.

Mazael snorted. “Why or not, he’ll still die on my blade.”

“Perhaps,” said Sil Tarithyn. “What do you mean to do now?”

“Make camp,” said Mazael, “and wait for the zuvembies to arrive. If they are so numerous as Sir Albert and that Cirstarcian monk fear, they’ll come.”

The ardmorgan considered this. “Your plan is sound. We shall make camp alongside you.”

Mazael snorted. “Even if I am in error?”

Sil Tarithyn’s gaze flashed like purple fire. “The creatures are more of a threat to us than you, war-knight. You live walled away in your stone houses. We live under the stars in the leafy houses of the Mother’s trees. No child of the Mother is safe in the night while these creatures walk. The necromancer can be made to face justice later. For now, it is well that we destroy his abominations.”

“I’m glad we agree,” said Mazael.

Sil Tarithyn said something to his warriors in his own tongue. The Elderborn began to sharpen stakes and wrap oil-soaked rags around their arrows. Mazael saw the fifty lancers Mitor had given him approaching, and behind them the men with Gerald and Nathan.

“Your men approach," said the ardmorgan. "Go to them. We have yet a few hours before the sun goes to his rest and the moon awakens. We shall speak later,” said Sil Tarithyn

Romaria bowed. “Thank you for your wisdom, ardmorgan. I shall try to remember what you have said this day.”

“Go,” said Sil Tarithyn, “and may peace find you.”

“I doubt it will,” said Mazael, “but thank you for the thought, nonetheless.”

Mazael and Romaria rode down the hill as the Elderborn began raising a camp of their own. Chariot sniffed at Romaria’s mare, and Mazael grimaced and tugged on the big horse’s reins.

"What did the ardmorgan say?" said Mazael. "That made his men laugh?"

Romaria flashed a smile. "He said he thought that my mare was not the only one in heat."

Mazael blinked, but they rejoined the lancers before he could think of a response, and together they rode to rejoin Sir Nathan and Gerald with the footmen.

“How did it go?” said Gerald.

“Splendidly,” said Mazael. “Their leader offered me a nonsensical string of riddles for answers. He seems to believe this idiocy of a San-keth cult as well. Nonetheless, they want these creatures destroyed. They will help us.”

Sir Nathan shifted in his saddle. “You have a plan, I take it.”

“Aye, I do,” said Mazael. He waved an arm. “These creatures, by all reports, only come out in the night. Well, we’ll give them something to hunt. We will make camp at the base of that hill, dig a trench around it and ring it with stakes and torches. The crown of the hill and that ring of boulders will make an excellent archery platform for the Elderborn. If these zuvembies attack, we’ll greet them with fire and arrows.”

“And then we will take some of the remains back to Castle Cravenlock for Master Othar’s arts,” said Sir Nathan. “Well thought.”

“I hope so,” said Mazael. “What was it you told me once?  Words are idle, but hands are busy?  Time to put that practice. We’ve work to do.”

“Very good,” said Sir Nathan.

2

The Dead That Walk

The land was scorched and black, as if some great fire had turned the world to ash. Twisted black clouds writhed beneath a bloody red sun. Mazael walked past the crumbling foundations of ruined houses and the blackened corpses of long-dead villagers. He saw a cratered pit filled with writhing, snapping snakes, their fangs dripping with venom. A pair of wretched creatures, twisted serpents with human heads, crawled out of the pit. Mazael drew Lion and slew them both.

“Interesting, is it not?”

Mazael turned, black ichor sliding down Lion’s length. Lord Adalon stood nearby, his lips twisted in a cavorting smile. Again he held the black staff crowned with a silver raven.

“What?” said Mazael.

“How little we know of our origins,” said Lord Adalon. The snakes hissed and snapped, but could not climb out of the pit. “Most men know from whose loins they sprang. A few know their parent’s parents and a little of their history. The great houses can trace their lineage back for centuries, even millennia.” He laughed. “But do any of them truly know their origins? Do they?”

“The gods made men,” said Mazael.

Lord Adalon grimaced. “How very puerile. What were the gods thinking, eh?  Likely they regretted their acts of creation the next morning. But you, Mazael, my boy, where did you come from? That’s the question that must occupy us now.” He gestured at the pit of snakes. “You came from this, you know.”

Mazael looked into the pit. “This?”

“Not literally, of course,” said Lord Adalon. “Think of it as a circumstance, one of many that led up to your birth.” He grinned, his teeth yellow and crooked and sharp. “That was such a happy day. I was so proud. You’ll make me prouder yet, before I’m done. And, ah, your fair mother.” His vicious grin widened. “Pregnancy gives a certain glow to a woman, wouldn’t you say?  But when you were born...oh, my son, how did she cry. You must have been such a disappointment. She even tried to kill you. Pulled a pillow over your little wrinkled red face, tried to smother the air from your flapping little lungs...”

“Stop this,” said Mazael. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Lord Adalon laughed. “The truth always hurts, doesn’t it?  But it will make you free. Free as a bird, free as the heavens...free as a demon.”

“Go away,” said Mazael. “You’re dead, Father, or have you forgotten?  Go and leave me in peace.”

Lord Adalon's laughter redoubled. “Dead?  Oh, no, not dead. Certainly there are many who pray for my demise.” He snapped his fingers. “Let’s take another walk, shall we?  I do so enjoy our little strolls together. Who knows?  You might even find it instructive.”

They walked together across the blasted land, their boots raising puffs of black dust.

Lord Adalon hummed to himself. “I’ve always been fond of music. It can lift the spirit and soothe the soul, but it can also pull men down to murder, madness, and despair. Not that they’ve ever needed much help, of course. I think a little music to accompany our walk would be pleasant. Don’t you?”

He waved his staff. The air shimmered, and a lean, hawk-nosed man with a silver-shot black beard and gray eyes appeared. It was Mattias Comorian, the jongleur from the Northwater inn.

Lord Adalon snapped his fingers. “Play, I say!”

The jongleur obliged.

“Heart of darkness, soul of sin,

a murderer’s bloody grin.

So came the boy to his fate,
dark son of a demon great.”

“I’ve always loved that song,” said Lord Adalon. “Don’t you? No? A pity. I must confess, I’ve never liked the ending. Too inaccurate. How often have you seen a man proclaim the gods in the face of certain death?  But, who knows?  Perhaps I’ll yet have a chance to write a different ending.”

“Leave me in peace,” said Mazael. “Go away.”

Despite the sun’s glare, the air was cold. Mattias Comorian continued to sing.

“His demon soul within him rose.

He slew and cast down his foes.

Blood stained red his killing blade.

Death and fear his kingdom made.”

“Peace, my son?” said Lord Adalon. “Is that what you want?  I’m disappointed in you. Peace is a shelter for the cowardly, a place where weaklings can hide in the shadow of the strong.” He looked at Mazael. “You weren’t born for peace.”

Castle Cravenlock loomed ahead of them, bleak and empty as the rest of the land, its windows black eyes in walls of dead rock.

“The child met his dark father,
before the church’s altar.

‘My dark child’, said the demon.

‘Your glory has now begun’.”

Lord Adalon waved his staff at the castle. “This is where you were born. More, it is where you were conceived. It is where you began. It is where you grew up. And it is where you will embrace your destiny, your true self.”

“This is nonsense,” said Mazael.

“‘I renounce you!’ said the demon child.

‘You lie, you destroy, you defile!

In the name of heaven, get...”

Lord Adalon grimaced. “Silence.” Mattias Comorian vanished in a flash of light. “A fine song, but such an execrable ending.” He grinned, a black, rough tongue licking at his jagged teeth. “But let’s write a different ending to this song, shall we?”

He snapped his fingers, and the world swam around them.

Mazael found himself standing before the altar of Castle Cravenlock’s chapel, the domed ceiling draped in shadow. Dust caked the altar, and debris littered the floor. A peculiar stench, a mixture of excrement and snake scales, hung in the air.

“Look,” said Lord Adalon.

Rachel, Mitor, and Arissa Cravenlock stood motionless on the dais, their green eyes empty and uncomprehending. His mother looked more peaceful than Mazael remembered.

“Here!” said Lord Adalon, spreading his arms wide. “Here is where it all began, right where you are standing. There the Lady Arissa Dreadjon became the Lady Arissa Cravenlock.” He smiled and climbed the dais steps to stand besides her. “How she hated the man she had married!  She wanted power. To her, Lord Adalon was a weak, sniveling wretch. It was so easy for her to dominate him. Yet she too was weak. She brought down the house of Cravenlock with her machinations.”

“Why should I care?” said Mazael. “That was fifteen years past.”

“Ah,” said Lord Adalon. He reached out and squeezed Arissa's shoulder. “Your mother was a beautiful, lusty woman, even wanton. I still think of her fondly, from time to time. But don’t you see?  No, of course not, they never do, not at first. The events of the past cast a long shadow.”

He ruffled Mitor’s lank hair. “Look at her children. They’re just like her. They both want power they cannot wield. Mitor wants the liege lordship of the Grim Marches. But he has no idea how to attain it. And Rachel.” Lord Adalon stroked a lock of her hair. “She has grown into a beautiful woman. I might even take her into my bed. If she survives what is to come.” He laughed. “But she’s no different than her mother. Softer, perhaps, but no different.”

“That’s not true,” said Mazael.

“Is it?” said Lord Adalon. “No doubt you’ll have the chance to discover it firsthand.” He descended the stairs and faced Mazael. “But you, my son, you are different.”

“What do you mean?” said Mazael.

“Arissa’s children are smaller simpering versions of herself,” said Lord Adalon. “They lust for power. But they are flawed. They are unable to attain what they desire. You’re different. You’re my son, after all. They are weak, but you are strong.”

“I don’t care,” said Mazael. “This is madness. I want nothing to do with it.”

“Do you?” said Lord Adalon. “Do you know what happens to the strong when they refuse to use their strength?  Mitor fears you. For all her beauty, the Lady Arissa was a petty little soul. How she hated you!  You were a reminder of her failure and the price she had to pay for it. And Rachel. Do not doubt that she will kill you if you stand in her way.” Lord Adalon laughed. “Such a fine family, eh?”

“Be quiet and go away,” said Mazael.

“You still don’t believe me,” said Lord Adalon. “Ah, pity. The young are ever slow to take instruction from their elders.” He rapped the butt of his staff against the dirty stone floor. “It is time for a lesson.”

Mitor and Lady Arissa shrieked. Black daggers flashed in their hands, the blades glistening with green poison, and they leapt at Mazael.

Mazael had Lion in his hand in less than a heartbeat. He stepped to the side as Mitor stabbed at him, drops of poison falling from the dagger. Mazael parried his mother’s stab, shoved her back, and spun on Mitor, Lion's blade ripping across his chest. Mitor attacked still, screaming as he raised his dagger high. Mazael's next slash opened Mitor's throat and half his chest. Mitor staggered and fell, landing in his own blood.

Lord Adalon laughed.

Mazael’s mother screamed as she attacked him, a poisoned dagger in either hand. Mazael’s sword angled left and right to beat off her attacks, fine droplets of poison splattering on the floor. For all her fury, Lady Arissa moved so slowly. Blocking her attacks was like batting aside feathers.

Arissa stabbed her daggers at Mazael’s face, and he spun past her. She lost her balance, her legs tangled in her skirts, and Mazael plunged Lion into her back. Arissa screamed, howling like a dying dog. Mazael put his boot to her back, wrenched his sword free, and she fell lifeless to the ground.

“So easy,” said Lord Adalon. “They tried with all their fury and strength to slay you...and it amounted to naught. They are nothing before you. They deserved to die, did they not?  Was it not satisfying to make them suffer?”

Mazael looked at the bloody corpses. “Yes.”

“Splendid!” said Lord Adalon. “But there’s one more Cravenlock, isn’t there?”

Mazael turned and saw Rachel, the shadows gone from her face.

“Rachel,” he said, smiling.

“Dear brother,” she said.

Mazael never saw the dagger coming until Rachel had plunged it into his chest. Hot blood bubbled through his lips as he screamed, Rachel's laughter ringing in his ears.

“You see?” said Lord Adalon. “You’re more powerful than her. But if you don’t destroy her, she will take what you refused.”

Blackness welled up in Mazael’s vision, blood choking his throat...

He jerked awake with a gasp in his rolled-up cloak. The stars shone bright above him, the smell of smoke in the air. He remembered the camp, and the Elderborn, and how he had taken the opportunity to get some sleep...

He could still feel the pain. He pawed at his chest, feeling for the dagger’s hilt, for the blood. Instead he felt the sweat-soaked fabric of his tunic.

Someone lay down besides him.

An arm encircled his chest. A hand reached over, cupped his chin, and tilted his head to the side. Mazael stared into Romaria’s ice-blue eyes.

“Another dream?” she said.

Mazael tried to speak, but his tongue and throat were too dry. He managed a nod.

“I saw you thrashing like you’d taken a fever,” said Romaria. “And you’re sweating like a man on his deathbed.”

“It,” said Mazael. “It was not pleasant.”

“Tell me,” said Romaria.

“No,” said Mazael. Her hair tickled at his face. “No.”

Romaria touched his lips with a finger. “The Seer told me that a man can’t carry his burdens alone. They will weigh him down and destroy him. Or his soul will twist under their weight.”

“It was the same as the others,” said Mazael. “I saw my father, my brother, and my sister. But my mother was there. My father talked, taunting me and telling me to kill the others. Mitor and my mother tried to kill me. I slew them. And then Rachel came to me, I reached for her...and she...she...” He swallowed and closed his eyes. “She stabbed me in the chest.”

“Here.” Romaria handed him a waterskin. He spilled some, sloshing his beard and tunic, but the rest was blessedly wet in his dry throat.

“What’s happening to me?” Mazael said. “Gods. These dreams. Am I going mad?  I’ve had them, every night, for nearly the last fortnight. I am going mad. I’ve heard tell of men who saw visions that drove them mad. Is that what’s happening to me?” A fire lit in his mind. He wanted to draw his sword and start killing things.

His hand curled around his sword hilt, and leaned she forward and kissed him.

Shock pushed everything else from his mind. Her hands clasped the side of his head and pushed his face into hers. When Romaria released him, her blue eyes were ablaze. The fire went out in Mazael’s mind. For a moment he felt old and tired, but with Romaria pressed against him, the feeling did not last long.

“No,” said Romaria. “Not a monster.” She grinned. “You’re half-mad and arrogant...but you’re a good man, all the same. Not a monster. Would I kiss a monster?”

“No,” said Mazael. He twined his fingers through her hair and tugged her face back down. “I don’t think you would.”

He kissed her again. She looped her other leg over his body and straddled him...

“Mazael!”

Gerald’s voice jerked Mazael back to reality. Romaria’s head snapped around, her eyes widened, and jumped to her feet. Mazael felt a momentary impulse to strangle Gerald. Instead he lurched to his feet, pulling Lion up with him. Gerald ran towards them, Wesson and Adalar trailing after. A cold wind whistled through the camp, tugging at their cloaks.

“What is it?” said Mazael.

“You’d best come quickly,” said Gerald. “Timothy says something is happening, and the wood elves are in a frenzy. And...and the light, gods, Mazael, the light...”

All thoughts of dreams, murder, and Romaria fled from his mind. “Then let’s go. Adalar, my armor!” Adalar handed him the quilted tunic and chainmail, and Mazael pulled it over his head as they ran.

He had ordered a trench dug in a half-circle at the base of the hill. Torches ringed the trench, their light flaring and sputtering. Armsmen stood ready, crossbows clutched in their hands. Mazael spotted Sir Nathan and Timothy and hurried to join them.

“What’s happening?” Mazael said

Timothy pointed. “Nothing good.”

Flickers of pale green light danced in the darkness surrounding the camp.

Timothy made a chopping gesture with his right hand. “My lords...that light is necromancy.” Romaria sheathed her bastard sword and strung her longbow.

“Crossbowmen to the front!” roared Mazael, pulling on his leather gauntlets. “Footmen, lancers, hold the torches, keep them burning!”

The wind pulled the torches' flames into long dancing ribbons. Armsmen ran forward, carrying quivers of crossbow bolts wrapped with oil-soaked rags, while Timothy pulled a short copper tube from his black coat. The green lights focused into hundreds of tiny pinpricks, and Mazael glimpsed shambling forms in the darkness.

Then something stepped into the circle of torchlight.

“Gods have mercy,” said Gerald.

The thing that shambled towards them had once been a living man. Its skin was gray and limp, with long tears revealing rotten muscles and pockmarked bones. Its hands were twisted, the fingertips ending in black claws. The creature’s face was a skull sheathed in rotting flesh. A ghastly green radiance shone from the empty sockets, mantling its head and shoulders in an emerald corona.

“Zuvembie,” said Romaria.

“Fire!” said Mazael.

But the crossbowmen stood frozen with fear.

Romaria shoved an arrow into a torch, the head tacking flame. She fitted the arrow, pulled, and released. It shot through the air with a trail of smoke and thudded into the zuvembie’s chest. Flames licked at its ragged clothes, and a low moan escaped the creature’s yawning mouth.

Romaria’s shot broke the armsmen’ paralysis. A dozen of crossbow bolts slammed into the zuvembie. The green light vanished as flames burst from its eyes, and for a moment longer it shambled towards them, wreathed in flame. Then it collapsed, its body disintegrating in a spray of embers and smoldering bones.

A frantic cheer went up from the terrified men.

“Well,” said Gerald, pale-faced. “That wasn’t so difficult.”

Another zuvembie lurched out of the shadows, followed by five more, and then dozens and dozens of the creatures streamed out of the darkness. Green light danced in their skulls, and their combined glow outshone the torches.

“Fire!” roared Mazael. “Shoot them down, fire, fire!”

A storm of blazing crossbow bolts lanced out. They smacked into dead flesh and set the zuvembies ablaze..

“Keep firing!” said Mazael. He drew Lion and seized a torch in his other hand. “Any get too close, use the torches to push them back!”

A flight of Elderborn arrows flew from the top of the hill with a hiss, trailing ribbons of fire, falling into the zuvembies like burning rain. Flesh ignited and corpses turned transformed into walking candles.

But the creatures still shambled forward.

“My lord knight,” said Timothy. “You, ah, may wish to step back.” He raised the copper tube and began to chant. Both ends had been plugged with cork.

Romaria’s eyes widened. “Do it!  Get back from him!”

Mazael had seen the havoc a wizard’s war spells could unleash and did not need a second warning. Reddish-orange light flared about the tube as Timothy gestured over it. He plucked the cork free, raised the tube, and covered his eyes.

A huge gout of orange-yellow flame blasted from the tube. The flames roared over the trench, incinerated the torches and the stakes in its path, and rolled into the advancing zuvembies. Four were blown apart, and a dozen others took fire. Within seconds, half the zuvembies burned, vanishing in the spreading flames as the grasses burned. Several men made signs to ward off evil, staring at the young wizard.

“My,” said Timothy, panting. “That worked rather well.” His legs went limp and he stumbled. Mazael ordered the armsmen to take him to safety.

The crossbowmen fired with renewed vigor. Burning bolts ripped through zuvembie flesh, while storms of Elderborn arrows raked at them. Romaria fired and fired, and every burning arrow seemed to take a zuvembie through the skull.

Zuvembies went up like walking candles, flames shooting from their empty skulls. They stumbled, lurched, and then fell, the hungry fires eating their flesh. The few that reached the trench were clubbed back with torches.

Gerald grinned. “It’s working!”

Then the earth beneath Gerald’s feet exploded. A skeletal hand gloved in moldering gray skin shot from the dirt ,wrapped about his ankle, and yanked him to the ground. An instant later a shoulder and the top of a skull emerged from the earth, the eyes glowing green. The ground beneath Mazael’s feet quivered as animated corpses clawed free from long-forgotten graves. Chaos erupted as men screamed and pulled away from hands and arms rising beneath their feet.

Gerald lashed at the hand with his sword, but his blade bounced away from the bone as if he had struck a bar of iron. The undead things might burn, but steel could not harm them. Zuvembies shook free from the earth, men screaming in terror as weapons bounced from undead flesh.

Gerald shouted in pain as the hand tightened around his leg.

Mazael acted without thought and brought Lion down in a whistling arc, the weapon hot and alive in his hand, as if something long-dead had awakened within the blade. Lion sheared through rotting skin and crumbling bone, and the hand fell twitching. Mazael slashed his sword around in a backhand, the steel flashing blue in the night, and split the zuvembie's skull like a rotten melon. Blue fire flashed in the creature’s eye sockets and extinguished the green glow, dusty bones and leathery flesh falling to pieces.

“Gods,” whispered Gerald.

Lines of blue light glimmered in Lion’s razor edges, tiny sapphire flames flashing in the metal. The glow spread, blue flames blooming along the sword’s length. Mazael felt something old and powerful thrumming through his sword. Something that raged with fury, something that wanted to destroy the zuvembies.

Mazael agreed.

Three zuvembies shuffled towards him, fresh blood staining their black claws. Gerald gave a cry of alarm and raised his damaged sword in guard, but Mazael cut through the zuvembies like flame through chaff. He took an arm off at the shoulder, reversed his cut to shatter the zuvembie's chest, and spun to decapitate another. With every hit, the power within his sword grew, the blade's glow blossoming into shimmering azure flames. When he split the third zuvembie from crown to crotch, Lion exploded with blazing blue flames.

“Amater have mercy,” said Gerald. “What is...”

“I don’t know,” said Mazael. Some instinct tickled his brain. “Hold up your sword.”

Gerald complied, and Mazael tapped Lion’s tip to the younger knight’s blade. Blue flame leapt to dance in a shimmering corona around Gerald’s sword. The glow was not so intense as Lion’s, but it was there.

Gerald held up his weapon. “It is a miracle.”

“I don't care what it is so long as it stops zuvembies,” said Mazael, touching Lion to Wesson's mace and Adalar's shortsword.

Gerald nodded, and they plunged into the fray, their squires following.

Mazael’s ordered camp had fallen into chaos. Men screamed and cursed as they grappled with zuvembies. The battle-fury came on Mazael, and the world blurred and slowed so that the already slow zuvembies seemed like granite statues. An armsman fell to his knees before a zuvembie, blood streaming down his face.

Lion plunged through the zuvembie and disintegrated the creature's emaciated chest, bone and leathery skin dancing with blue flames. The wounded armsman gaped at Mazael. Mazael slapped Lion against the flat of the man’s broadsword. The armsman flinched, grinned, and then sank his glowing weapon into the skull of another zuvembie.

Then he saw Romaria nearby. A quartet of zuvembies pushed her towards the trench, their black claws darting and stabbing for her. She fought, her sword blurring around her, but the creatures advanced nonetheless.

Mazael took Lion in two hands and split the nearest zuvembie in half. A zuvembie seized Romaria, its claws brushing at her face. Mazael’s sword took off its hand, its arm, and then its head in rapid slashes, and then he and tapped Romaria’s sword with his own, set her blade to dancing with sapphire flames. She went on the attack, her sword twisting and weaving as she carved chunks from a zuvembie. The creature took another step before it fell, azure fire threading into its shriveled flesh. Mazael slashed Lion through the neck of the last zuvembie. The thing’s head rolled across the trampled grass and torn earth.

Romaria laughed. “The gods of the earth, Mazael!  That sword is out of legend. It was made to destroy things like this!”

“Then let us use it,” said Mazael.

Together they cut a swath through the zuvembies, fighting back-to-back. Zuvembies crumpled before Mazael, the fires of his blade burning through their flesh and extinguishing their necromancy. He slapped Lion against the weapons of every armsman he saw, and soon dozens of blue lights flickered in the battle. Romaria’s every strike ripped through a zuvembie, and Sir Nathan smashed his greatsword down, hammering a zuvembie to pieces. Mazael saw Timothy chanting and gesturing, loosing invisible force to throw the zuvembies to the ground, where armsmen with flashing broadswords fell upon them. Burning arrows slashed down from the Elderborn, and smoke and ash filled the air.

“White Rock!  White Rock!”

Mazael heard the thunder of hooves and the distinct twang of short horse-bows. A score of men on horseback riding around the base of the hill, Silar the Cirstarcian monk among them, fitting an arrow to a short bow.

The Cravenlock armsmen rallied and formed a fist of steel around Mazael. They drove towards the trench and pushed the remaining zuvembies between the Elderborn longbows and the horse archers from White Rock.

The creatures did not last long.

Mazael cut the last zuvembie down with a vicious slash. The fires on his sword flickered and went out, while the glow on the armsmen's weapons faded away.

The battle was over.

The sudden silence seemed deafening.

Mazael touched Gerald’s shoulder. “Find out how many we lost.” Gerald nodded and rammed his sword back into its sheath. “Timothy, that was explosive.”

Timothy grinned and wiped soot from his brow. “It does come in handy, my lord knight. I think I’ll sleep for a week now, but it does come in handy.” He coughed. “You seem to have magic of your own.”

Mazael looked at Lion. “So it seems. I wish I’d known of it earlier.” Where had the Dominiars found such a weapon?  “I’ll have Master Othar examine it when we return to Castle Cravenlock.” He kicked a charred leg bone. “We now have ample proof now that the Elderborn had nothing to do with these disturbances.”

“Aye,” said Timothy.

“Gather up some bones and ashes at once, so Master Othar will have something to examine,” said Mazael. “I’d hate to have done all this for naught.”

“Aye, my lord knight,” said Timothy.

Sir Nathan approached, wiping ashes and bone chips from the length of his greatsword. “Well fought.”

Mazael grimaced. “I’ll not know until Sir Gerald tells me how many men we lost.”

“Your plan held well,” said Sir Nathan. “You couldn’t have known that the creatures would rise from the earth like that.”

Mazael smacked a fist into his palm. “My plan can go to hell. It did, in fact.”

“You responded well,” said Nathan.

“The sword responded well, you mean,” said Mazael. “I’ve not the slightest idea what happened.”

Sir Nathan shrugged. “Nor do I.”

Ardmorgan Sil Tarithyn and his Elderborn descended from the hill. “A great triumph,” he said. “The Mother is pleased with our actions.” He glanced at Lion. “I did not know that any still possessed weapons with the magic of old.”

“Neither did I, for that matter,” said Mazael. Gerald returned with Romaria. “How many?”

“Twenty-six,” said Gerald, “with perhaps another thirty wounded. Most should make it. Timothy is tending them.”

“Burn the shells of those who moved onward,” said Sil Tarithyn.

“What?” said Mazael. “Why?”

“The ardmorgan speaks true,” said Romaria. “They’ve been in contact with the necromancy. If we do not, they’ll rise again come nightfall as zuvembies.”

“Then burn them,” said Mazael. The White Rock men dismounted and made their way towards him with Brother Silar in their lead. “But we’ll see to it later. Right now, we have wounded to tend. I’d also like to know how the men of White Rock arrived so fortuitously.”

“Alas, I fear it was the gods’ grace and dumb luck more than any meager skill on our parts,” said Silar. “Sir Mazael, Sir Gerald, Sir Nathan, my lady Romaria, and...” He bowed to Sil Tarithyn, and said something in the Elderborn tongue, and Sil Tarithyn answered in kind.

“How did you come to be here?” said Mazael. “We’re grateful for your help, certainly, and it came at a good time. But why did you come?”

“Sir Albert sent us after you,” said Silar. The monk grinned. “He’s heard rumor of you before, Sir Mazael, and figured you would meet with the creatures, whether you sought them or not. He knew now was the time to deal a strong blow to these devils.”

Mazael looked over the smoldering battlefield. “It seems that he was right.”

“Besides, I knew you would come under attack,” said Silar.

“What?” said Mazael. “How?”

“You said Simonian of Briault serves Lord Mitor as court wizard,” said Silar. “I saw the man near White Rock an hour after you departed.”

“How could you have known him?” said Mazael. “Have you ever seen him?”

“No,” said Silar. “But my order has a death mark on him, as you no doubt recall. His description states that he has tangled gray hair, an unkempt beard, and eyes that seem like pits of boiling mud.”

“That’s him,” said Mazael.

“He’s the man I saw,” said Silar. “He traveled alone on horseback past the village. The stink of necromancy hung about him, and he wore some sort of enchantment. I don’t think he meant to be seen. I approached him. He rode off before I could reach him.”

“This is his doing,” said Romaria. “He convinced Mitor to send you out after the Elderborn, then he went to use his dark arts to raise zuvembies.”

Mazael cursed. “It seems to fit. Gods, I knew I should have killed the old wretch when I had the chance. And I may yet have the opportunity.” He gestured at the charred ruin lying all about them. “Master Othar has a spell that can trace an enchantment back to its caster.”

“Let me accompany you back to Castle Cravenlock,” said Silar.

“Why?” said Mazael.

“There is a San-keth cult near Castle Cravenlock, Sir Mazael, if you believe it or not,” said Silar. “And a man like Simonian of Briault makes them very dangerous, indeed. Perhaps you’re correct, and this is all the necromancer’s doing. But if you’re not, then the superiors in my order must know the extent of the threat.”

“Very well,” said Mazael. “I mean to leave for Castle Cravenlock by midday tomorrow. You can ride with us.” He touched Lion’s hilt. “But if it is Simonian who has raised these things, I’ll kill him when I lay eyes on him and deal with the consequences later.”

3

The Ride Home

The stink of burned flesh filled Mazael’s nostrils.

The sun climbed over the eastern horizon, red-orange light spilling over the plain. Mazael held out his sword, sunlight glittering off Lion's golden pommel. The blade was the work of a master swordsmith, but seemed normal in all other respects. Timothy's spell of magical detection had sensed power within it, but the wizard had been unable to determine the nature of the sword's magic.

“Let’s put this Cirstarcian learning of yours to the test,” said Mazael. Brother Silar ran two fingers down the length of the blade. “Do you recognize it?”

Silar winced and pulled his finger back. “Sharp.”

“I could have told you that. Do you recognize it?” said Mazael.

“Aye, I do,” said Silar. “The sword is Tristafellin.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Romaria. “The magic of ancient Tristafel. I’ve heard legends of such swords. I’d never thought to see one, though.”

“I can tell you more than that,” said Silar. He tapped Lion’s pommel. “This is the sigil of a group of knights founded in Tristafel’s last days. They called themselves the Knights of the Lion, dedicated themselves to fighting the Demonsouled and the San-keth that had corrupted Tristafel. Sir Mazael, this sword was made to destroy dark magic. The wizards allied with the Knights of the Lion made magical weapons for them, working spells of power into the folds of the steel.”

“Then that sword is valuable beyond price,” said Timothy. “No spells of such power have survived.”

Mazael reversed Lion and slid it into his scabbard. “A lot of good it did these Knights. Tristafel is no more, last I heard.”

“True,” said Silar, “but remnants of Tristafel survived in the kingdoms of Knightrealm and Dracaryl and Cadlyn and Caria.  Sir Gerald’s own distant progenitors, ancestors of King Roland of Knightcastle, were Knights of the Lion.”

“He’s right, Mazael,” said Gerald. “Do you remember a battered old shield hanging in Knightcastle’s hall?  You’ve seen it, I’m sure. It has the lion sigil.”

“The Knights of the Lion and their wizards, allied with the High Elderborn, confronted the Great Demon and the San-keth high priests in Tristafel,” said Silar. “The city was destroyed, and the Great Demon and the Knights slain, but the Knights of the Lion saved our world. Were it not for them, the San-keth, the Demonsouled, and the Malrags would have overrun everything.”

“But the Old Demon,” said Sir Nathan, “the firstborn child of the Great Demon, eldest of all the Demonsouled, escaped to wreak havoc in the world. I’ve heard the same story, Brother."

“History, not story,” said Silar.

“Fascinating,” said Mazael, “but story or truth, I care not.”

Silar scratched at his chin. “You ought to, sir knight. That sword just saved our lives, did it not?  The shades of the Knights were undoubtedly pleased to see that sword battle dark magic once more.”

“It was farsighted of those wizards to let Lion bestow some of its enchantment when touched to another weapon. I couldn’t have destroyed all the zuvembies myself,” said Mazael.

Silar frowned. “That was strange.”

“Beyond the obvious?” said Mazael. “How so?”

“Weapons of magical power are rare,” said Timothy. “It is unheard of for a magical weapon to transfer its power in such a manner.”

“You said the spells of enchantment were forgotten,” said Mazael. “It’s been centuries since Tristafel fell. The sword could simply have powers you never considered.”

“True,” said Silar. He smiled. “We Cirstarcians are strange ones. Our stated mission is to praise the gods and to preserve knowledge. And we do, don’t doubt. But our true purpose is to hunt down and destroy creatures such as the zuvembies. Magical Tristafellin weapons are valuable to us. We’ve collected a few, some quite similar to your Lion. None of them can temporarily bestow their power the way your sword did.”

Mazael shrugged. “So what?  It seemed logical enough at the time. Fire spreads, does it not? My blade had taken afire. So I thought to spread the fire and drive back the zuvembies.”

“Aye,” said Silar. “Suppose your own will made the sword’s power spread?”

For a moment, it seemed as if Silar’s face was a mask of crimson blood, his eyes white and staring and dead. Mazael blinked, and the momentary vision vanished.

“My own will?” Mazael said. “That’s absurd. You said the sword’s magic awoke in response to the necromancy that raised the zuvembies.”

“It did,” said Silar. “But you exhibited control over that magic. Suppose you have some sort of innate power?”

Romaria flinched.

“Power?” said Mazael. “You speak nonsense. I am not a wizard. The only power I’ve ever wielded is that of the sword.”

“There are different sorts of magic than that of Alborg,” said Romaria.

“Most certainly true,” said Silar.

“Sir Albert was right,” said Mazael. “You are mad.”

Silar laughed. “The good knight was right, I fear, but this is no delusion. Hear me out, Sir Mazael, if just for a moment. Consider yourself. I have trained in fighting arts all my life, and seen more than my fair share of war, but I have never seen anyone fight like you. You move like lightning.”

“I had good teachers, that’s all,” said Mazael, “and a great deal of hard experience.”

Sir Nathan laughed. “Sir Mazael, you do me too much credit. You have surpassed my teaching, I fear.”

“He’s right, you know,” said Gerald. “I fancy myself skilled with the blade, but if I practiced every hour of every day for ten years, I still could not hope to defeat you.”

“I’m faster, that’s all,” said Mazael.

“Is it?” said Silar. “Suppose you do have some sort of magic, Sir Mazael, a magic that is unconscious and follows your will?  You worked to become a warrior. You have become a formidable fighter. And now in your need, when the zuvembies rose to slay us, you exerted command over the magic of the sword.”

Mazael thought it over. Chills ran up his spine as he remembered the bloody dreams. He remembered how, since he had first begun practicing with a wooden blade, he had always known exactly how to kill his enemies. He looked at Romaria and saw the fear on her face. Why did she fear him?  He was tempted to leave, take her with him, kidnap Rachel from Castle Cravenlock, and ride far away.

He wondered what was happening to him.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Mazael.

Silar blinked. “Why do you say that?”

“The sword has magic. Perhaps I do as well. Right now I have more pressing concerns than some mystical power. If this sword has power, it will make it all the easier to kill Simonian.”

“Easier, yes, but still dangerous,” said Silar. “Simonian of Briault is a dangerous man. You should not face him alone.”

“I don’t intend to,” said Mazael. “I will have Sir Nathan with me, and Sir Gerald, and Lady Romaria, and Master Othar. And Lord Mitor and his armsmen, once I show them the truth of Simonian.”

“Assuming that Lord Mitor does not already know,” said Silar. Mazael glared at him, but Silar did not look away.

“Come,” said Mazael. “Let us return to the camp. We will do what we must when the time is right. Until then, it is pointless to worry.”

Smoke still rose from the pyre. Four more men had died during the night. Mazael had followed Sil Tarithyn and Romaria’s advice and ordered them burned. He did not like the idea of burning the bodies of his men like garbage, but he not like the idea of their corpses rising as zuvembies even more.

“I mean to rest the men until midday,” said Mazael. “We’ll march until sunset, sleep the night, and continue on our way. They are exhausted. I’d rather not have them dropping in their tracks.”

Gerald yawned. “I’d rather not drop in my tracks, as well.”

“Then we shall deliver the remains of a zuvembie to Master Othar,” said Mazael. Timothy had already packed away scraps of bone and lumps of ash in his saddlebags. “He will discover who raised the zuvembies, and then we’ll have an end to this business.”

“I hope you are right,” said Silar, “but I believe that you are wrong.”

Mazael shrugged. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

“What will you tell Mitor about the Elderborn?” said Romaria.

“The truth,” said Mazael. “What do they have to hide?  Sil Tarithyn and his warriors helped rid Lord Mitor’s lands of dangerous creatures. They should have his gratitude. Perhaps he’ll even send them a reward.”

Romaria grimaced. “I doubt that. He’d rather send them fire and sword and call it justice.”

“He can’t send them anything if he cannot find them,” said Mazael. Sil Tarithyn and his Elderborn had left a few hours after the battle. Mazael had been more than happy to see him go. He had not liked the ardmorgan’s cryptic references to the return of the serpents.

“Get something to eat and then get some rest, all of you,” said Mazael. “That goes for you as well, Sir Nathan.”

Sir Nathan smiled. “Aye, as you command.”

Mazael found an empty spot in the camp and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. Dreams tormented his rest, visions of blood and death. Rachel laughed as she plunged a dagger into his heart. The dead rose and killed, their clawed fingers gleaming crimson. He awoke gasping and sweating, and as he did, Romaria lay down against him, her arm across his chest. He went back to sleep. This time his rest was blessedly free from visions.

At midday, the men from White Rock saddled up and returned to their village, leaving Silar behind. Mazael ordered the men north. They made good time, brown dust rising up in a cloud like a banner of smoke.

They camped in the same meadow as before. Again Mazael fell asleep with nightmares of carnage, and again he awoke to find Romaria lying against him. After that he was able to fall into peaceful sleep.

He began to think that without her presence the dreams would drive him mad.

The next day of their journey was peaceful. Gerald was in high spirits, joking with Adalar and Silar and Romaria. Mazael rode silent and grim.

They stopped that night in the ruins of the same village where they had camped earlier. Mazael sat at the edge of the ruins, his back against a crumbling stone wall. He did not want to sleep. Then Romaria came and sat next to him, her head on his shoulder, and they fell asleep together.

Mazael dreamt dreams of a different sort that night. He was alone with Romaria in a deep forest glen, the trees towering high overhead. He felt happier than he could ever remember feeling. Romaria kissed him, her mouth hot against his. They fell together against the grass, kissing and tugging at their clothing.

Mazael awoke that morning refreshed, feeling better than he had in days. Yet the darkness of the dreams still gnawed at him. Romaria lay against him, looking at him with sleepy eyes. He wanted to kiss her and act out the dream, but the camp was already awake.

They reached Castle Cravenlock late in the afternoon, as the setting sun painted the castle's walls a deep red. It reminded Mazael too much of his dreams. A sea of fresh tents had gathered about the castle’s rocky hill. More mercenaries, come to fight beneath the banner of the Cravenlocks.

“The storm clouds are gathering,” said Silar. “I fear they shall break into a storm of blood.”

“There’s time yet,” said Mazael. “Master Othar will give us proof that Simonian is a lying serpent.”

“Aye, I hope so,” said Silar. “Yet I’ve seen the same sort of storm, fifteen years past.”

No sentries challenged Mazael as he rode through Cravenlock town and up to the castle gates, and he scowled at further evidence of Sir Albron's negligence.

The guards posted at the castle’s barbican straightened as Mazael approached. “Sir Mazael!” called one.

“Where is Master Othar?” said Mazael. “I must speak with him at once.”

The guard hesitated. “Lord Mitor has made Simonian court wizard, and...”

“I said I wanted to speak with Master Othar, not Simonian!” said Mazael. “Where is Master Othar?”

“My lord knight, I’m sorry. Master Othar died in his sleep three nights past.”

Chapter VII

1

Othar’s Funeral

“How do they say he died?” said Mazael, sitting in his rooms in the King's Tower. A drop of red wine fell from his the goblet and splashed against the table.

“Ah...that  his heart burst, my lord knight,” said Timothy.  Mazael squinted at the wizard through blurred, aching eyes. “It would not have surprised me. He was very fat, my lord knight, and old. I am sorry to be so blunt, Sir Mazael, but that was how he was probably going to die.”

Mazael waved the goblet. “No. Always tell me the truth, Timothy. Tell me what you wish. So long as it is the truth, I’ll not fault you for it, ever.”

Timothy bowed. “Thank you, my lord knight.”

“So they say his heart burst,” said Mazael. “Has anyone examined his body?”

“No,” said Timothy. “It would be the task of the court wizard to do so. But Master Othar cannot examine himself now, and Simonian will hardly do it.”

“Can you cast the spell?” said Mazael.

“What spell is that?” said Timothy.

Mazael finished his goblet, cursed, and reached for the wineskin. “The spell to determine the nature of an enchantment and trace it back to its caster. Can you cast it over the remnants of the zuvembies?”

“I know the spell, yes,” said Timothy. “But I do not possess Master Othar’s skill. I cannot trace back the magic.”

Mazael bellowed and flung the goblet against the wall. Timothy flinched wine splashed across the wall and soaked into the carpet. Mazael closed his eyes and clenched a fist.

“Convenient,” said Mazael.

“My lord knight?” said Timothy.

“Men have said that Master Othar would die within the year as long as I can remember,” said Mazael. “And now, just as we are about to deliver the remnants of a zuvembie for his inspection, he dies. Convenient?”

“Do you suspect murder?” said Timothy.

“I don’t know what I suspect,” said Mazael. “He told me something, right before we left. He said he would have answers when we returned. I should have...I should...”

“My lord knight,” said Timothy. “No man can see the future. You cannot torment yourself over what you might have done...”

Mazael gave a weak grin. “Yes, yes, I know all that, do what you can in the here and now. Master Othar taught me that, you know.” He reeled in his seat for a moment, but managed to hold his balance. “Well, this is what I intend to do about the present. It is still early. The funeral will not take place for another few hours or so. Go to the corpse, and examine it.”

“My lord knight?” said Timothy. “That is...”

“Desecrating the corpse?” said Mazael. “Othar wouldn’t have cared, and neither do I. Examine the body. See if you can determine how he died, and see if magic caused his death.”

“You suspect Simonian?” said Timothy.

“I’d be a fool not to,” said Mazael. “Once you are finished, search Master Othar’s chambers. He suspected something, and I want to know what.”

“I shall,” said Timothy.

“Thank you,” said Mazael. “Get started. Leave me.”

Mazael spent a long time staring at the wall, his head spinning. He watched the wine droplets slide down the stones. Like blood, he thought. Blood in his dreams, in the battlefield, and now here at Castle Cravenlock...

“My lord knight?”

Adalar stood in the doorway. “Are you well?”

“No,” said Mazael.

“You spilled your wine,” said Adalar. “I shall clean it up at once...”

“No!” said Mazael. “This mess was mine and I’ll tend to it. If I teach you anything, Adalar, always clean up your own messes. Now, fetch me a fresh tunic. I’m drunk and half-mad, but I must look passably decent for the funeral.”

“I will, Sir Mazael,” said Adalar. “I am very sorry about Master Othar.”

“You are, aren’t you?” said Mazael.

“He was always very kind to me, my lord knight,” said Adalar. “Father was often gone on many tasks for Lord Mitor. I spent as much time with Master Othar.”

“Well,” said Mazael. “If your father wouldn’t kill me for it, I’d give you some wine, and we’d raise a toast to one of the finest men who ever lived.”

“There’s some water,” said Adalar.

“That will serve,” said Mazael.

Adalar poured, they raised the clay cups, and they toasted the memory of Master Othar.

“Now, run and fetch a fresh tunic,” said Mazael. He rubbed his aching temples. “And see if the kitchens still have some of that coffee Timothy brewed.”

Adalar bowed and left.

Mazael leaned into his chair, images swimming across his blurring vision. He saw Master Othar standing before him twenty years past. He heard the wizard’s booming laughter. He remembered learning to read under Othar’s eye. He remembered. No matter how drunk he got, he could not forget.

“Sir Mazael?”

Adalar stood in the doorway with a tunic and a steaming clay jug in hand. “I found the coffee. Some of the kitchen workers have taken to it. There was plenty to spare.”

“Splendid,” said Mazael. He raised the jug and drained it in a single draught. It burned like hot oil and tasted like dirt, but it filled him with fresh energy. He pulled off his old tunic and yanked the fresh one over his head. “Sword belt.” Adalar handed him his sword belt, and Mazael buckled it on. “Thank you. You’re a better squire than I deserve.”

“I am only doing my duty,” said Adalar.

Mazael snorted. “And you’re your father’s son, I see. Take that as high praise. Well, let’s go. I’ll not be late, not for this.” They descended the stairs, Mazael taking care to keep his balance. What a fine example he had set for Adalar. He walked into the courtyard and squinted at the morning glare.

“Mazael.”

Rachel stood next to the door, clad in a black gown, her green eyes puffy and red.

“My lady Rachel,” said Mazael. “What can I do for you?”

“Is this what we’ve come to?” said Rachel. “ ‘My lady Rachel?’ You were my best friend once.”

“You’ve changed,” said Mazael. “And so have I.”

“We’ve gotten older...that’s all,” said Rachel. “I’m so sorry about Master Othar.”

“Are you?” said Mazael. “I thought magic was distasteful.”

Rachel blanched. “It...that was ill-spoken of me.”

“And where’s Sir Albron?” said Mazael. “I’d have thought he’d have wanted to come gloat ...”

Rachel slapped him. She was not strong, but Mazael’s knees nearly folded from shock. Adalar made a strangled sound.

Rachel jerked back from him. “How dare you?  You can’t judge me, you don’t know what I’ve had to do!  Albron didn’t want me to come, Mazael, he told me to stay in my quarters. But...I...Master Othar was so kind to me when I was younger, but now I’m so alone, I’ve had no one to turn to but Albron...” Her voice began to break with sobs. “And you, what have you had to endure?  You’ve ridden from one end of the kingdom to the other. I’ve left Castle Cravenlock once in the last ten years, and that with Sir Tanam Crowley! You haven’t had to stay with Mitor and his insults or that miserable, stone-hearted shrew Marcelle, you haven’t, you haven’t seen...” Rachel broke down completely.

Mazael reached for her, and she flinched and collapsed weeping into his arms. Mazael wanted to cry himself. For Master Othar, for her, or for himself, he could not have said.

But no tears came.

“I’m sorry,” said Rachel.

“What for?” said Mazael.

“I shouldn’t have hit you, I shouldn’t have wailed like this,” she said. “It isn’t proper.”

“Don’t,” said Mazael. “I should apologize, not you. I haven’t been fair. I don’t know what you’ve had to endure this last fifteen years. Perhaps I made another mistake, as well.”

“What?” said Rachel.

“I should have taken you with me when I left,” said Mazael.

“That would have been grand,” said Rachel, scrubbing tears from her eyes.

“I still can, you know,” said Mazael.

“What...oh, no, Mazael, I can’t...” said Rachel.

“Why not?” said Mazael. “What’s here for you?  Mitor?  Marcelle?  Simonian of Briault? They’re little enough. They’ll be swept away like chaff when Lord Richard comes. Come with me, Rachel. There’s nothing here for you or for me. Leave Mitor the Mushroom to his plots and webs. It will all come crashing down on him. We could go from here to Knightcastle, if you wish, with Sir Gerald. Lord Malden would welcome you. Or to Deepforest Keep with Romaria.”

“I would...I can’t,” said Rachel. “I am pledged to be married, Sir Albron...”

“Damn Albron!” growled Mazael. “Open your eyes!  Neither he nor Mitor lifted a finger when Sir Tanam and his crows flew away with you in their beaks!  The man’s a leech who rode Mitor to power. And what will happen when the Dragonslayer takes Mitor’s head?  The leech will fall off and shrivel.”

“Mazael, don’t say those things!" said Rachel.  "Even if I did leave, who else could I marry? Toraine Mandragon?  Or his brother, the one they call the Dragon’s Shadow? I’m almost five years past twenty!”

“It would be easy to find you a husband in Knightrealm,” said Mazael. “There are hundreds of unmarried knights. Most of them are far better than Albron. You know he’s a wretch, Rachel, you do. More than that, you know he’s a liar.”

For a long moment she stared at him, wavering.

“Yes,” she whispered at last. “He’s lied to you, he’s lied to Mitor, he’s lied to me. About everything. But you don’t know him, Mazael, not truly. You don’t know what he can do. He could win this war, even against the Dragonslayer.”

“What can he do?” said Mazael. “Tell me.”

“I can’t,” said Rachel.

“Why not?” said Mazael. “Do you think I’m afraid of him?  I bested him once and I’ll do it again. What’s his secret, Rachel? Tell me.”

Rachel’s eyes flickered with doubt. There was fear on her face, and despair, but the beginning of a dawning hope. “He...Mazael, he’s...”

“Rachel! I say, there you are!”

Rachel jumped as if burned.

Sir Albron stood behind her, his eyes glittering like cold jewels. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Where have you been?”

“Rachel...” said Mazael.

Rachel tugged away from him and went to Albron’s side. “I was here. You needn’t have looked. You know where I was going.”

Albron sighed and stroked her hair. “You want to go the funeral, yes?  Well, you shouldn’t. It will make you sad. You are much prettier when you’re cheerful.”

Mazael stepped closer, Lion's scabbard tapping against his leg. “She is not to give respect to the dead, to a man who taught her and raised her?”

Albron smiled. “Precisely so, Sir Mazael. Master Othar is dead. Dead and no longer able to defy Lord Mitor’s wishes, as he had so often. It is probably a mercy, I think. After all, the man was so fat, and so old. Had he lived for much longer, he would have been in great discomfort. You ought to say a prayer of thanksgiving.”

Fire flashed in Mazael’s mind. “Pray that I do not act as I feel I ought.”

Albron smiled. “Pray? Why, I pray every day. I am very pious, after all. More than you, I’d imagine. You see, Sir Mazael, that is the difference between us. You always seek to stand on your own with no allies, relying on your own formidable skills. But I am wise enough to recognize my weakness.” He took Rachel’s arm. “I turn to my deity for my strength. Come along, Rachel.”

“He can’t command you,” said Mazael. “You haven’t married him yet.”

“Oh, but she will,” said Albron. “Won’t you, my dear?  And our lady Rachel of Cravenlock is a confused soul at times. I know what is best for her. Now, come along. We shall go back to your chambers and pray upon this.” He walked away, pulling Rachel along with him. She cast one glance over her shoulder at Mazael, and then followed Sir Albron.

Rage pounded through Mazael’s skull. It was all he could do to keep from drawing his blade and ramming it between Albron’s shoulders, and perhaps Rachel’s, as well...

Mazael shuddered and raised his sword hand away from Lion’s hilt. “No.”

“Sir Mazael?” said Adalar. “You...do not look well. Are you ill?”

“No,” said Mazael. “Not ill." He watched Rachel and Albron go. "Come."

Mazael’s headache faded by the time he reached the chapel’s doors. It was as if the rage had burned through him and incinerated his pains.

Sir Gerald, Sir Nathan, and Romaria waited for him at the chapel’s doors. Sir Nathan looked ten years older. Master Othar had been the old knight’s best friend. Mazael wanted to pull Romaria close and not move for a long time.

“Mazael,” said Gerald. “A dark day, this.”

“I only knew him for a short while,” said Romaria, “but I even I could see that he was a good man.”

“Aye,” said Mazael. “He was. He gave me much, taught me much, that I could never repay.”

“He will be missed,” said Sir Nathan.

The chapel was as bad as Gerald had described. Dust and debris littered the floor, the tapestries and altar cloths worn and threadbare. The narrow windows and the few sputtering candles did not give much light.

“Such fine temples the Amathavians keep to their gods,” said Romaria.

Master Othar’s closed coffin rested on a bier before the altar, between burning candles in iron stands. Mazael stared at the coffin. Why had he ever returned to the Grim Marches?  Save for Master Othar’s teachings, Rachel’s friendship, and Sir Nathan’s hard lessons, he had known little else but misery here. Now Master Othar was dead, and he no longer knew Rachel.

There were a few others present. Master Cramton, his family, and his workers greeted Mazael at the door.

“A good man,” said Cramton. “He was always good to us townsfolk.” Bethy gave Mazael a sad smile, and he managed to nod in answer.

They sat and the service began. The acolytes were a sorry bunch in their dirty and threadbare robes, and the presiding priest seemed drunk. The man began the prayers for the dead, his voice stumbling over the archaic High Tristafellin used by the Amathavian Church.

Sir Nathan rose. The priest backed away as the old knight approached, but Sir Nathan did not spare him a glance. He began to recite the prayers himself, speaking the intricate words of High Tristafellin with ease. The priest slunk away, his acolytes following. Mazael only understood a few words of the long prayer but bowed his head nonetheless.

Sir Nathan had chosen the pallbearers from the armsmen he trusted. They marched from the decrepit chapel in a slow procession. They would stop in the castle’s vaults and inter Master Othar’s mortal remains in a stone tomb.

Mazael stopped in the courtyard and watched them march towards the vault. He could not go with them. He knew he should come out of respect, but he could not do so. The grief filled his mind, second only to his rage. If Master Othar had been murdered, Mazael would find the murderer and ram Lion down his gullet.

Mazael wandered away, head bowed. He walked beneath one of the keep's balconies and heard his brother’s voice.

“Are they done yet?” said Mitor.

“No, my lord,” came Simonian’s voice. “They have gone to the vaults for the internment ceremony.”

“Bah,” said Mitor. “The man had outlived his usefulness years ago. What has he done to merit internment in my chapel and in my castle?”

“I have found, my lord, that people are far happier when customs are observed,” said Simonian.

“Customs,” said Mitor. “When I am liege lord of the Grim Marches, I shall do away with a great many customs, you can rest assured!  Funerals for useless, fat wizards among them. Had I my will, I would have tossed the corpse out into a field and left it to rot.”

“You should have had Othar’s body ground up and used as rations for your troops,” said Simonian.

“Hah!” said Mitor. “I like that!” He laughed. “No doubt it would provide for many meals!”

“And the blubber,” said Simonian, “could have illuminated this castle for many months.”

Mitor laughed. “Undoubtedly. But I find more favor with your first idea. We should have made a meat pie out of his carcass and had it served to my wretched brother at dinner the next day.” He roared with laughter. Mazael drew Lion with a silent snarl.

“My lord, you must take care with Sir Mazael,” said Simonian. “He schemes to replace you.”

“Oh, yes,” said Mitor. “Him and that fool the Dragonslayer. Well, they shall see! I don’t need Mazael to claim the liege lordship. I don’t need Marcus Trand and Roget and those other fools. I don’t need Lord Malden’s help. I shall take the liege lordship myself. It is my right, I have the power to do so. It is mine!”

“Yes,” said Simonian. “They’ll all see in the end, won’t they, my lord?”

“They will!” said Mitor. “The old fool Nathan and my damned brother and the great and high Lord Dragonslayer will see!  That fat wizard has already seen. But the others...oh, they will see, Simonian, and soon.”

Mazael rammed Lion into its scabbard and stalked away. Rage burned through him, and he felt as if he would explode with it. Images flashed through his mind in rapid succession. He saw Simonian dying upon Lion's point, saw his sword plunging into Mitor's chest...

The air blurred, and Timothy appeared out of nothingness. Mazael had Lion at the wizard's throat before his mind caught up to his reflexes.

He lowered Lion. “Don’t startle me!”

“I...ah...yes, I see,” said Timothy. “I should have known better.”

“What have you found?” said Mazael.

“A number of things,” said Timothy.

Mazael frowned. “Why were you invisible?”

“Prudence,” said Timothy. “Lord Mitor placed a guard around Master Othar’s chambers. I doubted they would allow me entrance if I simply asked. So I placed a sleeping spell on them and used my invisibility enchantment to sneak past.”

“Clever,” said Mazael.

“It worked,” said Timothy. “The guards didn’t see me.” He smiled. “They should be waking up shortly.”

“What did you find in Master Othar’s rooms?” said Mazael.

Timothy swallowed. “Much. On his desk were old scrolls. One was a history of the Demonsouled. Another told of the history of the San-keth race.” He tugged at his beard. “And...there was one other scroll, very old. He had it locked in a chest beneath his bed. I could not read the language, but I recognized it. It was written in the San-keth tongue, my lord. The ink was dried blood, and the parchment some sort of skin. Human, perhaps.”

“Where would he have gotten these things?” said Mazael.

“The scrolls...their seal was the star of the Cirstarcine Order,” said Timothy. “Most likely he borrowed them from the library of the nearby monastery. I may also have found Master Othar’s journal.”

“You did?  What did it say?” said Mazael.

“I could not open it,” said Timothy. “It was sealed shut and warded with a powerful protective spell.”

“Could you not dispel it?” said Mazael.

“I tried,” said Timothy. “Master Othar’s magic was too strong. A more powerful spell might suffice, but it would have taken several hours to ready. I feared I did not have the time.”

“That was wise,” said Mazael. “What of his body?  Were you able to examine it before the funeral?”

Timothy’s face turned fearful. “Aye, I did, my lord knight.”

“What do you find?” said Mazael.

“Master Othar did not die naturally,” said Timothy. “He was murdered.”

The words thundered through Mazael’s skull. “How?"

“Magic,” said Timothy. “I was not able to learn exactly how, but...”

“Well?” said Mazael. “Out with it!”

“It was necromancy, my lord knight,” said Timothy. He took a step back. “A killing spell. The residual power was focused around his chest. The magic was similar to the arts used to raise the zuvembies, though I have not the skill to discern if both spells were cast by the same man.”

“Necromancy,” said Mazael. “The word is bastardized Tristafellin, true? ‘Death magic’?”

Timothy nodded, staring at Lion's blade. “Aye, Sir Mazael, but please, do not do anything rash...”

“Death,” said Mazael. His fury had left anger behind, had become something different, something throbbing with power. “Well, there will be more death today before I am finished. Thank you, Timothy. You’ve been most helpful.” His voice was calm. He could have been discussing supper.

“My lord knight,” said Timothy. Mazael ignored him, and stalked across the courtyard, making for Lord Mitor’s chambers.

2

Sword Dancers

“Stop!” said a Cravenlock armsman. “Sir Mazael, you cannot draw steel...”

“Where is Mitor?” said Mazael.

“By Lord Mitor’s command,” said the armsman, reaching for his sword hilt, “no one may carry bared steel in the castle.”

“Where is Mitor?” said Mazael.

“I warned you!” said the armsman, drawing his blade, his two companions doing likewise. “Little wonder Lord Mitor ordered watch kept over you!  Take him!”

Mazael drove Lion’s hilt at the armsman's face, knocking him to the floor. The other two armsmen spread out in the wide corridor leading to Mitor’s chambers. Yet they moved so slow, so terribly slow, and Mazael stepped around the first thrust and brought the flat of Lion’s blade down hard on the nearest armsman's head. The man’s eyes bulged, rolled up, and he crumpled to the floor.

The last man was more skilled than his fellows and managed to attack. Mazael parried, shoved, and slammed the man against the wall, his sword clattering against the floor. The armsman went rigid as Lion's razor edge came to rest against his throat.

“Where,” Mazael said, “is Mitor?”

“I don’t know!” said the armsman. “He went with the wizard!”

“Simonian,” said Mazael. He considered killing the guards, and rejected the idea. He wanted Mitor and Simonian, not these wretches, and let the guard fall.

Then he kicked open a side door and strode up the spiral steps. Another door opened into a broad balcony on the main keep’s side. The floor had been torn up and filled with dirt, and a rich garden grew here. A vibrant young oak tree rose in the center, surrounded by all manner of flowers and quite a few blood roses. Lord Adalon had made a gift of the garden to Lady Arissa for their wedding. She had never used it.

There was another door on the far side of the garden, one that led to the keep's upper levels. Mazael barred the door behind him. The Cravenlock armsmen would try to stop him from killing Mitor and Simonian, but they would come too late.

And if they did reach him...why, he would just have to kill them too.

He strode to the upper door and paused as voices came through the wood.

“You must come, my lady!  He’s gone mad from grief, I swear it. I’ve seen such things before. The gods only know what he will do!” It was Timothy.

“I knew it.” Romaria’s voice shook. “I saw it in his face. I should have...the Seer warned me. Go and find Sir Gerald and Sir Nathan.”

“My lady,” said Timothy. “Sir Mazael’s lost his wits!  He’ll kill...”

“Go!” said Romaria.

The door opened, and Romaria entered the garden, her blue eyes fixed on him.

“Move,” Mazael said. She was blocking the door.

“Why?” said Romaria.

“Mitor’s a wretch. Simonian killed Master Othar. Now, move!” roared Mazael.

“How do you know?” said Romaria.

Mazael growled. “How do I know?” he said. “What do you care? Out of my way!”

Romaria didn’t move. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why? They killed Master Othar!” screamed Mazael. “I’ll mount both their heads above the castle gates!  If you don’t move, you can join them!”

A muscle in Romaria’s face ticked. “No. You’re doing this for revenge. If you do this now, in the...state you're in, you'll damn yourself forever.”

“Are you an Amathavian nun to prattle proverbs at me?” said Mazael. “Or are you with Simonian?” The possibility made perfect sense. “Yes, you’re scheming with him, you were part of this, weren’t you?”

Romaria shook her head. “No.”

“Prove it,” said Mazael. “Move.”

“No,” said Romaria. “Don’t do this, Mazael. Listen to me...”

He ran at her instead, Lion flashing.

Romaria moved almost as fast, her bastard sword blurring into her hand. Mazael plunged his sword’s tip at her head, reversed momentum, and brought it stabbing down for her belly. She parried, the swords meeting with a tremendous clang.

“Stop this!” said Romaria.

Mazael didn’t hear her. The volcanic fury in his mind had found an outlet, and it felt good. Mazael's only thought was to kill.

Romaria’s sword danced in time to Mazael’s, her stance shifting, her grip shifting from one-handed to two-handed and back again. Mazael could not follow her movements fast enough to find an opening. He locked their swords together on the next parry and shoved. Romaria was fast and agile, but he was stronger. Romaria stumbled, her back slapping against the keep's wall.

Romaria ducked his next thrust, and Lion sheared through her cloak and slid into a gap between two stones. He roared and tore the sword free, slashing for Romaria. But she slid free from her cloak, her blade stabbing towards his gut. Mazael parried, but the flat of her blade smacked into his thigh.

“Stop this!” said Romaria. “Mazael, the Seer, I didn’t tell you all...”

He ignored her and chopped towards her skull, their blades locking in a parry. Mazael shoved again, but this time she jumped back. He lost his balance for a moment, and Romaria counterattacked, her sword opening a shallow cut against his ribs.

“Mazael, please, stop this!” said Romaria. A drop of his blood slid down her sword. “You don’t know what this is doing to you...”

His next attack brought Lion high, low, and then arcing for her throat. Romaria pivoted, but she was too slow. Lion scraped along her collarbone, but blood flared crimson against her pale skin. Mazael laughed and went for the kill, but she spun out of his reach.

“Brother Silar was right!” she yelled.

Mazael spun and came at her, his sword slashing at her from every angle. Yet somehow she parried every one of his attacks. She turned one of his strikes, her sword point biting at his arm.

“You have magic!” said Romaria. “Don’t you see? Silar was right!”

He almost killed her. He whipped his sword at her face. Romaria jerked back, but she was almost too slow. For a moment Mazael thought he’d slain her, but she circled to his left, and he roared with frustration.

“It’s out of control,” said Romaria. “Your power’s devouring you. The rage... it's not natural. It will burn you out from the inside...”

Mazael worked Lion through a high slash and then a low thrust. Romaria blocked and batted aside his stabbing blade. She thrust at him, and her sword nicked his hip, drawing blood.

“Stop this!” said Romaria. “It will destroy you.”

“You can’t stop me,” said Mazael.

“I can’t,” said Romaria. “But you can. Please, just put down your sword...”

Mazael slashed at her, holding Lion in a two-handed grip, and she jumped out of reach.

Romaria’s eyes flashed. “Then fight!” She turned his next attack and spun around him. Mazael dropped Lion low to parry, but she whirled her hilt and stabbed at his chest. He managed to parry, but the edge of her blade gashed his arm. Her furious assault did not relent. The sparks in her eyes turned to fire, and her sword was everywhere. Despite his speed and strength, it was all Mazael could do to parry. She drove him across the balcony, over the tangled roots of the tree, through the flowers and the grasses.

Romaria’s attack drove him to the edge of the battlements. Her fury began to play out, her chest heaving with breath, sweat streaming down her face. Mazael felt filled with life and power.

Soon she would tire and make a mistake.

He parried another of her attacks, and this time she was too slow. He shoved at her, and she stumbled. Romaria tumbled backwards and went into a backwards fall. Mazael stalked after her, sword raised high, and she vanished.

He smiled. He had seen this trick before.

Romaria reappeared before him. Mazael stepped around her attack and rammed Lion into her throat. Her blue eyes bulged, and blood gushed from her torn neck. Crimson bubbles foamed in her mouth as she tried to scream, and she collapsed to the ground.

And Mazael's rage vanished.

His head pounded, every heartbeat sending waves of pain through his skull. He felt old and weary. For a moment, he could not remember where he was.

Then he saw Romaria’s dying body lying at his feet, and he remembered.

Mazael fell to one knee. He saw the blood pooling beneath her. He saw it smeared along the length of his sword and dripping from his fingers. Lion fell from his grasp. All he could see was the blood. He tried to reach for her.

“Oh gods...” said Mazael. “Oh gods, no. No, no, no. What have I done...”

A lance of slithering pain spread through his gut. Mazael doubled over and vomited. He wheezed and coughed, drops of spittle hanging from his lips.

He looked up, dreading the sight.

Romaria was gone.

He stared at the empty stones, confused beyond the capacity for thought. What had he done? What had happened?

A warm hand fell on his shoulder. He looked and saw Romaria kneeling besides him, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other holding her heavy sword. The skin of her throat was smooth and unbroken.

Mazael couldn’t believe it. He reached a trembling hand for her face and felt the smooth skin, felt the blood pulsing through the veins of her neck. “How...I....I killed...”

“It was an illusion,” said Romaria. Her smile was weak. “I didn’t show you all my tricks.”

“Tricks?” said Mazael. His tongue felt like lead. “But...I killed, gods, I killed...” His voice shook. He felt something wet in his eyes. “I killed...I tried to kill you. And Simonian. And Mitor...I tried so hard to kill you. Gods, gods, I’m going mad...what’s happening...”

The world lurched, and Mazael felt all the strength got out of him. His head struck the stone floor, and a wave of fire washed through his brain. He heard Romaria’s voice once more before the darkness closed over him.

3

Two Halves

“Get up.”

Harsh light stabbed into Mazael's face. The stench of rotting vegetation and old snakeskin filled into his nostrils. Something hard prodded his side. “Up, I say! Can’t lie about. There’s too much to do!”

Mazael sat up. A swollen bloody sun painted the sky crimson, and the balcony garden had died. The oak tree was scorched, the flowers crumbling ashes, and the earth gray powder.

Lord Adalon stood over Mazael, his black robe hanging from his thin body like a flowing shroud. Red fire glinted in his green eyes, and his fingers drummed against the black staff with its silver raven statuette.

“Up, now!” Lord Adalon said. He tapped Mazael’s leg with his staff. “Up! Nothing has ever come from lying about like this.”

Mazael stood. He felt no pain. His stomach was settled, and there were no wounds on his arms and chest.

“Now, why would you think yourself hurt?” said Lord Adalon. A cold wind blew from the plains, whipping his robes like black wings.

“I don’t know,” said Mazael.

“You needn’t be so grim!” said Lord Adalon. “You almost learned a most important lesson. The next time, you’ll learn.”

“Learn what?” said Mazael.

His father grinned. “Your fellow half-breed will soon discover the deep flaw in trickery. It is most effective, but only once.” He laughed. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. And fool me thrice, a man who can be fooled thrice is liable to be snatched up by the Old Demon!” Lord Adalon snapped his fingers.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Mazael.

“You do!” said Lord Adalon. “You killed her, didn’t you?  You can hide nothing from me. Rather, you would have killed her, if not for her simple spells.” His smile displayed jagged yellow teeth. “You will learn to defeat those.”

Mazael remembered how Lion had sunk into Romaria’s throat. “No...I didn’t...no, she lives...”

“She does,” said Lord Adalon. “You cannot hide from the truth, Mazael. You cannot deny your nature. You thought you had killed her.”

“Yes,” said Mazael, “but...but I...”

“You enjoyed it,” said Lord Adalon. “Not the killing itself, but the power.”

“No,” said Mazael.

Lord Adalon sighed. “Don’t lie to me, my son. That power is yours. And such a little thing, too. The power of death.” He made a fist. “You have the potential for so much more. Any fool can kill. But your potential is limitless.”

“No,” said Mazael.

“You can do anything,” said Lord Adalon. “Who can rule over you? Mitor? The Dragonslayer? They are nothing to you. The power of death, the power of command is yours. You must simply take it. Claim it and make it your own. Throw down Mitor and throw down the Dragonslayer. Do it or they will destroy you.”

“I...I...no,” said Mazael. Something seemed horribly wrong. “No."

“Do it,” whispered Lord Adalon. “Or they will kill you just as they killed Master Othar.”

A thread of killing rage ignited in Mazael’s mind.

Lord Adalon’s laughter rang in his ears. “Is that the crack in your armor? Yes, Master Othar, so just, so wise. What good did it do him?”

“Be quiet,” said Mazael. The burning thread grew.

“Is the truth so hard?” said Lord Adalon. “They will do the same to you, unless you embrace your strength. Killing is woven into the very fabric of your soul!  Use it. Fat Othar had no real power. You do. What is to stop you from using it?”

Mazael wavered. Was his father right? His hand clenched around Lion’s hilt.

Mitor and Simonian would pay for Othar’s death.

A sharp scent filled Mazael’s nostrils.

Lord Adalon’s lined face contorted with rage. “She dares...”

A jolt of agony shot through Mazael’s head.

He woke up and found himself lying in the balcony garden, the oak three spreading its leaves over the flowers. Romaria knelt next to him, a small stinking vial in her hand.

“Gods...Romaria...” he said. Nausea roiled in his gut.

“Hush, now,” said Romaria. “Drink this. I had Timothy bring it.” She handed him a heavy flagon smelling of the foul-smelling concoction wizards favored in their medicines. Mazael drank and swallowed the bitter stuff in huge gulps. It helped settle his stomach.

Romaria set the flagon down. “You had another dream, didn’t you?”

Mazael closed his burning eyes. “Yes.” His voice had an edge he did not like. “See? I was right. The dreams. They’re driving me mad. I am mad.”

“No,” said Romaria.

Mazael laughed. “No?  How can you say that?  I tried to kill Mitor, and then...” He remembered the blood gushing from her throat. He felt something wet slide down his face, and realized he was crying. “I tried to kill you. I did kill you, or I would have, if...what have I become?”

“No,” said Romaria. “You’re not mad, Mazael. I haven’t told you everything.”

“Everything?” said Mazael. “Of...what?”

“Of what the Seer told me,” said Romaria. “I haven’t told you all of it, not by half.” She swallowed. “He...Mazael, I’ve told you how the Elderborn and the humans both feel about half-breeds.” Her fingers twitched. “It’s deeper than that. Half-breeds are absolutely despised. Humans and Elderborn are forbidden to create children together. My father made a mistake, and I was born. My mother was horrified.”

“Sounds familiar,” said Mazael.

Romaria almost smiled. “We have that in common, you and I. The laws say that parents must slay any half-breed child as purification for their sin. My mother was adamant. My father didn’t want to, but felt he had no choice. But the Seer intervened.”

“What did he say?” said Mazael.

“The Seer told them that if they slew me, they would damn themselves and all of Deepforest Keep. You see, I was destined to save them,” said Romaria.

“Sounds like mummery,” said Mazael.

Romaria laughed. “Oh, I wish it were. He told them his prophecy, the same prophecy he told to me when I went into the druids’ caves thirty years later.”

Mazael was surprised. He had thought her younger. “What was this prophecy?”

“I told you part of it,” said Romaria. “He said I would meet a man who could kill any other man. But let me start from the beginning. I’ve told you half-breeds are despised. We only possess half a soul.”

“Absurd,” said Mazael. “That sounds like some of the lies priests tell to squeeze another copper coin from their benefices.”

“Aye,” whispered Romaria, “but this is true. Do you know what will happen to me?  It’s happened before with half-breeds who weren’t killed at birth. I will rot away. It always happens, sooner or later, and there’s no way to reverse it. Thirty years, forty years, fifty, my body will crumble away from the inside out and so will my mind. I will die in agony and dementia.” She shrugged. “I never really worried about it. Everyone dies, after all.  I learned the sword and the bow and spent most my time to the south, visiting the Old Kingdoms. I worked as a scout and a tracker, and none could match me. I suppose I planned to die that way, killed by an arrow or sword or some wild beast.”

Mazael sat up. The pain in his head had vanished, and his stomach no longer felt as if it had become home to a thousand twisting snakes. “What happened? Why did you go back to Deepforest Keep?”

“Thirty is the age of maturity for Elderborn,” said Romaria. She looked away. “Father sent a messenger for me.”

Mazael snorted. “I’d have told him to go to hell.”

Romaria smiled. “You would have. I’d never hated my father. He had always supported me, even if he couldn’t allow me to live at Deepforest Keep. And the Seer asked me to come, as well. He had saved my life.” She took a deep breath. “I returned, and I met the Seer in the druid caves. He told me his prophecy.”

Mazael flexed the fingers of his wounded arm. “What did he say?”

“He said I had to go to Castle Cravenlock,” said Romaria. “By then, the zuvembies had risen in the forest. But the Seer told me I had to go north to face a demon.”

“A demon?” said Mazael.

“A demon,” said Romaria. “He said that I would face that demon with the help of another. Someone like me. Another who had only half a true soul.” She looked at him, her eyes full of fear and wonder. “A man who fought with a lion’s tooth in his hand, who moved like lightning, a man who could kill any other man.”

Mazael blinked. “Me?”

Romaria nodded.

Mazael snorted. “You needn’t worry about it. My mother was a serpent and my father a coward, but they were both human. Your Seer was wrong.”

“No,” said Romaria. “I have only a half a soul. But your soul...your soul has power. The Seer said as much.”

“Power?” said Mazael.

“You do,” said Romaria. “It’s always been in you. When have you ever lost a fight?  It was always with you, but beneath your awareness, I think. And now something’s caused it to manifest. You aren’t mad. It’s this magic, this dark power within you. It is rising within and consuming you.”

“I think I’d rather be mad. I don’t believe it...I don’t want to be believe it,” said Mazael.

Romaria pointed at his chest. “Look.”

Mazael lifted his torn tunic and looked at the cuts Romaria had given him across his ribs.

The wounds were knitting themselves together, the flesh crawling and twisting. He watched as the wounds turned from an angry red to a soft pink. Within minutes, the cuts had healed.

“What sort of power?” said Mazael, his voice hoarse.

“Dark power,” said Romaria. “Demon power.”

“Demon power?” said Mazael. “Am I Demonsouled, then?”

“I don’t know,” said Romaria. “Even the Seer didn’t know. He said you had to fight it. You would battle it for possession of your soul. You would master it, he said, or else it would dominate you, consume you, and turn you to something else.”

Mazael looked at the fading cuts on his arm. His exhaustion had vanished, and his hangover had passed. A mad urge seized him, and he yanked his dagger from his belt and slashed it across his left palm. Romaria grabbed his wrist, but Mazael stared at his palm. The blood flowed for a moment, but then the wound began to close. He felt a deep itching in the flesh of his palm as the skin crawled back together. He and Romaria sat and silence and watched.

Within a quarter hour, the wound had vanished.

“Did your Seer say anything else?” said Mazael, voice shaking. He remembered all the stories he had heard of Demonsouled. Descendants of the Great Demon, cursed with demon power in their souls that drove them made even as it bestowed great strength. Children and young men who had exhibited strange powers and who had tried to kill their families wives, and sisters. He had never believed those stories. They were just myths, after all, like San-keth cults.

“One other thing,” said Romaria. “He said our fates rest in each others’ hands. He said that I must save you, and that you must save me, or we will both be lost forever.”

“Don’t leave me,” whispered Mazael. “I can’t face this myself. If it weren’t for you, I would have slain Mitor and Simonian and likely half the castle.”

Romaria nodded and took his hand. “Only if you promise not to leave me.”

“I do,” said Mazael. They sat together for a long time.

He looked at his healed hand and thought of Demonsouled.

Chapter VIII

1

The Old Crow Roosts

Mazael awoke to pounding at his bedchamber door.

He had fallen asleep in one of the room’s great overstuffed chairs, Romaria curled besides him. She had sat up beside him until he slipped into exhausted stupor, and for some reason her presence kept the nightmares away.

Mazael wanted to kiss her. He dared not. Rage had unlocked the demon within his skull. What if passion did the same?  He was afraid for her. He was afraid of himself.

How far he had fallen. A month ago he had feared nothing.

The pounding redoubled. “Sir Mazael!” came Adalar’s voice, faint through the thick wood. “Sir Mazael, you must come at once!”

Romaria’s eyes fluttered open. “We have company.”

“He wouldn’t come for nothing," said Mazael. Suppose the madness took him and he slew Adalar in his rage?  How could he face Sir Nathan?

Mazael rose pushed the door open.

“Sir Mazael,” said Adalar. “Lord Mitor commands your presence in the courtyard at once.”

“Why?”

“We’d best go, Mazael.” Gerald waited behind Adalar with Wesson at his side, clad in his finest surcoat. “You’ll never believe who’s come to pay Lord Mitor a visit.”

Mazael strode into the stairwell and looked out the window. A band of armored lancers sat atop their horses within the barbican. One of the lancers held a tall standard, flying a banner with a black crow clutching a craggy rock in its talons.

The banner of Sir Tanam Crowley.

Mazael swore. “Crowley. Is he mad?  Mitor’s liable to give him a swift axe to the back of the neck.”

“He only brought fifty men,” said Gerald. “There was some commotion. The guards nearly opened fire on sight. Sir Tanam said something, and they went to fetch Lord Mitor instead.” Gerald frowned. “Perhaps he went mad. Surely he knows Lord Mitor will exact vengeance for Lady Rachel’s abduction.”

“Oh, he’s here for a reason, all right,” said Mazael. “Lord Richard’s reasons. Lord Richard is up to something here, don’t doubt it. Adalar, get my armor and my sword belt. Gerald, send Wesson to get Timothy. Lord Richard’s younger son is supposedly a skilled wizard, and he could have sent other wizards as well. It’s possible there’s some trickery here.”

Adalar retrieved Mazael’s weapons and armor, Wesson returned with Timothy in tow, and they descended the stairs of the King's Tower. Lord Mitor and his court waited near the keep, surrounded by two hundred armsmen in Cravenlock colors. Sir Nathan stood with the armsmen, and Simonian waited in Mitor's shadow. Mazael wondered why Mitor had been foolish enough to allow Sir Tanam to inside the castle.

Sir Tanam sat atop his horse with his lancers. His face was still bruised.

“Sir Tanam!” called Mazael. “How unexpected to see you once again.”

Sir Tanam grinned a gap-toothed smile and rode over. “The same to you as well, Sir Mazael. I’d not expected to see you at all. My lord Richard was most displeased.”

“I can imagine,” said Mazael. “Two men and a boy making off with his prize.”

“Dreadfully embarrassing,” said Sir Tanam. He scratched at his nose. “Gods, that aches. You punch like a mule, you know.”

“Will you now take the opportunity for repayment?” said Mazael.

Sir Tanam laughed. “Gods above, no. War is war, after all. You could have killed me, and I certainly would have killed you had I the chance, so I’m grateful to have gotten off with a few bruises and a sore jaw.”

“My brother might be forgiving. I am not,” said Mitor. Sir Albron stepped to his side, Rachel waiting behind him. “Might I remind you, Old Crow, that you broke my good faith when last you visited my castle? You abducted my sister. It was only through good fortune that Lady Rachel was returned to me. Why should I not repay your betrayal with death?”

Sir Tanam shrugged. “For one, Lord Richard commanded me. He seems to think that your sister is consorting with dark powers.” Rachel tensed, and Albron's smiling gaze fixed on the Old Crow.

“Liar!” said Rachel.

Albron stepped forward, his hand resting on his sword hilt. “You besmirch the honor of my betrothed. That is most discourteous.”

Sir Tanam laughed. “Discourteous?  You wrong me. I have never been discourteous to a lady.”

“You did kidnap her,” said Mazael.

“Well, true,” said Sir Tanam. “But we were very courteous about it.”

“Enough!” said Mitor. “I will not listen to you mince words with my armsmaster!”

Sir Tanam frowned at Albron. “Your armsmaster?  Sir Nathan looks younger than I recall.”

Mitor ignored the jibe. “You did these crimes at the command of Richard Mandragon?  Well, those accusations are a lie, a vicious slander. Lord Richard is my vassal, I am the liege lord of the Grim Marches!”

Sir Tanam scratched his nose. “Lord Richard disagrees, my lord.”

“Indeed?” said Simonian. “Men oft believe the strangest things, my lord knight.”

Sir Tanam looked at Mitor. “Oh, truly.”

Mitor sneered. “Let your precious Lord Richard slander. Let him lie until he runs out of breath. I’ll take him to task soon enough. I am the rightful liege lord of the Grim Marches. Richard Mandragon is a traitor and a usurper. I shall enforce my justice.”

“Really?” said Sir Tanam. “I am most curious, my lord. How do you plan to do that?”

Mitor laughed. “Did you not see the great army surrounding my castle, Old Crow?  Are you blind? My armies shall crush Lord Richard’s and send him fleeing back to Swordgrim.”

“Indeed?” said Sir Tanam. “Truly, my lord, your army seems formidable. So formidable, in fact, that I rode right through them. No one noticed my presence until my men and I knocked at your gates. Indeed, my lord, I fear for Lord Richard if he must face men such as yours.”

“Wars are not always won through swords,” said Sir Albron.

“Truly,” said Sir Tanam. “Is that where the sorcery comes in, then?”

Albron smiled. “One more warning, sir. I’ll not have you insult my betrothed.”

“Bah!” said Mitor. “You came here for a reason, Crowley. Have done with it. I’ll not have all my day wasted with your squawking.”

Sir Tanam bowed. “As you say, my lord. Your army is clearly superior. You’ll soon have the chance to prove it. Lord Richard’s army is three days march from here.”

Mitor jerked. “What?”

“Impossible,” said Albron.

“Quite possible,” said Sir Tanam. “After Sir Mazael’s most splendid rescue of his sister, I made haste for Swordgrim. Once Lord Richard had heard my news, he marched. He had already gathered his armies. With him is all the power of Swordgrim, the armsmen of his loyal vassal Lord Jonaril Mandrake and a dozen other lords...including Lord Astor Hawking of Hawk’s Reach, Sir Commander.” Sir Tanam bowed to Sir Commander Galan. “Perhaps you’ll have the opportunity for a reunion.”

Sir Commander Galan made a fist. “You mock me?”

“Not at all,” said Sir Tanam. “I speak the truth. Lord Richard is three days from here with twenty-five thousand men. You really didn’t know? Your scouts must be formidable, my lord Mitor. Truly, I fear for my lord Richard.”

“Do not mock me!” snarled Mitor. “Has the Dragonslayer sent you to surrender, to submit himself to my rightful lordship?”

Amusement flickered across Crowley’s battered face. “Not at all. Lord Richard wishes for this to end without bloodshed. Consequently, he is giving you one final chance, Lord Mitor. Disband your armies and travel to Swordgrim with your court and family. You will face his judgment for your acts. He will be merciful. These are his terms.”

“What acts are those?” said Mazael.

Sir Tanam scratched at his nose again. “Ah...well, treason, to start, rebellion, murder, inciting banditry...oh, and sorcery and idolatry. Let’s not forget those. Lord Richard has no quarrel with you, Sir Mazael. You acted out of ignorance when you freed Lady Rachel. No doubt you’d have sided with Lord Richard had you known the truth.”

“I will not fight against my sister,” said Mazael. “These stories of a San-keth cult are the worst sort of slander.”

“Perhaps,” said Sir Tanam. “I’ve heard stranger things, but not many. You do know, Sir Mazael, that if you side with Lord Richard, you’ll become the new lord of Castle Cravenlock once he is victorious?”

“Treason!” bellowed Lord Marcus Trand. He shoved his way to Mitor’s side. “My liege lord, I knew he plotted against you from the start. Let me...”

“Silence!” said Mitor. “Speak not another word, Old Crow, or else you and my brother will die inch by inch.”

“It is folly, you know,” said Simonian. “Lord Mitor is the rightful liege lord of the Grim Marches. The gods will surely favor him and grant him victory. Stand with him now, while you still can, Sir Tanam.” He smiled. “It is not yet too late.”

Sir Tanam laughed. “Whatever gods you pray to favor Lord Mitor, I’ve no doubt. But I’m quite sure the gods of heaven favor Lord Richard.”

Mitor quivered with rage. “A moment, Old Crow. My advisors and I need to discuss my answer for Richard Mandragon’s follies.”

Sir Tanam bowed. “By all means. Do hurry, though. You only have a few days left.” Crowley crossed the courtyard and rejoined his lancers.

“Impudent old crow,” said Sir Albron. “So Lord Richard wished to send his rightful liege lord an emissary?  Well, my lord, let us make an answer. Hack off the Old Crow’s head and send it back. Richard Mandragon will have his answer.”

“That is dishonorable in the extreme,” said Sir Nathan. “Will you advise Lord Mitor to murder a guest?”

Sir Albron’s malicious smile fixed on the old knight. “Honor, Sir Nathan?  Where is the honor in abducting Lady Rachel?“

“Lady Rachel was neither harmed nor mistreated,” said Nathan. “There is a difference between that and slaughter.”

“Indeed,” said Albron. “Perhaps when I’m your age I’ll have gained the wisdom to understand it. Sir Tanam is a fool, my lord Mitor. He has marched with fifty men into the heart of your power. Kill him now. Let Richard Mandragon know the price of opposing you!”

Mazael scoffed. “Sir Tanam might be a fool. But if you listen to Albron, Mitor, you’re a bigger fool still.”

Albron’s glittered like cold gems. “Why is that?”

“You dare call me a fool?” said Mitor, spinning on Mazael.

Mazael waved a hand at Sir Tanam’s men. “Look at them, Mitor!  Why were you so foolish as to invite them inside the castle?  Look at the way those lancers are positioned!  You give the order to attack and they’ll ride you down before your men can react.”

Mitor flushed. “They...no, they wouldn’t dare...I am the liege lord...they cannot...”

Lord Marcus blanched. “Perhaps it would be better to parley.”

“Bah!” said Sir Commander Galan. “Are we to fear this rabble? A Justiciar Knight could take them five-on-one.”

“Fine, then!” said Mazael. “It’s in your hands, Mitor. Command your armsmen to attack. Pray Sir Albron’s steel will protect you. Trust in Simonian’s arts to defend you. But you had best hope that you were wise in your choice of servants, or else you’ll taste the Old Crow’s lance.”

Mitor’s eyes flicked from Simonian, to Albron, and then to the Old Crow’s lancers. For a moment Mazael thought that Mitor would order his men to attack. Mazael’s hand clenched around Lion’s hilt. He would make certain Rachel survived, at least.

“No,” said Mitor. “I’ll not have men say I stooped to the level of Richard the Usurper. I’ll not murder men in the shadow of my castle. We shall parley with them. I intend to send Lord Richard a message.”

“What message shall we send, my lord?” said Sir Albron.

“We shall tell Sir Tanam that his thieving master must disband his army. Richard shall come before me and acknowledge my liege lordship. He may then return to his northern estates, for I intend to take Swordgrim as mine once more. But he must leave his son Toraine as my hostage, to ensure his obedience.”

“Lord Richard will never agree to such terms,” said Sir Nathan.

Mitor scoffed. “I expect he won’t! I am the liege lord of the Grim Marches!  He will come to me and ask for peace, or else I shall sweep him from the face of the earth.”

“With what?” said Mazael. “With the ten thousand rabble you have crouching outside your gates?”

Mitor’s lips pulled back from his teeth. “You go too far!”

“I have not gone far enough!” said Mazael. “Think, my lord brother!  This is your last chance. You can’t believe that this rebellion of yours will succeed. With what will you defeat Lord Richard? Your soldiers? He has fifteen thousand more than you. Simonian’s arts? Lord Richard will have brought his vassals’ court wizards. With Sir Albron’s leadership? Albron can’t even set a decent guard. Lord Richard isn’t threatening you. He’s giving you one last chance to turn back from the abyss.”

Mitor went deathly pale. His hands clenched into fists, the knuckles shining white through his skin, and for a moment, just a moment, despair covered Mitor's face. For the first time Mazael wondered what had driven his older brother to rebellion.

Then Mitor's face hardened. “You will regret those words, Mazael. I’ve tolerated you and your arrogance long enough. When I come into my liege lordship, there will be a reckoning, do not doubt it. With the Mandragons, with all the fools who supported them, and with you.”

“My lord speaks justice,” murmured Simonian.

“Your lord is a fool,” said Mazael, disgusted.

Mitor swept away from them.

“You’ve reached a decision, my lord?” said Sir Tanam.

“Old Crow!” said Mitor. “You may carry this message back to your murdering lord. Tell Richard Mandragon that he is to disband his armies and dismiss my vassal lords from his service. Then he and his sons, Toraine and Lucan Mandragon, must come with all haste to Castle Cravenlock where they shall submit to my judgment.” Mitor smiled. “I have not decided if I shall be merciful. Most likely not.”

“I see,” said Sir Tanam. “Lord Richard’s not like to welcome those terms.”

“I know that!” shouted Mitor. “If Richard wants peace, let him come to me and grovel for it!”

Sir Tanam sighed. “Then it looks as if I’m to wear out my poor horse riding back and forth between Lord Richard’s camp and here.”

“I should take your head and send it back to Mandragon,” said Mitor.

Sir Tanam shrugged. “That would solve my problems, at any rate, but that would bring you quite a few more.”

Lord Marcus huffed. “Who would miss an old crow?”

“I would,” said Sir Tanam.

“My lord, sir knight,” said Simonian. “There is no need for this squabbling. Lord Richard sent you here to parley? Then let my lord and Lord Richard parley. My lord Mitor, why not invite Lord Richard here to discuss your differences?”

“Very well,” said Mitor. “You speak wisdom, Simonian.” He turned to the Old Crow. “Let Lord Richard come, if he wishes to parley. Let him speak for himself!”

Sunlight glittered off Sir Tanam’s battered armor. “Actually, Lord Richard anticipated such a request. He invites you to come to his camp.”

Mitor laughed. “Bah!  Does Mandragon think me such a fool! I will not walk into the arms of his treachery!” Mazael refrained from pointing out that Mitor had almost ordered Sir Tanam's death. “Why should I trust a lord whose vassal would abduct an innocent lady out from under my roof?  I am Richard Mandragon’s greatest enemy!”

Sir Tanam’s smile was sardonic. “Of course.”

“I have no doubt that Mandragon has his armies waiting in ambush for me, should I prove foolish enough to come to his camp,” Mitor said. “Yes, yes, Mandragon knows he cannot take my host in a fair and honorable fight. He is reduced to conniving ambushes.”

Sir Tanam smiled. “Indeed, my lord. I could not have said it better myself. I can see your wisdom in fearing treachery. Why not send an emissary in your name?”

“Bah!” said Mitor.

Simonian shifted. “It is a prudent suggestion, my lord. Perhaps Lord Richard can yet be made to see reason. Why should this end in bloodshed?” His rough voice took on a note of irony. “Send an emissary, my lord, someone who can negotiate in your name.”

“Suppose Richard decides to commit an act of treachery anyhow?” said Mitor.

Simonian shrugged. “That is a risk the emissary shall simply have to take, I fear. But what better way to die than in the service of a wise and powerful lord?”

“Sir Nathan!” said Mitor. The old knight stepped forward.

“My lord?” said Nathan.

“You’ve been looking for a way to serve me,” said Mitor. “This is the sort of thing that would have suited fat Othar, but the fool chose to eat himself to death rather than to serve his rightful lord.” A single muscle tightened near Nathan’s eyes. “I am sending you as an emissary.”

Sir Tanam nodded. “A respectable choice, my lord. Sir Nathan Greatheart is famed wide and far. But Sir Nathan does not have a high title, nor vast holdings. The good Sir Nathan has not the authority to treat with Lord Richard.” Sir Tanam glanced at Mazael. “Best send someone with higher rank, my lord. Someone of your own blood, perhaps.”

“It is Nathan or no one,” said Mitor.

“Lord Mitor,” said Mazael.

Mitor turned. “What?”

“Send me,” said Mazael.

Mitor laughed. “You?  Why should I send you?”

“Sir Mazael’s suggestion is prudent, my lord,” said Simonian. “After all, what shall you lose if he is captured or killed?  Nothing. And yet, he is your brother, and since you and the Lady Marcelle are childless, the heir to Castle Cravenlock.” Marcelle bristled. “He has sufficient stature to satisfy Lord Richard’s pride.”

“I agree,” said Sir Tanam. “Sir Mazael is an excellent choice. Send him. I know my lord would be most honored to receive him.”

Mitor glanced at Simonian. The wizard gave a slight nod.

“Very well,” said Mitor. “You may go, Mazael. I shall send fifty armsmen with you as a suitable escort.” He smirked. “Sir Nathan shall go as well. Sir Tanam and Richard Mandragon seem to hold him in such high honor. Perhaps he’ll help convince the Mandragons that surrender is their only option.”

Sir Tanam seemed pleased. “Undoubtedly, my lord. And, I, of course, will escort Sir Mazael and company in all honor to Lord Richard’s camp.”

Mitor ignored this. “And take that monk!”

“Brother Silar?” said Mazael.

“Yes, him,” said Mitor. “The fool has made a great nuisance of himself! Take him with you, Mazael, I command it! Richard Mandragon is such a friend to the Cirstarcians, let him take the monk.”

“I would take Sir Gerald with me, as well,” said Mazael, “along with Lady Romaria.” He did not trust Mitor and would not leave his friend in his older brother’s reach. And Mazael wanted Romaria at his side.

He did not want to endure another nightmare.

“The wild woman can ride to hell for all I care,” said Mitor. “But I would much prefer Sir Gerald to remain here, as my guest, under my protection.”

“As his hostage,” muttered Romaria.

“Lord Malden sent Sir Gerald and myself as observers,” said Mazael. “Doubtless Lord Malden would want his son to observe Lord Richard’s troops?”

“Sir Gerald is my guest,” said Mitor. “How would Lord Malden view it if I allowed his son to perish from Richard Mandragon’s treachery?”

“Oh, poorly,” said Mazael. “And just how do you think Lord Malden would view the restriction of his son’s freedom?”

Mitor hesitated. Perhaps it was the hope of Lord Malden’s aid that kept him defiant against Lord Richard. “Very well. Lord Malden is my friend, yes, and I shall not offend him.”

Sir Tanam did a little bow from his saddle. “My lord of Cravenlock is most gracious.”

“Save your flattery,” said Mitor. “Mazael, prepare to depart at once. I will not have this Old Crow roosting in my castle longer that necessary.”

Mazael nodded. He knew this parley was a farce, that Mitor wanted nothing more than to rid himself of his troublesome brother. Perhaps it was indeed a trap by Lord Richard. But what choice did Mazael have? Romaria had said that his dreams of blood had been triggered by hidden powers within himself, but suppose they were visions of things to come? This might be his one chance to avert those visions.

He turned to Sir Tanam. “We shall ride before noon.”

Sir Tanam's grin widened. “I look forward to it.”

2

Lord Richard Marches

Armor glittered and flashed under the afternoon sun as they rode north. Crowley’s banner flapped in the wind, while Mazael had entrusted Adalar with the Cravenlock banner, and Wesson had unfurled the Rolands' greathelm standard.

“What is that?” said Mazael.

Romaria grinned. “This?” She hefted the canvas sack hanging from her saddle.

“Yes, that,” said Mazael. “It looks like a bag of rocks.”

Romaria laughed and reached into the sack. “They’re apples. Want one?”

“Of course,” said Mazael, and she tossed one at him.

“You know, I’d never had apples before,” said Romaria, taking one for herself.

“What?” said Mazael.

“They don’t grow in the Great Southern Forest,” said Romaria. “Not enough sun, perhaps. Are there are none south of the mountains. I’d never seen one before last month.” She took a bite, swallowed. “They’re quite good, really. I talked a sack out of Cramton.”

Mazael gave Chariot half of his apple. “He was charmed by your beauty, no doubt.”

Romaria’s smile was sly. “Oh, no doubt. It’s fairly common. But you're the one with the charm.”

Mazael snorted. “Gods, I hope not. I prefer women.”

“I had noticed. But that’s not what I meant and you know it. You inspire loyalty.”

Mazael snorted. “Hardly.”

“Really?” said Romaria. “What about Sir Gerald?  He’s a son of the great Lord Malden!  He needn’t follow you. And Timothy and Adalar. And Sir Nathan, your old teacher, follows your orders without question.”

“I don’t want Castle Cravenlock, Romaria,” said Mazael.

Romaria shrugged. “You might not have a choice.”

“Destiny?” said Mazael. “Fate? I...”

“Don’t believe in it?” said Romaria. “I thought I explained that to you. We were fated to meet.”

“That’s different,” said Mazael. “I need you. I would have gone mad but for you. And I still could.”

“And what is that?  Fate, or destiny, or the will of the gods, whatever you want to call it?” said Romaria.

Mazael had no answer.

Romaria leaned towards him. “We’d best speak of this later. It looks as if Sir Tanam and Brother Silar want a word with you.” The Old Crow and the monk rode up together.

“We should make Lord Richard’s camp in about three and a half days,” said Sir Tanam. “Longer, if any Mandragon forces demand explanations.”

“You don’t seem worried about any men from Castle Cravenlock,” said Mazael.

Sir Tanam cackled. “Worried? Of course not!  I didn’t see a single one from here to Castle Cravenlock. I rode right up to the gates before anyone even saw us.” He smiled. “Sir Mazael, I could march an army to Castle Cravenlock and Lord Mitor wouldn’t know until we knocked him over the head.”

“He’s right, of course,” said Silar. “Lord Mitor’s defenses are limited, to say the least.”

“And how would you know?” said Mazael.

Silar laughed. “Remember White Rock?  Who do you think helped Sir Albert design that palisade? I know a few things about war.”

Sir Tanam’s eyes flicked to Lion. “That is a most fine sword, by the way.”

Mazael shrugged. “Sorry I had to hit you with it.”

Sir Tanam snorted. “I should be grateful you didn’t hit me with the blade. It looks rather sharp.”

“It has other properties, as well,” said Silar.

“We’d heard of that,” said Sir Tanam. “Effective against the walking dead things, right?”

Mazael stiffened. “How do you know about that?”

“One of our outrider bands slipped past Castle Cravenlock and stopped by White Rock a few days past,” said Sir Tanam. “The village was buzzing with stories of your battle.”

“You got a band of outriders south of Castle Cravenlock?” said Mazael.

“That surprises you? Sir Albron Eastwater is not an effective commander,” observed Sir Tanam. “Do you really think he can defeat Lord Richard?  I wonder, why are you siding with Mitor?  If I might ask, of course. He obviously cares nothing for you. And you have everything to gain by going to Lord Richard’s side. If Mitor falls, you’ll be the next Lord of Castle Cravenlock.”

Mazael glared at him.

“I see I’ve given you much to ponder,” said Sir Tanam.  “Worry not, Sir Mazael. Many of your questions will be answered once we reached Lord Richard’s camp.”

“Questions?” said Mazael. “What sort of game is your lord playing?  I’m tired of games. Mitor plays one, Albron has his own, and Simonian...”

“You’ll see,” said Sir Tanam. He rode off, Silar following.

They passed many small villages and hamlets. Nearly all were deserted. Crowley told them that the peasants had fled north for the safety of Lord Richard’s forces. The silence reminded Mazael of the stillness that would rise before storms swept down from the mountains.

They made camp near one of the abandoned river hamlets. Romaria curled up besides Mazael and went to sleep. This raised some eyebrows amongst Crowley’s men, but none dared say anything.

Mazael didn't care. His sleep was dreamless and peaceful.

They next day Crowley's men veered to the northeast, setting a direct route towards Lord Richard’s camp. The lands north of Castle Cravenlock’s hills had been depopulated since Lord Richard’s uprising, and the grass had grown thick and high. They were forced to take their horses at a walk to avoid stones and debris hidden in the grass.

Later that day, a snake in the grasses spooked Chariot. The big horse reared and threw Mazael, and he took a long gash down his forearm from a jagged rock. Mazael made a show of having Timothy tend his wound, but even as the wizard wrapped bandages about the arm, Mazael felt  the itch as the skin healed itself. By the time Timothy had finished, the gash had faded to a pale pink scar, and it vanished entirely an hour later. Fortunately, no one noticed. They had accused Rachel of witchcraft and sorcery. How would the Old Crow react if he saw Mazael’s flesh knit itself back together?

It troubled Mazael for the rest of the day. How powerful was the healing? Could it heal a mortal wound? Would it regenerate  a severed limb? A finger of ice brushed his spine. Could he even be killed? The thought was terrifying and exhilarating.

They made camp for the second night. Again Romaria slept touching him, and again his rest was free from his father's bloodshot green gaze.

The third day of their journey was uneventful. Breezes ruffled the grasses of the Grim Marches, and Mazael saw countless blood roses. They made camp and the night passed quietly, untroubled by bandit or zuvembie.

Halfway through the fourth day, they reached Lord Richard Mandragon’s camp.

Romaria smelled it first. “We’re almost there.”

Mazael looked at her. “How do you know?”

“I can smell it,” she said.

“I can’t smell anything,” he said.

Romaria smiled. “You can’t? I’m surprised. Twenty-five thousand men, their horses, and their pack animals smell after a while.”

Gerald laughed. “Remember my brother Mandor’s camp after three weeks, Mazael?  He never bothered to order fresh privy trenches dug. An old woman in the village died of the stink, I heard.”

Mazael grimaced. “Don’t remind me.”

“The most splendid lady is quite correct,” said Sir Tanam. “We near Lord Richard’s camp. We should arrive within the hour.”

A few minutes later Lord Richard Mandragon's camp came into sight.

It was a city of tents and a sea of waving banners. Mazael saw the Mandragons’ standard, the sigil of Hawk’s Reach, the fiery dragon of Drake’s Hall, and two dozen others. The tents themselves were lined up in neat rows, and a stake-lined ditch encircled the entire encampment.

Sir Tanam greeted the guards and rode into the camp. A thousand sounds and smells surrounded Mazael. He heard the hammering of blacksmiths, the bellow of shouted orders, the laughter of off-duty men, and the measured tread of drilling soldiers. He smelled cooking food, heated metal, sweat, blood, and the undercutting reek of the privy trenches.

A man-at-arms in chain mail and a Mandragon tabard ran up to Sir Tanam. “My lord knight, Lord Richard has been informed of your arrival. He and his captains await you and his...ah, guests in the command tent.” It was less than a minute’s ride to the command tent, a pyramid of green canvas atop a wooden pavilion, the Mandragon banner fluttering from a pole overhead.

“Here we are!” said Sir Tanam, sliding from his saddle. Grooms ran forward to take their horses. “Right this way, my lord knights, my lady. Lord Richard is expecting us.”

A long wooden table rang the length of the tents, maps and papers covering its surface. A dozen men stood around the table. One was short and stout and wore a surcoat emblazoned with the burning dragon of the Mandrake family, undoubtedly Lord Jonaril Mandrake of Drakehall. The man standing next to him was a younger version of Sir Commander Galan Hawking, no doubt Lord Astor Hawking.

But despite the others, Mazael recognized Lord Richard the Dragonslayer and his sons at once.

Lord Richard was in his mid-forties. His red hair and beard were streaked with white, making it seem as if encircling flames crowned his head. His eyes were black and unreadable, and his crimson armor was magnificent. Mazael had never seen anything like it. The armor was a combination of hand-sized plates and gleaming chain mail. He realized the plates were scales, taken from the dragons Lord Richard had slain in his youth.

The young man besides Lord Richard wore similar armor, though his was night-black. He was fit and lean, his expression arrogant and amused without the slightest hint of fear. This must be Toraine Mandragon, the infamous Black Dragon.

Behind him stood a shorter man clad in black wizard's garb, his hooded cloak shadowing his face. This was Lord Richard’s younger son Lucan Mandragon, the wizard the jongleurs called the Dragon’s Shadow. Lucan’s face was gaunt, his eyes hard and cold, and a mocking smirk played on his lips.

“Sir Mazael Cravenlock,” said Lord Richard, his deep voice resonant. “I am pleased Sir Tanam brought you.”

“Lord Richard Mandragon,” said Mazael. “Now that we’re certain of each other’s identity, shall we begin?”

“You are refreshingly direct,” said Lord Richard. “Many of my lords and knights would rather talk than act.”

Mazael thought of Albron and Mitor. “I understand.”

“Then let us begin,” said Lord Richard. “This is my son and heir, Toraine.” Toraine did not acknowledge Mazael. “This is my second son, Lucan." Lucan gave Mazael a grave nod, his dark eyes unreadable. "These are my lord captains.” He introduced Lord Jonaril and Lord Astor and the others. “You’ve already made the acquaintance of my old crow, I understand.”

Sir Tanam grinned. “Twice, actually.”

“This is Sir Gerald Roland,” said Mazael.

“Well met, Sir Gerald,” said Lord Richard. “I did not think to see the day when I would speak peacefully to a son of Lord Malden.”

Gerald bowed. “I’ve seen many strange things over the last month, my lord. Why not another?” Lucan’s sardonic smile widened.

“This is Sir Nathan Greatheart,” said Mazael. “This is Timothy deBlanc, a wizard in my service. And this is Lady Romaria Greenshield, sent by her father Lord Athaelin to investigate these events.”

“My lady,” said Lord Richard. “I am pleased your father chose to involve himself. Perhaps together we can bring an end to the madness that threatens this land.”

“I hope so,” said Romaria.

“And this is Brother Silar of the Cirstarcians, a monk who has decided to involve himself,” said Mazael.

“Brother Silar and I have met,” said Lord Richard. “He advised me on the history of Castle Cravenlock before he went to assist Sir Albert Krondig against the zuvembies. Please, be seated.” Mazael and his companions sat, and Lord Richard and his captains followed suit. “I assume Lord Mitor has sent a message for me?”

Mazael’s mouth twisted. “Oh, yes. He commands you to disband your armies, surrender Swordgrim, travel to Castle Cravenlock, and acknowledge his liege lordship. He hasn't decided if he will show mercy.”

Toraine Mandragon laughed. “Then Mitor is a bigger fool than I believed. Let us see his pride once we mount his head above his castle gate.”

Lord Jonaril snorted. “A poor idea, I say. I’ve met the man. His head would make a terrible eyesore.” Mazael remembered his dreams and tried not to shudder.

“You realize, of course,” said Lord Richard, “that I have no intention of standing down. The Mandragons are the rightful liege lords of the Grim Marches. That makes Lord Mitor a rebel and a traitor.”

“I realize that,” said Mazael.

Lord Richard folded his hands and placed them on the table. “I also have considerable information on Lord Mitor’s army. He has ten thousand men. Only six thousand are loyal. The four thousand from his own house, and two thousand more from Lords Roget and Marcus. The remaining four thousand are mercenaries of dubious reliability.”

“The Justiciar Knights have gone to support Mitor’s cause,” said Mazael.

Lord Richard did not blink. “The Justiciar estates in the Grim Marches will only supply Lord Mitor with two thousand men. Neither Lord Alamis Castanagent of the High Plain nor Lord Malden Roland of Knightcastle can move fast enough to aid Lord Mitor. I am only three days' march from Castle Cravenlock. By the time the Justiciar Grand Master sends reinforcements, the issue will have been decided.”

Toraine smiled. “If they hurry, the Justiciars will come in time to see the end of the Cravenlocks.”

“I see why my sister didn’t want to marry you,” said Mazael. Toraine bristled, but Lord Richard stilled him with a glance.

“I also possess a great deal of information on the formation of Lord Mitor’s forces,” said Lord Richard.

“From the Old Crow, no doubt,” said Mazael.

“Sir Tanam’s scouting work has been of great benefit to me,” said Lord Richard. “But the vast bulk of my knowledge has come from my many spies within the mercenary encampments. This fool Albron Eastwater is a tenth of the battle commander you are, my good Sir Nathan. Mitor's army is a farce.”

“It is sloppy, my lord,” said Sir Nathan. “Sir Albron will learn some bitter lessons.”

"Should he survive them," said Toraine.

“Ten thousand men against twenty-five thousand are poor odds in any circumstance,” said Lord Richard. “And when those ten thousand are poorly led, ill-disciplined, and improperly arrayed, the outcome is all but certain.”

“I know all this,” said Mazael. “I came here for a parley, not for a recitation of facts I already know.”

“The parley has yet to begin,” said Lord Richard. “I merely state what I will do. Tomorrow, I will march. I will fall on Castle Cravenlock and I will smash Mitor’s armies to shreds. Once the castle has fallen, I will hang Sir Albron Eastwater, my traitorous vassals Marcus Trand and Roget Hunterson, this foreign necromancer Simonian of Briault, and Lord Mitor and Lady Marcelle. I offered Lord Adalon and his sons mercy fifteen years ago. I will not have it thrown back in my face. Lord Adalon was wise enough to know that. It seems Lord Mitor is not.”

Mazael shoved back from the table and stood. “And what of Lady Rachel Cravenlock?”

“Her fate has yet to be decided,” said Lord Richard. “I would prefer to spare her life.”

Mazael laughed at him. “You call this a parley? This is a bill of execution.”

“Lord Mitor’s fate and the fate of his allies has been sealed,” said Lord Richard. “I have no desire to parley with them. You, however, are a different matter.”

“What?” said Mazael.

“Have you not yet realized it?” said Lord Richard. “I sent my old crow to Castle Cravenlock in hopes that Lord Mitor would send you as his emissary. Sir Tanam was instructed to work towards that end.”

Mazael sat back down. “Is that it?  You want me to join you, and in return for my undying loyalty, I’ll become the next lord of Castle Cravenlock once Mitor’s hangs?”

Lord Richard did not blink. “Yes.”

“No,” said Mazael. “I’ll not...”

“Not what?” said Lord Richard. “Betray your brother? Sir Mazael, did it not occur to you that Lord Mitor has already betrayed you? He did not send you here to parley a peace. He sent you here in hopes that I would capture you or kill you. He is afraid of you. Lord Mitor and Lady Marcelle have proven incapable of producing children. You are his lawful heir, whether he likes it or not. Most men in your position would have killed Lord Mitor and taken his place by now.”

Mazael remembered what Lord Adalon had said in the nightmares. “No. I’ll not do it. Do you think I’ll betray my brother and my sister for the damned castle? Mitor can keep it. I’ll have nothing to do with you.”

“I did not expect you to,” said Lord Richard. “And why not?  Your brother has lied to you at every turn.”

“What do you mean?” said Mazael.

“Have you ever wondered why I sent Sir Tanam to abduct Lady Rachel?” said Lord Richard.

“A hostage,” said Mazael.

“Lord Mitor would not have cared what I did with Lady Rachel,” said Lord Richard. “I sent my old crow to seize Lady Rachel because of the sorcery she practiced. She could have provided me with valuable information on the San-keth cult at Castle Cravenlock.”

“No,” said Mazael, slamming his fist down onto the table. Lord Jonaril arched a bushy eyebrow. “I listened to this slander once at White Rock. I will not listen to it again. I have seen the zuvembies. I know they’re real. But I have not seen San-keth, nor fools worshipping snakes. I will not listen to this.”

“Then you shut your ears to the truth,” said Lord Richard.

“The San-keth cult has been in Castle Cravenlock for at least thirty years,” said Lucan. His voice resembled the rustling of dead leaves. “I’m fairly certain Lady Arissa was involved.”

Mazael snorted. “I lived at Castle Cravenlock for nine years!  I would have noticed.”

“Most of the cult’s activity centered at Swordgrim in Lady Arissa’s time,” said Lord Richard. “We found some of their scrolls once I had defeated Lord Adalon’s host and retaken Swordgrim.” His dark gaze settled on Mazael. “How do you think I gathered the men to face Lord Adalon? To regain my family’s place, yes. But the lords of the Grim Marches liked the worship of the snake god no more than I.”

“This is nonsense,” said Mazael.

Lord Richard continued as if Mazael had not spoken. “I killed all the snake-worshippers I could find. Undoubtedly some survived and restarted the cult at Castle Cravenlock.”

“Slander,” said Sir Nathan.

“It is not,” said Lord Richard. “I considered offering Toraine in marriage to Lady Rachel for a number of years. When I decided to make the offer, the rumors of San-keth worship had already begun. At first I discounted them. But the peasants near Castle Cravenlock began disappearing. Then reports of the zuvembies filtered in. And then Lord Mitor showed signs of rebellion. I sent Sir Tanam to make the offer anyway, and to investigate. Sir Tanam?”

The Old Crow cleared his throat. “That was about six, seven months ago, as I recollect. I found the castle and town in sorry shape. I hadn’t yet heard that Sir Albron had replaced Nathan Greatheart as armsmaster.” He laughed. “Never seen a sorrier lot of troops, and I’ve seen quite a few sorry soldiers in my day. And the town was worse. Armsmen ran the place like it was their private kingdom. There was this one fellow, Brogan, had the temperament of a whelping bear and all the wits of a stone.”

“I met him,” said Mazael. "Briefly."

“Castle was worse,” said Sir Tanam. “The servants were scared to death, just the same as the peasants. It only took a bit to figure out why. They were scared of the cult. Seems a large number of the castle residents had taken up the worship of the snake god. Lord Mitor and Lady Marcelle had, as well as Sir Albron Eastwater. Perhaps Sir Commander Galan Hawking as well.” Lord Astor sighed. “And there was that Simonian villain as well. I’ve spent a few years on the other side of the mountains and visited Briault for a few weeks. The peasants there still whisper about this necromancer Simonian. Thoroughly unpleasant fellow. Tales have him down to the tee. So, with the zuvembies, the peasants’ stories, and Simonian of Briault as Lord Mitor’s guest, a blind man could have seen what was going on. I’d seen the San-keth cult during the war with Lord Adalon, and now I was seeing it again.”

Sir Nathan closed eyes.

“Sir Tanam returned to Swordgrim with his news,” said Lord Richard. “I was most displeased. I did not throw down one Cravenlock lord and the accompanying San-keth cult only to find myself confronted with another. I sent word to the Cirstarcian monastery west of Castle Cravenlock. They sent Brother Silar and other monks to assist my cause.”

Mazael raised an eyebrow. “That so?”

Silar grinned. “My order has been here for centuries. We remember the old tales. And we remember the dark magic and necromancy that a serpent-cult brings.”

“I had no other recourse but war,” said Lord Richard. “I called my vassals and gathered my armies. I also commanded my son to investigate using his skills.”

Lucan’s lips twisted. “It was fairly obvious. Dark magic hangs about Castle Cravenlock like a stink. Even a wizard of mediocre skills like Master Othar could have detected it.”

Mazael shifted in his seat. “You knew him?”

Lucan smiled, and for an instant the bitterness vanished from his face. “Of course! I apprenticed under him, once I had finished my training at Alborg. He was no magister, certainly. But a finer master I could not have found elsewhere.” Bit by bit the sardonic mask cast returned to his features. “I contacted Othar through the use of a magical sending. He already shared many of my lord father’s suspicions. We soon had a regular correspondence. He believed that there was a San-keth temple hidden within Castle Cravenlock. Master Othar planned to investigate that temple, if possible.” His empty eyes fixed on Mazael. “I have not heard from him since.”

Mazael remembered Othar’s last words to him. “Master Othar is dead.”

Lucan’s face could have been carved from stone. “How?”

“Necromancy of some sort,” said Mazael.

Lucan snorted. “And do you need any more proof to confirm this ‘slander’, my lord knight? Or shall I beat you over the head with it?”

“Lucan,” said Lord Richard, and the Dragon's Shadow fell silent.

“I sent Sir Tanam to capture Lady Rachel,” said Lord Richard. “I am almost certain she was involved in the San-keth cult.”

“No,” said Mazael. “No.”

“It does not matter. Were she innocent, she would have been safer at Swordgrim than at Castle Cravenlock. Were she guilty, as I believe she is, then she would have proven a valuable source of information. It was at this point, of course, that you intersected with events.” Lord Richard leaned back in his chair. “Now, do you see why you must join me? There is no other choice. You will get the castle and the lordship once Lord Mitor is dead. But what of that?  The cult of the serpent people is an abomination. Their necromancy and dark worship pollute the land. The Cirstarcians and  Deepforest Keep see this. So would the Justiciars, if they did not hate me for reclaiming the lands stolen from my family.” The Dragonslayer made a fist. “When I rose against your father, my goal was to exterminate the San-keth cult root and branch. That your father was inadvertently allied to the cult through Lady Arissa was an unfortunate circumstance. And I will do the same once more. I will destroy this new cult and wipe it from the memory of man. And you will either stand with me or against me.”

Mazael thought of his mother and her hateful spite. Mazael could imagine her in a serpent cult. But Rachel? He could not imagine Rachel in a San-keth cult...but he had not seen Rachel for fifteen years. And he thought of Simonian, the way the wizard's murky eyes stared.

“I don’t know,” said Mazael.

“There is no middle ground,” said Lord Richard. “Will you stand by and let the cult spread across the Grim Marches like a plague?  It is a disease and I will stamp it out. If you stand with Lord Mitor, I shall crush you.”

“What proof is there?” said Mazael. “This is all supposition. What proof do you have?”

“What further proof do you need?” said Lord Richard. “If you wish to blind yourself to the truth, that is your folly. I am offering you a chance to escape your brother’s fate.”

Mazael’s palm smacked against the table. “You don’t have any proof.”

“The zuvembies.” Lord Richard ticked off the points on his fingers. “The disappearing peasants. Lord Mitor’s timely rebellion. I have all the proof I need, indeed, all the proof that any reasonable man would require.”

“Reasonable man?” said Toraine. “A reasonable man, Sir Mazael, you are not. You shall never see the truth. Father, I say have off with his head and have done with it.”

“Silence,” said Lord Richard. “And why, Sir Mazael, do you persist in blinding yourself?”

“I blind myself to nothing,” said Mazael. “My sister could never have been involved in this. Never. Not her.”

A dead quiet answered his pronouncement.

“Then you leave me no choice,” said Lord Richard. Mazael’s hand shot to Lion’s hilt. “I’ll not attack you here. Return to Castle Cravenlock and share in your brother’s...”

“Wait!” said Timothy. "My lord, please, wait." All eyes fell on the wizard, who swallowed and tugged his beard.

“What?” said Lord Richard.

“Sir Mazael, you trusted Master Othar’s judgment, correct?” said Timothy.

“Absolutely,” said Mazael.

“Do you remember the morning after Master Othar’s funeral?” said Timothy. “When I told you of Master Othar’s journal?” Mazael nodded. “It was warded and sealed. I could not read it.”

Lucan smiled. “Not surprising. The old man was clever enough to protect his investigations. I designed the ward for him myself.”

“Then you would know how to release it,” said Timothy. “My lord knight, you trusted Master Othar’s judgment in life. Trust it now that he is gone. I propose that we return to Castle Cravenlock and unseal Master Othar’s journal. You say there is no proof? Master Othar would have found proof, one way or the other.” The young wizard struggled for words. “The fate of so many lie in your decision. My lord knight, look at what Master Othar had to say before you make a choice.”

Lord Richard looked to his wizard son. “Can you teach Sir Mazael's wizard the spell to open the journal?”

Lucan clenched a hand. “Certainly, my father. He has the badge for dispelling. The spell to open the ward sealing the journal is no more than a specific variant.”

Lord Richard turned to Timothy. “And are you willing to learn the spell?”

Timothy bowed beneath the Dragonslayer’s black gaze. “Yes, my lord.”

“And you, Sir Mazael?” said Lord Richard. “What of you?  You seem so certain of your brother’s innocence. If the words of Master Othar indicate otherwise, if they show that Lord Mitor has invited the necromancer Simonian and the San-keth cult to his court, will you stand with me?”

Mazael could believe Mitor would sell his soul to the San-keth. But he could never believe it of Rachel. “I will do it. I shall return to Castle Cravenlock and read Master Othar’s journal. And I will prove that you are wrong.”

“Perhaps you shall, sir knight,” said Lord Richard. “Perhaps you shall discover that Simonian of Briault has tricked and betrayed your simpleminded yet innocent brother and his misguided wife. Perhaps you shall then rid his court of the blight, saving myself and my vassals the trouble of killing him. We can all then go home.” He paused. “But I know better. You shall discover the truth. You are in for some very hard lessons.”

Mazael did not flinch from Lord Richard’s stare. “One of us is.”

Toraine was aghast. “You can’t be serious, father. You invite this Cravenlock into the heart of our camp, tell him all our plans, extend to him your mercy, and then let him go? This is madness! He shall tell his brother everything he has seen here. It shall be our undoing...”

“I have no intention of letting Sir Mazael undo us,” said Lord Richard, a hint of anger creeping into his iron tones. “Either way, he shall work to our advantage. Either he shall kill Simonian, or he shall discover the truth of his family and return to us. Our position shall be strengthened.” He waved his hand. “And Lord Mitor cannot stop us. Leave and do not return until you have composed yourself.”

Toraine stalked towards the tent flap. Lucan smirked at him, and for a moment Mazael thought Toraine would kill his younger brother. Then the elder Mandragon son stormed out into the camp.

“Please forgive my son,” said Lord Richard. “He is often passionate.”

“I know all about family troubles, my lord,” said Mazael.

“Indeed,” said Lord Richard. “The evening draws nigh, Sir Mazael. I invite you and your companions to dine with my family and lord captains tonight.”

Mazael was surprised. “I doubt they’ll approve.”

“Why not?” said Lord Astor, chuckling. “Lord Richard tells us what we are allowed to approve.”

“After all, we have established that you are not my enemy,” said Lord Richard. “Whatever choice you make, my hand shall be strengthened. Will you not eat?”

“Then I shall be honored,” said Mazael. They rose.

“Ah, not you,” said Lucan to Timothy. “I do believe you have a spell to learn.”

3

The Monk’s First Brother

“What do you think?” said Mazael.

“I do not know,” said Sir Nathan.

Mazael and Romaria sat with Sir Nathan amongst the supplies of Lord Richard's camp. Night had fallen, and it was quiet here. The light from a thousand bonfires lit the camp, and guards marched back and forth on their rounds.

“A serpent cult,” said Sir Nathan. “I would never have believed it. I heard the stories, of course, but I had always believed them to be nothing but stories. Dust and lies.”

“Three months ago, I believed zuvembies to be stories,” said Mazael.

“As did I,” said Nathan. “I do not know, Mazael. I simply do not. I did not know Lady Arissa well. I spent most my time in the field against Mandragon forces. But what little I saw was not favorable.”

Mazael smiled. “I saw more of her. None of it was favorable.”

“But could she have renounced all Amathavian gods, all that was right, and turned to the god of serpents?” said Nathan. “I do not know if I can believe it.”

Mazael could.

But Rachel...no, not Rachel.

“And a cult now,” said Sir Nathan, “my heart tells me that such a thing cannot be. But my head tells me that I cannot know for certain. I have not spent much time in Castle Cravenlock over the last fifteen years. After Leah died and Lord Mitor dismissed me, I spent most my time at my keep. I doubt I have spent more than one day in ten at Castle Cravenlock. Lord Mitor holds so many secrets. And with this business of the zuvembies and Othar’s death...”

“We’ll find out,” said Mazael. “We’ll know the truth, one way or another.”

“I hope so,” said Sir Nathan, standing. “I shall retire. I am not so young and it has been a long day.”

“Sleep well,” said Mazael.

Mazael listened to the sound of feasting rising from Lord Richard’s command tent. Mazael had little appetite and left early, but Lord Richard had taken no offense. Mazael suspected that the feast had been given for Gerald’s benefit anyway.

“A good man,” said Romaria, watching Sir Nathan leave.

“Aye,” said Mazael. “I only wish we had a hundred more of him.”

“Talk to Lucan Mandragon,” said Romaria. “He could conjure up a few.”

“Gods,” said Mazael. “Certainly not. I’ve seen enough magic to last me a dozen lifetimes. Master Othar was a good man, but I cannot see how he could devote his life to spells.”

“Spells and swords,” said Romaria. “Some are used for good, some for evil.” She looked at Mazael with calm blue eyes. “And how are you feeling?”

Mazael flexed the fingers of his sword hand. “Well enough, I suppose. There’s been times...I wanted to kill Lord Richard when we spoke. But beyond that, I suppose I’m fine.”

“And no nightmares, of course,” said Romaria.

“No nightmares,” said Mazael.

Romaria laughed. “I wonder what Lord Richard and his lord captains shall say when I go to your tent for the night.”

“They’ll say nothing,” said Mazael. “It’s not as if we actually do anything.”

“And does that disappoint you?” said Romaria.

Mazael snorted. “What do you think?” He cupped Romaria’s chin and kissed her. “But...I don’t...” He scowled. “I’m pulled to you. The damned dreams. The magic in the sword. I nearly went insane and killed you and my brother. And then the healing. What is happening to me?”

“Perhaps I can shed some light on the matter.”

Mazael shot to his feet, Lion lancing from its scabbard. Brother Silar approached, a lantern dangled from his grip.

The monk looked amused. “Do you greet all your visitors with a sword?”

“Do you surprise all those you would like to visit?” spat back Mazael, ramming his sword back into its scabbard.

Silar sighed and sat down atop a barrel. “You were having an interesting conversation.”

“What did you hear?” said Mazael, his hand inching toward Lion's hilt.

“Mazael,” said Romaria.

Silar chuckled. “I did not hear anything that I have not deduced for myself.”

“You speak dangerously,” said Mazael.

Silar set his lantern down and raised his hands. “I’m certain I do. But I do not want any fight. With Lady Romaria to help you, you’d certainly win.” He cocked his head. “And whatever wounds I managed to inflict would vanish quite shortly.”

“I’ve had enough games,” said Mazael. “Tell me what you want.”

“Very well,” said Silar. “I said before that you possess some sort of power. That was not entirely true. I am quite certain what sort of power you possess.”

“And what sort of power is that?” said Mazael.

“You’re Demonsouled,” said Silar.

Mazael had Lion out of its scabbard and against the monk’s neck so fast that he didn’t register the movement. Romaria came to her feet, her hand closing around Mazael's arm. A flicker of fear flashed across Silar’s face and vanished. For a burning moment Mazael wanted to slash open Silar’s throat, but Romaria’s touch quenched the dark fire.

“You must not get many visitors,” said Silar.

“What did you say?” said Mazael.

“Demonsouled,” said Silar.

“Are you saying Lord Adalon was not my father?” said Mazael.

Silar shrugged. “It’s entirely possible. Lady Arissa was a remarkable woman, and not in a complimentary sense. We suspect she worshipped Sepharivaim, the serpent-god, do we not? No doubt she would have flung herself at a demon.”

Mazael’s hand twitched on Lion’s hilt, but he could not disagree.

Silar shrugged. “Besides, a demon soul doesn’t require a Demonsouled parent. The taint can lie dormant for centuries, passing from generation to generation. It can appear for no reason at all. Would you mind putting that sword down?  It’s terribly uncomfortable.”

Mazael lowered Lion. “And how do you know all this about me? More supposition?”

Silar rubbed his thick neck. “Hardly. It’s obvious, if you know where to look. Your speed, Sir Mazael, is nothing mortal. Nor are your reflexes. Are you even aware of how well you fight?” He glanced at Mazael’s arm. “And that cut...I’ve seen enough wounds to know a deep slash from a scratch. Timothy’s good at his tasks, no doubt. But I’ve yet to see the physician skilled enough to make a deep gash disappear in two days.”

“So?” said Mazael. “That doesn’t make me Demonsouled. Perhaps I’m fast. Perhaps I’m very good with a sword. And perhaps I had a simple scratch.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Silar. “But I know what to look for.”

“From what?” said Mazael, gesturing with Lion. “The books? Tomes penned by men a thousand years dead? I could write a book claiming that horses fly, but that doesn’t make it fact.”

“True,” said Silar. His smile was distant, his hawkish face lost in a memory. “But I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

“Oh?” said Mazael. “So, you’ve seen a Demonsouled with your own eyes, have you?”

“Yes,” said Silar.

Mazael laughed. “Were you drunk at the time?”

Silar shook his head. “No. I was eight years old at the time. My brother was eleven.”

“Your brother?” said Romaria.

Silar blinked. “I was born in a small village on the northern edge of the Grim Marches. We were very poor. It’s hard to grow anything in that soil. It didn’t matter, though. We were happy. At least, I think we were.” Silar flexed the fingers of one hand. “I was always in awe of my brother. He was the fastest and strongest boy in the village. No one could keep up with him. And he was an archer. The way he could use a bow and an arrow would amaze even you, Lady Romaria. I saw him take down a hunting cat at a hundred yards.”

Silar shook his head. “But he was always passionate. Volatile. He could go from smiling to raging in a heartbeat. And his temper was like a storm. One day he fell into a crevice hidden in the grasses. The men pulled him out. Both his legs had been broken and one arm. We expected that he would die.” Silar stared at Mazael. “Two days later he was up and about as if nothing had happened.”

Mazael’s hand clenched.

“After that, he began to change,” said Silar. “I was only a child, but even I could see it. He flew into a rage at the slightest provocations. He almost beat an old man to death over a piece of bread. We were all afraid of him. Then a wizard came to our village, a man named Strabus. He worked with the Cirstarcians, and hunted Demonsouled and San-keth across the kingdom. Across the world, for all I know. He warned my parents of the danger, but my father and the other men drove Strabus out of our village. That night my brother killed my parents.”

Mazael heard the blood rushing through his ears. He remembered how close he had come to killing Romaria.

“I’m sorry,” said Romaria.

“He wasn’t my brother, not anymore,” said Silar. “The demon soul within had warped him. He looked like a creature out of the pits. He would have killed me. But Strabus returned. He came too late to save my father and mother, but he used his magic to destroy what my brother had become.” Silar rubbed at his chin. “After that, no one in the village would take me in. Strabus took me to the Cirstarcian monastery near Castle Cravenlock. That has been my home ever since.”

“So, is that it, then?” said Mazael. He shoved Lion back into its scabbard. “Am I to become some sort of monster?”

“You might,” said Silar.

“You told me the Cirstarcian monks fight dark magic,” said Mazael. “Are you here to kill me?”

“No,” said Silar. “I became a monk of the Cirstarcine Order to combat the darkness. I have seen it firsthand. But I loved my brother. The demon power destroyed him, not Strabus. If you are Demonsouled, and I’m certain you are, I would rather see you resist the darkness.”

“What do you mean?” said Mazael. “Demonsouled are monsters.”

“Some become monsters,” said Silar. “Demonsouled are born with the darkness hidden in their souls. For some, it never manifests. They live, marry, have children, and die without ever knowing what they are. But for others, the darkness surfaces, usually as they reach young manhood or womanhood. They then must face themselves and try to conquer the dark halves of their souls. Men of evil mind usually embrace the power and the transformations it brings. Others find themselves overwhelmed and changed into monsters. But some can fight against the darkness and master it.”

“Have you ever seen it happen?” said Mazael. “A man conquer the demon half of his soul?”

“No,” said Silar.

Mazael grimaced. “And have you read about it in these books of yours?”

“Some,” said Silar, “so far back it seems like legend.”

Mazael laughed. “You offer me such reassurances.”

“I offer you help,” said Silar.

“Why?” said Mazael.

“For the memory of my brother,” said Silar. He paused. “And for the safety of the people of the Grim Marches. Perhaps even the kingdom.”

“What do you mean?” said Mazael.

“You are strong,” said Silar. “I think the fighting prowess is only the tip of what you can do. There are other stories in the histories I have read, of Demonsouled who became bloody conquerors and carved huge empires on a foundation of death and misery. If you succumb, I don’t think you’ll become some a ravening beast. I think you’ll become a tyrant king unlike any seen in history.”

Mazael did not want to believe him, but his words rang true. Even now, Mazael saw a half-dozen ways he could kill Silar. A half-dozen ways he could kill Romaria. Battle had always seemed a glorious, vibrant experience, the only time when he felt fully alive.

He was Demonsouled.

His hand trembled towards Lion. “Perhaps I should simply kill myself.”

“No!” said Romaria, clamping both her hands around his.

“The lady is right,” said Silar. “Despair will accomplish nothing.”

“Accomplish?” said Mazael. “How can I accomplish anything if my very soul is my enemy?”

“Much,” said Silar. “You might have darkness in your soul. But there are other evils already loose in the Grim Marches. The zuvembies. You may not believe there is a San-keth cult at Castle Cravenlock, but there have been other cults in the past. And Simonian of Briault. If the tales are even half-true, then that one is worse than most Demonsouled. You can overcome them all. The gods sent you back to the Grim Marches for a reason, I believe.”

“Silar is right,” said Romaria. “I told you about destiny. Perhaps it is your fate to end the plague that is Simonian and his zuvembies.”

“Fate?” said Mazael. “Fated to what?  Kill my family and my friends in a bloodbath?  Become some sort of grotesque monster?  Or shall I become the tyrant that Silar fears?”

“You haven’t done any of those things,” said Romaria.

“Only with your help,” said Mazael. “You pulled me out of madness. But I almost killed you first. Suppose I had killed you?  What would have happened then?  I can’t. If I do have demon magic in my soul, I can’t overcome it by myself.”

“Whoever said you have to overcome it alone?” said Silar.

“What do you mean?” said Mazael.

“My brother tried to conquer his soul himself, I think,” said Silar. “My parents and the other villagers refused to see what was happening. Strabus didn’t come until it was too late. You cannot face the demon half of your soul alone. Lady Romaria will stand with you. She’s said so herself. I will help you, if I can.” His fingers wrapped about the holy symbol hanging from his belt. “And the gods will help you, if you’ll let them.”

“The gods?” said Mazael. “I’ve never cared much for the gods. Why would they help me now?”

Silar held up his holy symbol, the three interlocking rings of Amatheon gleaming in the camp’s torchlight. “Why would they not help you?  We are all their children, after all.” He grinned at Romaria. “Even those of us who pray to different gods. And you, Sir Mazael, are special. You are a descendant of the Great Demon who came to earth and fathered the Demonsouled.”

“Hardly special, I would say,” said Mazael.

“The Great Demon was divine once,” said Silar. “Fallen, but still a god. Why would the gods turn away from helping you?  You are both one of their own and one of their children.” He unhooked the holy symbol from his belt and pressed it into Mazael’s fingers. “Take this.”

“Why?” said Mazael, the steel symbol cool and heavy in his hand.

“Perhaps it will help you,” said Silar.

“How?” said Mazael. “It’s a piece of steel. If I want steel to help me, I’ll use a sword.”

“Keep it as a reminder, then,” said Silar, “that the gods will help you.”

Mazael didn’t believe him.

But he slipped the symbol’s chain around his neck anyway.

Chapter IX

1

Night Stalking

Castle Cravenlock rose above them, the twilight sky outlining its battlements and towers.

“Shall we stop here for the night?” said Gerald. “We can continue on in the morning.”

“No,” said Mazael. “Let’s keep going. We’ll find it easier to do what we must if Mitor doesn’t know that we’re here.” He grimaced. “Besides, we’re too close to the camp. If we sleep here, we’re liable to be spotted in the night.”

Gerald looked towards the camp beneath the castle’s walls. “Agreed.”

“Ride through the camp,” said Mazael. “If we go through town, some the armsmen might see us.”

“Besides, those mercenaries will never notice us,” said Romaria.

Mazael snorted. “They didn’t notice the Old Crow. They’ll certainly ignore us.”

No sentries stood at the edge of the haphazard conglomeration of tents. Mazael had left his escort of Cravenlock lancers at Lord Richard’s camp, and he and his companions passed unnoticed through the ramshackle camp. Most of the mercenaries were drunk, and paid them no heed. Mazael soon worked his way around the camp and climbed the road that led to the castle.

“Gods,” said Mazael, reining up before the gates.

“What?” said Gerald.

“Look,” said Mazael. “The damned gates are open. There are no guards. No men at the gate, no crossbowmen at the ramparts. Had Sir Tanam come tonight, he could have rode in, killed Mitor, and won the war for Lord Richard with one blow.”

The fury was plain in Sir Nathan's voice. “Lord Mitor must bring Sir Albron to task. This is unacceptable.”

“This is the work of a fool,” said Mazael. They rode through the barbican, into the deserted courtyard. “Let’s stable the horses and get to Othar’s tower. The sooner I have firm answers to this business, the better.”

Othar’s tower stood in the corner of the curtain wall, a thick stone cylinder of battlements and arrow slits. It had been the home of the court wizards of the Cravenlocks for centuries. But Simonian had not deigned to take possession, and so Othar had kept his quarters there.

He pushed the door open. It was too dark to see, but Timothy muttered something. Glowing light surrounded his hand, illuminating a staircase that climbed into the murk.

“Gerald, Sir Nathan, Adalar and Wesson,” said Mazael. “Stay down here and watch the entrance. Send Adalar up if someone comes. Silar, Timothy, and Romaria, come with me.”

Master Othar had kept his study and workroom in the tower's top chamber. Mazael remembered the time he had spent there as a boy, reading from the old wizard’s large collection of books. It looked much as he recalled. Bookshelves lined the walls of the circular room, laden with books and scrolls, and jars, glass tubing, and other strange devices burdened a long table.

Timothy walked to Othar’s desk. A heavy leather-bound book rested on the corner, its copper bindings shimmering with a faint blue glow.

“The journal,” said Mazael.

Timothy nodded, took a step back from the desk, and closed his eyes. He muttered a low chant, the fingers of his right hand moving with sharp gesture. There was a flash of blue light, and the shimmer vanished from the book.

“There,” said Timothy, wiping sweat from his brow. “The ward has been dispelled.”

Mazael opened the journal and began to read. The first entries were from several years ago, written in Othar's strong, clear handwriting. He flipped past them, seeking the more recent entries.

What he read sent a finger of ice down his spine.

The journal described Othar's suspicions over dark magic, the San-keth, and a collaboration between Simonian and Sir Albron. He read about the appearance of the zuvembies and Mitor’s seeming indifference, about Othar’s growing belief in the existence of a San-keth cult temple within Castle Cravenlock’s walls.

About dark things...

“Sir Mazael?”

Mazael looked up from the pages. He had lost track of time.

“What does it say?” said Romaria. “You’re as white as a ghost.”

Mazael forced moisture into his dry mouth. “Master Othar was certain. He read the histories and the stories of San-keth cults that thrived at Castle Cravenlock in the past. He became convinced that there was a secret temple in catacombs underneath the castle, hidden for centuries. Master Othar believed he had found the entrance to the temple. He planned to investigate, and that was the final entry.”

“Secret catacombs?” said Silar. “Do you mean the castle’s crypt?”

“No,” said Mazael. He paged through the journal and put his finger over the words. “No. He said that these catacombs predated the castle. They were here before the first Cravenlock even built a the keep.” His voice shook with anger. “He said that it was an ancient temple. Master Othar thought that this temple had survived here, hidden, for centuries.”

“That matches the histories of my order,” said Silar. “A San-keth cult raised this castle. The house of Cravenlock was founded when the youngest son of the cult’s high priest slew his father and turned to the Amathavian gods.”

Mazael slammed the book shut. “If this is true, then I grew up here, with this...this temple under me all the time...gods in heaven.” He closed his eyes. “Gods in heaven. Master Othar never put down a last entry. We don’t know if he was right.”

“What are you going to do?” said Romaria.

“The only thing I can,” said Mazael. “I will go and look. Master Othar believed the temple's entrance was within the lord’s chambers in the keep. He described the means to open the door.” He relaxed his fist. “I have to look. I have to know. If it’s true, if it’s true then...”

“Then we will look,” said Romaria.

Mazael managed to nod.

He took Othar’s journal under his arm, and they left the study. Sir Nathan, Sir Gerald, and the squires awaited them at the bottom of the tower. Mazael told them what he had found.

“Gods,” said Gerald. Wesson muttered something and spat through his fingers to ward off evil.

A hard look came into Sir Nathan's eyes. “There can be little doubt, then. There is a serpent cult in Castle Cravenlock. All that remains to be seen is if Lord Mitor has betrayed the laws of gods and men by joining it.” Mazael realized that he might not have to kill Mitor himself.

“It would be wise to leave at once,” said Timothy. “Lord Mitor does not know that we are here. We must warn Lord Richard of what awaits him.”

“No,” said Mazael. “Lord Richard already knows. He tried to warn me. I didn’t believe him. And Mitor has to be involved in this. Sir Albron and Simonian are his closest allies. How could I not have seen it?  Am I blind?”

"Mitor and Rachel are you brother and sister," said Romaria. "Even if you hated Mitor, you would still find it hard to believe something so dark about him."

His hands clenched and unclenched. “I have to see it for myself. I have to know.”

“Then we’ll have to do it quietly,” said Gerald.

“I have a great deal of experience in getting into places quietly,” said Romaria.

Silar grinned. “Really? So do I. How splendid.”

“Interesting activity, for a monk,” said Romaria.

Silar shrugged. “It is surprising what you learn if you live long enough.”

“Gerald,” said Mazael. “Timothy is right, though. Lord Richard knows the truth, but he still needs warning. I want you to take the squires and head back to Lord Richard’s camp.  Tell him of what we found and give him this journal.”

And it would keep Gerald and the squires out of Mitor's clutches. Mitor's, and Simonian's.

“I’d rather face this nest of evil with you,” said Gerald.

“My place is by your side, Sir Mazael,” said Adalar.

“Be that as it may,” said Mazael. “You and Wesson are still boys. I’ll not have you perish in a pit of snakes. And you wanted to stop a war, Gerald? What do you think will happen if you die here? Your father will blame Lord Richard.”

Gerald did not look happy, but he took the journal. “The gods be with you, Mazael. With luck, I’ll see you shortly.”

“I hope so,” said Mazael.

Mazael watched them hurry to the stables. “The rest of you can make for Lord Richard’s camp, if you like. This is my error. You don’t have to come.”

Romaria laughed. “I think not. You need me, Mazael, whether you like to admit it or no.”

“Lord Mitor is my liege lord,” said Sir Nathan. “I would know if he has betrayed his oath by turning to evil.”

“I’m sworn to you,” said Timothy. “Where you go, I’ll follow.”

“The Cirstarcian monks are sworn to face this darkness wherever it rises,” said Silar.

Mazael was grateful for their presence. “Let’s go.”

They crossed the courtyard for the doors of the central keep, and still they saw no armsmen. Mazael pushed the doors open and strode inside. They passed through the anteroom and the vaulted great hall, both chambers deserted and quiet.

“Where is everyone?” said Sir Nathan. “Supper should just have finished.”

Mazael crossed to the lord’s entrance behind the chairs on the dais, to the stairs that led to the lord's chambers. As a boy, Mazael had hidden in this stairwell with Rachel, playing and listening to their father's court. He wondered if Lord Adalon had known of Lady Arissa’s wickedness. For the first time, Mazael’s disgust for his father’s weakness mingled with pity.

He wrapped his hand around Lion’s hilt and kicked open the door to Mitor’s quarters. Beyond the door lay large sitting room with a carpeted floor and a half-dozen chairs, while the lord's private entrance to the chapel stood to his right. Mazael listened for Mitor or Marcelle to call the guards.

But the rooms were empty.

“This way,” said Mazael. “The entrance is in the bedroom.”

They passed through a carpeted library and a small dining room and entered Mitor's bedroom. A huge canopied bed dominated the chamber. Mazael wondered how often Marcelle and Mitor shared it. A gaping granite fireplace covered one wall, carved with reliefs depicting Cravenlock knights vanquishing Mandragon armsmen.

“Here,” said Mazael.

He knelt before the fireplace, running his fingers along the floor. One of the granite tiles was higher than the others. He grimaced, flexed his fingers, and pulled out the tile, revealing a small niche.

A snake stared up at him.

It was a bas-relief of green marble, rubies glittering in its eyes. Just as the diagram in Master Othar’s journal had described.

“Gods,” said Nathan.

Mazael reached into the hole, put his fingers on the snake’s crimson eyes, and pushed. He heard a deep click, and the floor trembled. With a dull groan, the back of the fireplace slid into the wall and revealed a winding staircase. A warm breeze blew out of the stairwell. It carried the stink of blood and the oily smell of snake.

“Gods indeed,” said Mazael. “Light, Timothy.”

Timothy surrounded his hand with shimmering light, and they took the stairs. The steps twisted down, past the castle’s foundations, past the dungeons, and deep into the hill’s bedrock. The walls began gleamed with dampness.

Torchlight glimmered ahead, and the stairs ended in a long, straight passageway, wide and high with a vaulted ceiling. Walls, ceiling, and floor were built of red granite that gleamed like blood. Guttering torches burned in rusted iron scones, revealing the bas-reliefs covering the walls.

Mazael swept his gaze down the corridor. He knew the story of the San-keth race, how they and their god had allied with the Great Demon. After the Great Demon had been slain, the true gods had stripped the serpent people of their limbs and forced them to crawl in the dust in penance for their crimes.

The walls told the same story from a different angle. Mazael could not read the strange script, but the bas-reliefs were clear. They showed the San-keth tortured by the capering and gleeful Amathavian gods. Later carvings detailed the punishment the humans and Elderborn would undergo when the serpent god rose in glory. Mazael was suddenly glad that he had sent the squires away. They were too young for such horrors.

The worst part was the utter lack of dust. There were no cobwebs. The walls and floor gleamed as if freshly polished. The torches had been recently lit.

The corridor ended in a massive set of black double doors carved with mating serpents. Mazael saw flickering red and green light from beneath the door. The scent of blood grew thicker.

“You’d best dismiss your spell, wizard,” said Silar. “If there are any San-keth priests about, they might have the skill to detect your magic.” Timothy extinguished his light.

“Gods have mercy,” said Sir Nathan. “This place has been here for all these years. I never knew. I am a fool.”

“No,” said Silar. “The only fools are the ones who come to worship here.” He pointed. “Behind those doors will be the temple proper, if my order’s descriptions are correct. Do you see those smaller doors in the walls, there and there? Those should lead to side chambers for storage, libraries, and the keeping of sacrificial slaves.”

Mazael jerked his head towards one of the smaller doors, taking care to keep his footfalls silent, and the others followed suit. He felt as if the leering serpents carved into the walls watched him with their crimson eyes, and he drew his sword.

A jolt of power went up his arm. Lion's razor edges glimmered with blue light.

“There are creatures of dark magic nearby,” said Silar. “We had best take care.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Mazael. He heard soft voices through the door. He listened for a moment, and held up four fingers. Romaria and Nathan nodded, while Timothy pulled a lump of crystal from his coat.

Mazael gripped the handle, pushed, and leapt through the door.

He crashed into a small guardroom. Four men wearing the tabards of Cravenlock armsmen lounged about a round table, guarding a door on the far wall. Mazael recognized them from the gang that had tried to hang Cramton and his family.

The armsmen gaped up at him for a moment.

“Ah, hell, it’s him!” said one, scrabbling for his sword.

Mazael took the armsman's head with a single swing. As the other guards lurched to their feet, Timothy held his crystal high. It flared with white light, and the armsmen shrieked and held their hands over their eyes. Mazael wheeled and killed another, while Romaria's bastard sword plunged into a man's chest. The final armsman ran for the closed door. Silar vaulted over the table, his arms wrapping about the man's neck. There was a cracking sound, and the armsman slumped to the floor.

“Nice trick,” said Romaria.

Silar stepped over the body. “One hardly needs weapons to kill.” He looked at Mazael. “There’s your proof. This temple has been in use for quite some time. And these armsmen are Mitor’s. They would not be down here without his knowledge. Look at your sword. There are creatures of dark power here we are not equipped to face. Let us leave at once and make for Lord Richard’s camp.”

Mazael heard chanting through the closed door, warm air seeping through the cracks in the wood. “There’s a ceremony going on in there.”

"Most likely that's where everyone is," said Silar.

"Including Rachel,” said Mazael.

“Yes,” said Silar. “Now we must leave at once!”

“I have to know,” said Mazael. He reached for the door.

2

The Temple

The door opened into a scene from hell.

Mazael stepped onto a balcony encircling a cavernous hall that resembled the interior of the great cathedral he had seen years ago in Barellion. That cathedral had been decorated with carvings of gods and saints. But here, statues and carvings of limbed serpents killing humans adorned this temple, this pit. A stone altar rested atop a dais at the end of the temple, overlooked by an enormous stone statue of a giant snake. It was an image of the serpent god Sepharivaim, worshipped by the San-keth people and by human apostates. The air was heavy with the scent of smoke, strange incense, and blood. A dull, droning chant in bastardized Tristafellin rose from the floor. Mazael ignored Silar’s hiss of warning and stepped to the edge of the balcony.

A great mass of people knelt before the altar. There were servants from the castle, Cravenlock armsmen, and men wearing the finer garb of knights.

“Mitor,” said Mazael.

Mitor knelt at the front of the crowd, his forehead resting against the crimson stone floor, Marcelle besides him. Lord Marcus Trand and Lord Roget Hunterson knelt behind Mitor like a pair of mongrel hounds crouching behind their master.

“Rachel’s not here,” said Mazael.

“I’m happy for you,” said Silar. “Let’s go.”

“This is a dangerous place. We should leave. Now,” said Romaria.

“Brother Silar is right,” said Nathan. “We must...”

The reverberating crash of a great gong drowned out his words, its clang echoing through the temple. The kneeling men and women began wail in ecstasy and terror. A huge drum thundered, its vibrations thrumming through the stone.

“Simonian,” whispered Romaria.

Mazael saw the necromancer at the far end of the temple hall, cloaked in black robes, watching the worshippers with amused contempt.

“Right,” said Mazael. “Let’s get...” He froze.

Sir Albron Eastwater marched into sight, clad only in a loincloth around his waist. The kneeling men and women parted for him. Rachel walked on Albron's arm, clad only in a shift of translucent black gauze. Golden bracelets wrought in the shape of serpents glittered on her wrists and ankles, and crimson runes marked the pale length of her arms and legs. A diadem shaped like twisting silver serpents supporting a great golden cobra with glittering ruby eyes rested upon her brow.

“She’s one of them,” said Mazael. Strange that he felt no pain, no rage.

Only...surprise.

“Gods,” said Sir Nathan. “Look!”

Albron’s body began to shimmer, his flesh rippling as if dissolving into mist.

“An illusion!” said Timothy, his voice an excited whisper. “That was the spell I sensed about him. An illusion, to hide his true form!”

The illusion dissolved to reveal a moldering skeleton, sparks of green fire glimmering in its joints. It was the same green fire Mazael had seen in the empty eyes of the zuvembies. A huge emerald-scaled snake was coiled around the skeleton's spine, its tail dangling through the hip bone to brush against the floor. The snake’s head reared up in its place, its black-slit yellow eyes roved over the kneeling worshippers.

Rachel’s arm remained hooked about the animated skeleton. Mazael wanted to scream.

“A San-keth serpent priest,” said Silar. "Sir Albron's true identity."

“Why is it riding that skeleton?” said Romaria.

“The gods stripped the San-keth of their limbs,” said Silar, “so the serpent priests use their dark arts to transform human skeletons into undead carriers, of a sort. The priest can control the limbs through its necromancy.” Silar swallowed. “Sir Mazael, the markings on Lady Rachel’s arms...”

“What about them?” said Mazael. He did not recognize his own voice.

Silar met his gaze. “It means...”

“Hail!” Mitor stood, his arms spread. “Hail to Most High Priest Skhath of Karag Tormeth. Hail to Rachel Cravenlock, his chosen, on whom he shall father children in the name of our great lord Sepharivaim!”

“Children?” said Mazael.

“They’re called calibah...changelings,” said Silar. “They’re half-human, half-San-keth. They...”

“She lied to me,” said Mazael. “She said...she told me...”

“I know,” said Romaria.

“Lord Richard was right,” said Mazael. “They were all right. How could I not have seen it?” Fury rose to the forefront of his churning thoughts. “She lied, the wretched scheming...”

Skhath’s voice was a sibilant, grating hiss, nothing like the illusionary Albron Eastwater's smooth voice. “The time is nigh. Soon our armies shall sweep Lord Richard and his impotent gods from this land. Soon the glory of our lord Sepharivaim shall shine over the lands of Dracaryl. The blood of our sacrifices shall turn the rivers red.” Rachel knelt before him, the thin fabric of her shift stretched tight against her body. “Soon shall Mitor Cravenlock, faithful servant of the true god, reign as king over the Grim Marches, over all lands. And soon shall the worship of Sepharivaim and his glory fill the world!”

A roar of glee rose from the worshippers.

“Like hell it will,” said Mazael. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll...”

“Most High Priest!” Simonian's voice rang over the temple, and the necromancer pointed at the balcony. “Intruders disturb these sacred rites!”

A dead silence fell over the hall. Mitor gaped at Mazael. Rachel saw Mazael and blanched, color flooding into her cheeks.

“What? Him!” said Skhath. “Kill them!”

The mob lurched to their feet and broke into a run. Rachel backed behind the altar, while Simonian and Skhath began casting spells.

“Damn!” said Mazael. “Run!”

“Not yet,” said Romaria. She raised her bow  and began shooting.

Her first arrow raked into Mitor’s side. Mitor shrieked, blood dripping down his robes. Her second arrow hummed towards Skhath, only to lodge in the skeleton's rib cage, but the San-keth cleric flinched and ceased his spell. Her third arrow lanced towards Simonian’s head.

Purple fire flared from Simonian’s body and consumed the arrow an instant before it would have plunged into his flesh. The purple flames flashed, and a line of fire blasted towards Romaria. She ducked, and the line of flame carved a deep gash into the stone wall. Lion flared in Mazael’s fist, the lines of blue light growing into sapphire flame.

“Now we run!” said Romaria.

They sprinted towards the guardroom as Simonian finished his spell. Orbs of green fire flashed from his fingertips. Mazael ducked, but the green spheres shot over his head and veered to the right.

“What were those lights?” said Mazael. He sprinted through the guardroom.

“I don’t know,” said Timothy. “I’ve never seen such a spell!”

“Nor I,” said Silar.

Mazael raced into the great vaulted corridor. The green flames whirled and danced above them, and then vanished into the carved walls.

“Perhaps his dark art failed,” said Sir Nathan.

Hidden doors in the walls slid upon with a rumble, and out stepped ten gaunt figures armored in gleaming black breastplates, chain mail, and helms. Lion blazed in Mazael's fist, brighter than it had during the battle with the zuvembies. The creatures that had stepped out of the walls were not alive. Their flesh clung to their bones like dry leather, their empty eyes bright with necromancer's fire. Each carried a curving scimitar and a round shield, and the undead things moved with fluid, unearthly grace.

“Gods have mercy,” said Sir Nathan.

Silar stepped to the side. “This is great necromancy. These creatures are monstrosities out of legend.” The creatures moved into a semicircle, scimitars waving.

“I don’t care if they’re the gatekeepers to hell itself,” said Mazael. The battle rage rose in his mind, and he welcomed it. “I mean to walk out of here. The gods pity whoever stands in my way!”

Mazael spun, the flat of his sword banged against Romaria and Nathan’s blades, sheahing their weapons in azure flames. He came out of his spin, took two running steps, and brought Lion down in a blazing arc for a creature’s head. The sword exploded through the creature's helm and sank into its skull. The green light in its eyes flickered and died, and the creature collapsed in a heap of bones and black armor.

The other creatures came at Mazael in a rush, and he parried their attacks. Romaria and Nathan fought beside him, their blades rising and falling.

Timothy stepped forward, breathing hard. His hands flew through a series of rapid gestures, red sparks flaring between his fingers. He flung the sparks at a pair of the creatures. They shuddered, sparks dancing up their withered limbs, and bones and armor flew in all directions.

Mazael attacked a pair of the dead things, Lion crashing against shield and scimitar, blue flames reflecting in polished black armor. The creatures were deadly quick, their scimitars stabbing like the fangs of serpents. But they seemed so slow to Mazael, so very slow. His two-handed swing cut one in half with a blazing flash. The surviving creature came at him, scimitar raised high. Romaria’s sword rammed into its back, and blue fire drowned out the green. The creature crumpled to the marble floor, and Romaria's cool eyes met Mazael's.

Some of his rage throttled back and he nodded.

Mazael and Romaria spun through the press of monstrosities side-by-side. Romaria’s bastard sword crashed against black shields and Lion clanged against flashing scimitars. Romaria’s attack played out, and she stepped back. One of the creatures lunged for her and met Lion's point instead. Blue flame blasted through the creature, flinging it to the ground.

Mazael parried the attacks of another creature. He realized the creatures were skillful, but could not handle more than one opponent at once. Mazael retreated, drawing the creature after him. It came at him, scimitar twirling, and never saw Romaria step up and plunge in her sword into its back.

Mazael risked a glance around. Only three dead things still stood. Sir Nathan and Silar each fought one, while Timothy's face contorted as he fought to work another spell. Mazael ran towards them.

He hacked at the creature Silar faced and took its hand off at the wrist. The creature twitched, and Silar’s hands lanced forward and tore the dead thing’s head from its crumbling shoulders.

Sir Nathan pivoted, his heavy greatsword coming up over his head. His sword sheared through a dead thing’s chest, flames sputtering and dancing on the steel. The creature thrashed as its rotted form burned away. Silar’s hands darted out, clamping about the wrist of the sole surviving creature, and tore its arm away. The creature flailed, and Mazael and Romaria hacked it to pieces.

Silence fell over the corridor.

“Well fought,” said Sir Nathan.

Silar grinned. “Simonian’s magic might have power, but the magic of old Tristafel is stronger still.”

“Care to test that?”

Mazael turned, Lion's power burning up his arm.

Simonian stood before the twisting stairs to Mitor's rooms. His black robes cloaked him like wings of darkness, and his murky eyes danced with glee as they swept over the fallen creatures. “Impressive. Impressive indeed!  I did not think even you would have the power to overthrow the warriors of the dead, Sir Mazael.”

Mazael lifted Lion, the sword's glow bathing the corridor in blue-white light. “I mean to leave this pit. Stand aside, necromancer, or you’re next.”

Simonian laughed. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, not after what your half-breed friend did to poor Mitor.”

Mazael stepped forward. “Why do you care?  You asked me to kill Mitor. Get out of my way.”

“Just why would you want to leave?” said Simonian. “If the most lovely Lady Romaria has slain Mitor, then you are Lord of Castle Cravenlock. You could overthrow the Mandragons. You could make yourself king. King of the world, perhaps. What’s to stop you?”

“I don’t want to become Lord of Castle Cravenlock,” said Mazael.

“Then why not turn around and make them pay for what they have done?” said Simonian. “Make Skhath pay. And Rachel, dear, sweet Lady Rachel, so innocent and kind, who would never betray you...”

“Shut up,” said Mazael.

“They are in disarray,” said Simonian. “The snake-kissing rabble wail to their slithering god for aid. Why not go back and finish it?  I will help you, I will lend my arts to your cause. Together we will make Skhath pay for his sins. And together, we shall make Rachel pay for her treachery!”

“I...” said Mazael. He wanted to make that wretched serpent Skhath pay. “I...can’t...I want...” He wanted to make Rachel pay.

The rage burned through him in a black storm.

“You raised the zuvembies,” said Romaria. She pointed her burning sword at Simonian. “Your necromancy killed Master Othar. Why should he listen to you?”

“You are a liar and a deceiver,” said Sir Nathan.

Mazael's mind cleared. “They’re right. You’re in my way. Last warning. Move.”

Simonian sighed. “If it must come to this...” His hands snapped up and began moving in a spell.

Mazael sprinted for the necromancer, Romaria and Sir Nathan a half-step behind. Simonian thrust his hand forward, green light glimmering at his fingertips, and Mazael lunged. Lion’s blazing point slid past the wizard’s hand and plunged into his chest, meeting no resistance at all. Mazael staggered, recovering his balance, while Simonian vanished in a scattering of smoke.

“He’s gone,” said Nathan.

“An illusion!” said Romaria. “He was never there at all.”

Mazael heard Simonian’s voice. The necromancer stood by the temple doors, and Mazael raced for him.

But it was too late. Simonian spread his arms wide. Green light exploded from his fingertips, stabbing into Mazael's eyes and sending lines of pain into his head. He heard Romaria scream, heard Sir Nathan shout a challenge.

Mazael roared and managed to take another staggering step before everything fell into darkness.

3

Rachel’s True Love

The air smelled of blood and rot.

Mazael flickered in and out of consciousness. He realized that he sat on a cold stone floor, his back pressed against a rough wall. Steel cuffs pinned his arms to the wall, and a heavy chain bound his ankles. Incoherent images flickered across his thoughts. He saw Romaria, her eyes clear and her face smiling. He saw Sir Nathan and Master Othar. He saw his father. He saw Simonian. He saw Rachel with golden serpents wrapped around her wrists, crimson sigils scribed on her arms...

The rage made his mind swim back into focus.

Thin streams of torchlight leaked through in the narrow window, illuminating the straw-packed floor and the rusted chains. He groaned and leaned his head against the cold stone of the wall.

His weapons and armor were gone, of course.

Mazael jerked against the chains. What had happened to Romaria and the others? Were they locked away in other cells? Or had they been killed?

A wave of guilt surged through him. How could he have been so stupid? The evidence had been right before his eyes. Yet he had insisted Rachel would never do such a thing. He had said and thought that over and over again. And now he would pay the price for it. At least he had sent Gerald and the squires away.

“Out there!” yelled Mazael. “Can anyone hear me?”

A shadow appeared in the small windows. “Keep quiet!”

“Where are the others who were with me?” said Mazael. “What happened to them?  Answer...”

The door banged open. A pair of Cravenlock armsmen stormed inside. Both had the sigil of a twisting serpent tattooed upon their foreheads.

“I said keep quiet,” said one guard.

“Where are they?” said Mazael. “Tell...”

The guard’s cudgel crashed into Mazael’s chin, smashing his head against the wall.

“Keep your mouth shut, else I’ll shut it for you,” said the guard.

“I’ll take that stick and shove it up...” said Mazael.

They rained blows upon his head and torso. Mazael fought to keep his eyes open, fury howling through him. For a moment he thought he could tear the chains from the wall. Then a cudgel impacted his head with a loud crack, and everything went dark.

Mazael awoke some time later. His head felt as if it had swollen to twice its normal size, and his breath whistled through new gaps in his teeth. His left eye would not open, and a stabbing pain filled his chest. Broken ribs, no doubt.

“I’ll kill them,” he rasped. “By all the gods, I’ll kill them all, Rachel and Skhath and Simonian...”

But he couldn’t. Skhath would kill him as soon as possible.

How could he have been so foolish? He had trusted Rachel. And now he would die for it.

“Rachel". Blood fell from his smashed lips. “I’ll kill her, at least.”

“Why do you suffer this to continue?”

Mazael’s head jerked up. Red eyes stared at him from the darkness of his cell.

“Who?” he said.

A shape took form in the darkness, and Simonian of Briault stepped out of the shadows and into the feeble light.

“You,” said Mazael.

“Indeed,” said Simonian. “I see your perceptions haven’t suffered.”

“How did you get in here?” said Mazael.

“Through the shadows,” said Simonian.

“Magic?” said Mazael.

“Of course,” said Simonian. “My arts give me mastery over many things.” He lifted one hand, sparks of green light dancing around his fingertips. “Shadows are the least of what I command. Illusions and the powers of the mind are mine. Even the dead respond to my call, as you have seen. But compared to power over men, these things are little more than the deceptions of a street magician.” He closed his fist, the lights vanishing. “I can bend nations to my will and make them dance to my song. What is that, I ask you, if not true power?”

Mazael lifted his head to meet the wizard’s gaze. “Monstrous. As are you.”

“Monstrous?” said Simonian. “There’s a fine word. Who calls me monstrous?  Sir Nathan? That dried old stick? He lived in the castle for years and never knew of the San-keth. Blind, that’s what I’d call him, or monstrously stupid. Does young Timothy deBlanc call me monstrous? That stripling wields the simplest of simple magic. He can neither attain nor understand the powers I wield. And Romaria Greenshield calls me a monster?” He laughed. “Has she even told you what will happen to her?”

“She told me that she only has half a human soul,” said Mazael. His head did not hurt so much. “She told me of the disease.”

“Disease?” Simonian laughed. “She doesn’t even know the entire truth, does she? Oh, our fair Lady Romaria possess two halves of a soul. One half Elderborn and one half human. One half is infused with the magic of the earth and the other is the mundane piddling soul of a human. That's why her touch shields your dreams, incidentally - together you have one complete human soul. But that will do her no good, in the end.” He rocked his hand back and forth like a scale. “The conflict between the two halves of her soul shall destroy her. Either her human half shall win and she’ll waste away, or the magic in her Elderborn half will conquer, transforming her into a mindless, bloodthirsty beast. I rather imagine she’ll be less attractive to you then. If you wish to bed her, do it soon.”

“Either kill me or leave me in peace,” Mazael spat. “Don’t waste my time with this nonsense.”

“Nonsense?” said Simonian. “How little you know.” He traced a finger through the blood drying on Mazael’s chest. “Those guards came close to killing you. Yet you seem rather well for a man who was on death’s door just a moment ago. Why, it’s as if your wounds are stitching themselves together before my very eyes.” His murky eyes filled with amusement. “Why do you suppose that is?”

“Leave me in peace,” said Mazael.

“And I saw the way you controlled the magic in that wretched Tristafellin blade,” said Simonian. “The last men who had the power to control such magic lived millennia ago. Yet here you are, a simple knight-errant with no training in the magical arts. Stronger and faster than any other man. Tell me, why do you suppose that is?”

“Leave!” said Mazael, his voice stronger.

“I’ll tell you,” said Simonian. “You’re Demonsouled, Mazael.” He smiled. “Like me.”

It was a moment before Mazael could speak. “What?”

“We are both Demonsouled, you and I. We share the same heritage,” said Simonian. “We are  descendants of a long-dead god. The demon magic resides in our souls. I have embraced it and mastered it. With it I can wield magic far beyond the skill of any mortal. I did so long before you were born. And look at you, my kinsman. Your wounds heal as I speak. You can control other magic with your will. You can move faster and are stronger than any lesser man. All this, and you have barely tapped the tiniest part of what is possible!  You have the potential to become one of the greatest Demonsouled who have ever existed.” He laughed. “If I am monstrous, as you claim, what does that make you? A saint?”

“No,” said Mazael. The pain in his chest had lessened. “No. No!  It is madness and insanity. I will not give in to it!”

“Madness?” said Simonian. “It is power. Power to make yourself over as you will, to do as you wish, to make others do as you command. Why would you refuse such a thing?  Because that fool Othar and that wretch Nathan told you?  What do they know?”

“They were better men than you,” said Mazael.

“Is that so?” said Simonian. “Tell me, do they know of your true nature?  I thought not. What would they say if they found out the truth? Master Othar was such a vigilant defender of this castle. So vigilant he walked into the protective spells warding this place, and didn’t notice as the magical fingers wrapped about his heart and squeezed. How would he have reacted if he had known his fine young student had a demon’s soul? And old Sir Nathan, that paragon of honor and loyalty. Do you think Sir Nathan would smile and pat you on the shoulder?  Or would he take his greatsword and plunge through your gut?”

“I don’t want to hear this," said Mazael. "Sir Nathan was right. You are a liar. I won’t listen to you.”

“Liar?” said Simonian. “You wound me. I don’t want to lie to you. I want to save you.”

Mazael laughed. “Save me? You knock me out, leave me hanging in these chains, and you want to save me?  You are a liar.”

Simonian sneered. “And you deny the truth!  I want to teach you to save yourself. Who knows of your true self? The half-breed Romaria? The monk Silar? Is that all? Romaria keeps your secret because of her own dichotomy, and Silar’s vision is darkened by the memory of his brother. But what of the others? What of Sir Nathan and Sir Gerald? Knights are sworn to slay demons and protect the innocent.” His mouth twisted in a mirthful grin. “What of the Cirstarcian monks?  They kill Demonsouled and San-keth without mercy. Their full wrath would fall on this place, if they knew all its secrets. What of young Timothy deBlanc’s masters, the bloated magisters of Alborg?  They ban all dark magic, save those practiced by themselves. What do you think they will do to you, if given the chance? And the great and noble Lord Richard Mandragon, slayer of dragons. Will he allow a Demonsouled in his realm?  All the powers of this world are arrayed against you. How do you think you can survive?”

“Shut up!” said Mazael.

“And Most High Priest Skhath and his betrothed Lady Rachel Cravenlock,” said Simonian. “How Skhath would love to kill you! He thinks to transform the Grim Marches into a San-keth theocracy with himself as High Priest and Mitor as King.” Simonian laughed. “King! Mitor? Bah! He couldn’t rule a latrine. But you could rule so much more than the Grim Marches.”

“What do you mean?” said Mazael.

“Let me teach you,” said Simonian. “I can show you. I can tell you how to unlock the powers within you.” He made a fist. “The healing, the speed, the battle instincts, they are nothing before what you could do, what you could become.” He shook the chains binding Mazael’s wrists. “You could tear those chains like paper. You could shatter that door as if it were made of glass. And then you could kill them all. Mitor and his cronies, Skhath and his whore Rachel, all of them. What could stop you?”

Mazael could not speak, remembering Silar's warnings.

“And I would help you,” said Simonian. “Who could stand against us?  There is nothing we cannot do. We could tear down this castle, if we chose. We could kill Lord Richard and reign over the Grim Marches. And then what? The impotent old king and the magisters?  Mastaria and the Knights Dominiar? The world? What is to stop us?”

“The gods,” said Mazael, thinking of Romaria. “Fate.”

“The gods?” said Simonian. He snarled. “The gods care nothing for anything but themselves. Fate? I make my own fate. I can teach you to do the same.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” said Mazael.

“You would come to regret those words,” said Simonian. “Fortunately, I will not give you the chance.”

“You can’t force me to do anything,” said Mazael.

“Quite true,” said Simonian. “But I can help you to make the right choice.” He grinned. “Your friends are alive, you know.”

“What?” said Mazael.

“My spell was fashioned to stun,” said Simonian. “They’re all well and safe, sharing cells near yours. They’re alive. For now.”

“You bastard!” said Mazael. “If...”

Simonian continued. “I would strongly advise you to accept my offer. If you don’t, why, I fear one of your friends will have a fatal encounter with my spells. Romaria, I think. And another one, and another, and another, until they’re all dead, unless you embrace the demon magic in your soul.” He smiled widened. “And after they’re dead, I’ll find Sir Gerald Roland and those squires. Such fine young men. I think I’ll let you watch as I kill Adalar. Or perhaps I’ll keep Sir Nathan alive to the last, and have you both watch as the boy chokes out his last. Wouldn’t that be thrilling?  You already have the blood of so many enemies on that Tristafellin sword of yours. Why not add the blood of a few friends?”

“You bastard,” said Mazael. “You murdering bastard!”

Simonian titled his head to the side. “Ah. You have some visitors coming. I’ll let you speak with them in privacy. Think over what I have said once they are done. You’ll soon learn the wisdom of what I have to offer.” Simonian gave a small bow and stepped back into the shadows. His robes blurred with the darkness, and then the wizard was gone.

Mazael's teeth ground as he fought to suppress his fury. A part of him wanted burst free from the chains and kill them all. The thought sickened him. Yet what choice did he have?  Simonian was going to kill them. He was going to kill Romaria.

“Gods,” whispered Mazael. “Amatheon and Amater and Joraviar. Help me, if you care. Don’t let me become like him. And save them from him. Please.” He hung his head. “Please.”

Mazael sat in the darkness for a long time, his body tingling and shuddering as his Demonsouled nature did its healing work. His chest and face itched as the cuts and bruises faded. He felt a deep crawling as his cracked rib pulled itself together. His swollen eye leaked blood, and then he could see through it once more. Stabs of agony in his jaw as new teeth rose from his gums. He wondered what the armsmen would say when they saw him recovered from the beating. He could not help but laugh at the thought. It kept him from crying.

A rattle in the lock jerked Mazael out of his daze. The door opened, spilling brilliant torchlight into the darkened cell. Mazael squinted against the glare.

“Leave us,” said a harsh voice. The smell of dusty bone mingled with the dry stench of a serpent’s scales. “My future consort and I wish to speak with Sir Mazael alone.”

“As you wish, Most High Priest,” said one of the armsmen.

Skhath stepped into the cell, green fire flashing about the joints of his animated skeleton. The San-keth's coils shifted against the skeleton's spine, his black-slit yellow eyes fixed on Mazael. Rachel stood at his side, dressed in a black gown.

“I should kill you,” said Skhath.

“Do it, then,” said Mazael. “Slither off that skeleton and we’ll see who’s stronger.”

Skhath made a strange hissing sound, and his mouth yawned open to reveal a pair of glistening ivory fangs. “I ought to. Great Sepharivaim has given his people this gift. We can kill with a single kiss.”

“Great Sepharivaim?” said Mazael. “The same great Sepharivaim who gave his people arms and legs? Oh, wait, I had forgotten. Without that magicked skeleton, you’d crawl in the dust like the worm you are.”

“It was the human and Elderborn gods,” said Skhath. “They stole our limbs from us for daring to challenge their tyranny. And we shall regain what was taken from us one day. We shall take all the world when Sepharivaim rises in glory.”

“That,” said Mazael, “is the worst tale I’ve ever heard. Try telling it in the town tavern. You might get a crust of bread.”

“You ask for death,” said Skhath.

“Why not have Rachel do it?” spat Mazael. “She’s willing to let you crawl into her and father monsters in her womb. She should be more than willing to kill me.”

“Mazael,” said Rachel, her voice anguished. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” said Mazael. “Tell you the truth?  Perhaps you’re right. Why should I?  You didn’t bother to tell me.”

“You don’t understand,” said Rachel. “You couldn’t. How could I have told you?” She knelt besides him. “It’s not so bad. What have the Amathavian gods ever done for us? They let Lord Richard overthrow Father. He wasted away and died from failure. If he had listened to Mother, none of it would have happened. She knew the true way, the way of Sepharivaim. He rewards his followers.” She took one of his hands. “Why is this such a bad thing?  Skhath came after Father died and told Mitor of the true way. Why don’t you join us? Mitor can’t have children. He can’t even lie with a woman anymore, his health is so bad. With the power of Sepharivaim behind us, Mitor and Skhath will conquer the Grim Marches. Mitor will become king and Skhath High Priest. When Mitor dies, you’ll be the new king of the Grim Marches.” She smiled. “Join us, Mazael. You can be a king!  We...”

Mazael spat in her face.

She flinched away.

“You’re worse devils than Simonian!” Mazael said. “You are all serpents, you and him and Skhath! Why should I believe any of you? Go to hell, all of you, to whatever pit Skhath and his crawling god came from!” Rachel turned away from him, crying.

“Foolish human,” said Skhath. “Do you not see that there is no other way?”

“Simonian said much the same thing,” said Mazael. “I didn’t believe him, either.”

Skhath hissed. “Simonian was here?  The necromancer plays dangerous games. He is not a true believer. Still, he has his uses. I shall have to kill him one day.” Skhath made that strange sound, his fangs bared. Mazael realized that it was a laugh. “It’s odd. He even suggested the idea to me.”

“The idea?” said Mazael.

“There has always been a temple beneath this castle,” said Skhath. “It has lain abandoned for centuries. The Lady Arissa dabbled in the true way for a time, amongst other things, but she lacked the strength for her ambitions. The archpriests of Karag Tormeth sent me here to reopen the temple beneath Castle Cravenlock. I arrived, disguised as a human knight, during Lord Richard’s uprising. As I watched the fighting, a most wondrous idea came to me. My people prefer to work out of the shadows, using humans as our puppets. But this human Dragonslayer led a force scarce half the size of his foe’s and defeated it through superior battle tactics. Why could I not do the same?” Skhath’s skeletal fists clenched. “I will do what no other follower of the true way has done. I will raise a nation to the glory of Sepharivaim. I shall purge the Grim Marches of the Amathavians and their gods. The rivers shall darken with their blood. The power of Sepharivaim shall rise over the Grim Marches.”

“Grand plans, from a thing that has no arms or legs of its own,” said Mazael.

“Enjoy your tongue, while you can,” said Skhath. “I shall relieve you of it soon enough. I would have killed you once Simonian had taken you, but Rachel pleaded for your life. Since she will birth changelings to slay the enemies of great Sepharivaim, I will heed her words. I shall give you one day to decide. Either embrace mighty Sepharivaim and swear to serve his servants the San-keth, or else I shall put you and all your companions to death.” His fork-tipped tongue flicked at the air. “Your bodies shall be raised as carriers in the service of Sepharivaim’s priests. Your body would serve me nicely. Think upon what I have said. The day of the San-keth rises over the Grim Marches. Stand with me and rise with me, or stand with Lord Richard Mandragon and be swept away.” Skhath made the laughing sound. “It is your choice. Come, Rachel. Let us leave this wretch to decide his fate.”

Skhath swept out of the cell. Rachel looked at Mazael, still crying. She turned her back and followed the San-keth priest into the hall. The door slammed shut after them, blocking out the light.

It was hopeless. Lord Richard would not march for another three days. Simonian and Skhath would kill Mazael’s companions tomorrow. There was no way out of this stinking dungeon.

But there was one way, wasn't there? The demon magic within his soul. All that power, waiting for him to touch it. To make him strong and powerful.

To make him like Simonian...

“No,” whispered Mazael. He shook his head. “No.”

But was there any other way?  Romaria would die if he did not act. Yet he knew the awful power of the demon power. He could have killed every man in Castle Cravenlock the morning of Master Othar’s funeral.

“Gods help me,” Mazael said. “If you’re there, help me.”

Simonian’s words echoed in his head over and over again. Mazael felt as if his heart had transformed into an orb of pulsing fire, his blood into burning metal. He tried to push out the fire in his mind. He would not succumb!

But it was of no use.

He could not stop thinking of Rachel, and thinking about her poured oil upon the fire of his rage. Why should he not claim the demon magic within him? He could snap these chains, break through the door, and free his friends. He could smash Skhath’s skeleton and choke the wretched serpent to death. He could rip Simonian’s lying tongue from his bearded head. And he could tear Rachel’s black heart from her chest.

Yes...

There was a thump outside the door, followed by a low conversation. Keys jingled, and the door swung open.

“Sir Mazael?”

Mazael’s fury drained away and left a slight sick feeling.

He stared in astonishment. Bethy stood in the doorway, keys dangling from her first. Behind her stood fat Cramton, beads of sweat sliding down his forehead. The two armsmen lay at their feet.

“Sir Mazael!” said Bethy. “You must wake up!”

“I’m awake,” said Mazael. “What’s going on?”

“There’s no time,” said Bethy. She hurried into the cell and began opening the locks that held his chains. “Can you walk? We heard the guards beating you.”

“I’m fine,” said Mazael.

“You’re certain, now?” said Bethy. The shackles on his ankles fell away. “It sounded bad.”

Mazael forced a grin. “They didn’t do a good job. What’s going on?”

“We’re getting out of here,” said Bethy. “We’ve heard the rumors, me and Cramton. We know the Dragonslayer lord and all his men are coming. We’re getting out of here, before the Dragonslayer comes.”

“Yes,” said Cramton. “It’s not safe. Lord Mitor and the other snake-worshippers take a different child from the countryside every day now for their sacrifices.”

“We didn’t take the oaths,” said Bethy. She went to work on the shackles binding his arms. “Not like the others did. That’s why Brogan and his men burned down the Three Swords. They kissed the snake, but we didn’t. I tried to warn you, Sir Mazael, that day in the kitchen...”

“But we didn’t dare tell you the whole truth!” wailed Cramton. “Lord Mitor and the snake priest would’ve known, I say. They always know what they shouldn’t.”

“Dark arts, I tell you,” said Bethy. “We were afraid.”

“That’s fine,” said Mazael. He got to his feet in one motion, ignoring Bethy’s outstretched hand and astonished stare. “You found your nerve now.”

“We heard you were to be sacrificed to the snake god tomorrow,” said Bethy. “We couldn’t let that happen. You helped us.”

“I’m grateful,” said Mazael. He stepped out into the corridor.

“Take us with you,” said Bethy. “The others from the inn took the oath and kissed the snake. Even Cramton’s family. They were scared. Me and old Cramton are the only ones left who haven’t. We can show you the way out. Please, please, take us with you. I don’t want to give my soul to the snake god.”

“Nor do I,” said Cramton. “I’m afraid of snakes, I fear.”

Mazael nodded. “Did you kill the guards?”

Bethy gave him a wicked grin. “No! We just brought them some ale, that’s all. Must work up a thirst, standing down here all day. Of course, we mixed it with some sleeping draught..”

Mazael laughed. “Let’s get the others, and get out of this hellhole. Lord Richard is expecting me.”

Bethy unlocked Sir Nathan's cell, and the old knight blinked with astonishment. “Mazael? How...”

“No time for talk!” said Bethy. “Pardons, my lord knight, but they kept your weapons and armor in the storeroom at the end of the hall.”

“Of course. I’d best get our weapons,” said Nathan. “Cramton, with me.”

“We know a tunnel that leads right to the courtyard from here,” said Bethy. She undid another lock. “It opens up near the stables. I guess one of those snake priests dug it for a quick escape.”

She pushed open the door. After a moment, Romaria staggered out, blinking at the light.

“You’re all right,” Romaria said. She stared into Mazael’s face. “Are you...”

“I’m fine,” Mazael lied.

“No, you’re not,” said Romaria.

Timothy and Silar emerged from their cells. Sir Nathan and Cramton returned, bundles of armor and weapons in hand. Romaria took her bastard sword and bow from Cramton. Mazael took his chain hauberk, helm, breastplate, and leather gauntlets from Nathan. After he secured the armor, he reached for Lion.

As his hand closed about the hilt, a jolt of pain shot up his arm, and the blade glimmered with blue flames.

As if he were a creature of dark magic.

“What is it?” said Romaria.

Mazael stared at the sword. “Nothing.” He buckled his sword belt about his waist and drew the blade. The metal glimmered in the torchlight, but the flames did not reappear.

“Is everyone ready?” said Cramton.

“They’d best be,” said Bethy, “cause we’re going.” She pointed. “That way goes back to the black temple, the way we came. Let’s go this way instead. We know the way up to the courtyard.”

She snatched a torch from the wall and set off down the corridor, Mazael and the others following with weapons drawn. Bethy stopped and put her ear to the cold stone wall. She nodded and pressed a jutting piece of masonry. A part of the wall slid back, revealing a corridor that spiraled up into the rock.

“This goes up to the courtyard,” said Bethy. “The other way keeps going down, past the snake temple. It opens up between two boulders at the base of the hill near the west wall.”

“Why do we not take that way?” said Timothy. “Surely, it would be easier to escape if we fled the castle!”

“Explain to me how we are to outrun Mitor’s troops without horses,” said Mazael.

“Ah,” said Timothy.

They climbed up the steps, and the stairs ended in a large room that looked as if it had served as a barracks long ago. Splintered remnants of furniture filled the corners, along with some dusty bones. A massive iron-bound door rested in a narrow alcove. The dark oak planks looked long stiffened to the hardness of granite.

“Here,” said Bethy. “There’s another stair behind that door. It opens up in the wall behind the stables.”

“How did you find all this?” said Sir Nathan. “I had never dreamed there were such extensive catacombs beneath the castle.”

“Lord Mitor and the snake-kissers went down here when you and Sir Mazael weren’t at the castle,” said Bethy. “They all go to the temple and never anywhere else. I don’t think they even know what’s all down here.”

She pulled a key of corroded black iron from a pocket in her dress and thrust it into the lock. “Turn, damn you.” She jiggled the key. “Turn...”

The key shattered in Bethy’s hand and clattered to the floor.

“Oh, dear,” said Cramton.

“Oh, gods,” said Bethy. She stuck a finger in the lock. “It’s jammed. There’s no other way up to the courtyard.”

“We could still go through the door at the base of the hill,” said Timothy.

“Not likely,” said Sir Nathan. “That door will open right into the mercenary camp. Without horses, we’d never make it through them.”

“We may have to go through the temple and Mitor’s living quarters,” said Romaria. “We got in that way, after all.”

Mazael shook his head. “No. If there’s a ceremony in the temple, they’ll spot us there. And if there’s not, someone will see us in the castle, certainly in Mitor’s chambers.” He lifted Lion. “We’ll have to cut through the door.”

“But it’s half a foot thick and hard as iron!” said Bethy. “Your swords would chip away before you put a dent in it.”

Mazael swore. “Timothy, do you have any magic that might work?”

“Perhaps,” said Timothy. “But Simonian or the San-keth priest might sense such a spell.”

“Then we’ll go through the temple,” said Mazael. They would certainly perish, but perhaps he would have the chance to kill Rachel first.

“Wait,” said Silar. “There may be another way. A moment, please.”

The lean monk stepped towards the door and closed his eyes. His spread his arms, palms flat, and lifted them above his head. His breathing became rhythmic, his lips moving through a whispered chant.

“What is he doing?” said Sir Nathan.

“This is no time to be praying!” said Timothy.

“On the contrary!” said Cramton.

Silar’s hands clenched into fists, his chant rising in volume. “For my flesh is iron, for my flesh is stone, for the gods are might, and my fists are their vessel, for my flesh is iron, for my flesh is stone, for the gods are might...” His body swayed with the rhythm of his chant, and his eyes snapped open. “And my fists are their vessel!” His fists blurred. The door shuddered with his first blow. It splintered on his second. Iron-shod wood bent inward on the third.

The fourth shattered the door in a spray of wooden splinters and twisted iron shards.

“Gods in heaven, man!” said Sir Nathan. “How in their name did you do that?”

Silar took a deep breath and unclenched his fists. “Twenty years of discipline and meditation, and you can do that, too. Come along, now. We haven’t the time to loiter.” Mazael shook his head and followed Bethy through the door.

The stairs ended in a circular room with a sandy floor, the ceiling a maze of beams and planks. Mazael supposed they were in the foundations of a tower.

“Here,” said Bethy. “The trigger is right here.”

She pushed a stone, and a portion of the wall slid aside. Feeble rays of morning sunlight glinted into the dark chamber. Mazael saw at the hindquarters of a gray horse, and the smell of manure and straw washed over him.

“The stables,” said Bethy.

Mazael stepped past her and through the opened doorway. He saw Chariot and the other horses, the big stallion snorting and pawing the ground in irritation. No one had disturbed their mounts, thankfully.

“This way,” said Mazael. “Timothy, steal some horses for Bethy and Cramton.” The wizard nodded, straw rustling beneath his boots. “Hurry. The castle will awake soon.”

“Those that aren’t sleeping off last night’s festivities, at any rate,” said Silar.

“I can’t ride a horse!” said Bethy. “I don’t know how.”

“Sir Nathan, she’ll ride with you,” said Mazael.

The courtyard was dark and empty, and a few guards paced on the walls. Four men stood guard at the barbican gate. At least the portcullis was up.

“Mitor’s learned something from our entry, I see,” said Nathan.

“We can ride down the men at the gate,” said Silar. “But do you see the two crossbowmen on the barbican rampart?”

“My lord knight,” said Timothy. “My sleep enchantment. It is a simple spell, and weak enough to avoid Simonian’s notice.”

“Can you get both?” said Mazael.

Timothy grimaced. “No.”

“It’s only sixty yards. I’ll get the other,” said Romaria. She strung her bow.

Timothy raised his right hand and began to chant, yellowish light flaring at his fingertips. Mazael saw one of the crossbowmen fall. The other man turned as Romaria's bow twanged. The armsman shuddered, a arrow sprouting from his throat, and collapsed behind the battlements.

“Go,” said Mazael.

They rode out across the courtyard. The guards at the barbican paid no notice until Mazael was twenty paces away.

One of the armsmen stepped forward, a bored expression on his face. “Most High Priest Skhath has ordered no patrols for this...”

Mazael spurred Chariot, and the guard just had time to scream before Lion opened his throat. Romaria slew another, her blade splitting his head down the middle. One guard gripped his halberd with both hands and tried to charge her from behind. Mazael batted aside the thrust and Chariot kicked out, stunning the armsman. The sole survivor turned and tried to run for the keep. As he ran past Silar’s horse, the monk’s palm shot out. The armsman's head snapped back, and he joined his companions on the ground.

“We’d best make haste,” said Sir Nathan.

They galloped through the barbican gates, past the town, and north to Lord Richard’s waiting armies.

Chapter X

1

Wrath of the Dragonslayer

“There,” said Romaria. “I see them.”

“How?” said Mazael, blinking in the midday sun. “It’s only been a day and a half.”

“Lord Richard must have marched when he heard Sir Gerald’s news,” said Nathan.

“I would have,” said Silar.

Richard Mandragon's army spread across the horizon, followed by a column of dust. Mazael saw a sea of fluttering banners, heard the distant boom of marching drums.

“Horsemen,” said Sir Nathan.

A dozen riders galloped towards them, led by a horseman in magnificent black dragon's scale armor. The hilt of a sword rose over his armored shoulder, and the black dragon of Lord Richard marked his crimson shield. The armored rider reined up before Mazael, pulling off his helm.

“So!” said Toraine Mandragon. “It appears you’ve survived the treachery of your family after all. We are relieved. You didn’t happen to kill Lord Mitor on your way out, did you?”

“No,” said Mazael. “The opportunity never arrived.”

“A pity,” said Toraine. “I would have killed him. Then Castle Cravenlock would have had a new lord, and a new name, for that matter.”

“Undoubtedly,” Mazael said. “I don’t care.”

Toraine’s dark eyes flashed. “My father has commanded that you are to be brought to him at once. This way, if you please.”

“You’re too kind,” said Mazael. “Lead on.” Toraine scowled, and his riders settled in an armored wedge around Mazael and his companions.

They rode through Lord Richard’s army, past rank after rank of pikemen and company after company of archers. But the core of the army was the knights, the heavy horse. Mazael counted six thousand in all, armored in heavy plate and armed with war lances, battle axes, and hammers. The knights alone could tear through Mitor’s hodgepodge mass of armsmen and mercenaries.

Mazael found himself looking forward to the battle.

Lord Richard and his captains rode with the lancers, the Mandragon banner flying overhead. The Dragonslayer sat atop a great black stallion, his red armor brilliant in the sunlight. The Old Crow rode close to his master’s side, along with stout Lord Jonaril and slender young Lord Astor rode with him. Gerald rode at Lord Richard’s right hand, Adalar and Wesson trailing behind him.

Lucan rode some distance behind them, a shadow in his black cloak.

Gerald’s eyes widened. “Sir Mazael! You’re alive!”

“No thanks to myself,” said Mazael. “The monk and Timothy were right. We should have turned back.”

Lord Richard's eyes fixed on Mazael, and then turned toward his followers. They moved off, along with Mazael's companions, leaving him alone with Lord Richard.

“Sir Mazael,” said Lord Richard. “Did you find what you sought?”

“Yes,” Mazael said. “I found. I saw. All of it.”

“So,” said Lord Richard. “You have seen the truth. Your decision?”

“You were right,” said Mazael. “Mitor and Sir Albron and their followers are all monsters. I’ll follow you.”

“Excellent,” said Lord Richard. “You have made the right choice.”

“There are two things you must know,” said Mazael. “Sir Albron isn’t a knight. He isn’t even human. He’s a San-keth priest disguised beneath a spell of illusion.”

Lord Richard nodded. “We anticipated as much. My vassals have brought their court wizards. And my son’s arts are capable.” Disapproval showed in his eyes for a moment.

“You’ll need them,” said Mazael. “There’s something else. Simonian isn’t human. Not fully, at least.”

“Another San-keth priest?” said the Dragonslayer. “We are prepared for such.”

“No,” said Mazael. “He’s Demonsouled.”

Lord Richard fell silent. “How did you gain this knowledge?”

“He told me,” said Mazael.

“Does Brother Silar know?” said Lord Richard.

“He knows quite a bit,” said Mazael.

“Then we shall leave the matter for his consideration,” said Lord Richard. “The Cirstarcians have experience dealing with both San-keth and Demonsouled. Brother Silar wishes to assist? Then let him.”

Mazael nodded.

“My captains and I will have a council of war when me make camp,” said Lord Richard. “Speak no more of this until then. My men already whisper rumors.”

Mazael nodded. Lord Richard made a small gesture, and his captains returned to his side. Mazael steered Chariot past them to rejoin his companions. Sir Nathan was telling Gerald what they had found under the castle.

“Gods!” Gerald said. “Such vileness! I never would have thought. Well, it certainly explains the decrepit state of the chapel, if all the inhabitants of the castle pray to the god of snakes.” He shook his head. “Gods, Mazael. I always took your stories of your brother with a grain of salt. It seems I should have believed them and worse. I feel sorry for your sister, though. She seemed a sweet child.”

“Child?” said Mazael. “She’s older than you.”

“She seemed so lost, though,” said Gerald.

“Lost?” said Mazael. “She knows right where she is. She is a liar and a murderess, and I will bring her to justice myself!” Gerald flinched from the iron in Mazael’s tone.

They left him alone after that, and he rode in silence.

The army marched until Lord Richard gave the command to halt at sunset. The ordered tent city Mazael had seen a week earlier rose out of the plains. Tents were pitched, trenches dug, and stakes placed. The smells of cooking food, oiled metal, and excrement rose into the night.

Mazael threaded his way through the bustling camp to Lord Richard’s command tent. It rose from the center of the camp, banners flying from their standards. The Roland standard of silver greathelm on a blue field flew at equal height with the Mandragon banner. Gerald’s work, Mazael supposed. Beneath the banners of Roland and Mandragon flew the Cravenlock standard of three crossed swords on black. Since Mitor had probably not joined Lord Richard, Mazael supposed the Dragonslayer had something else in mind.

He ducked under the heavy canvas flap and into the tent. Several long tables had been laid out, one covered by maps, the other by food. Lord Richard’s vassals and captains stood talking.

“Sir Mazael!” said Sir Tanam, appearing with a pair of wooden cups. “Here, take this. You look as if you need a drink.”

Mazael drained the cup in one pull. “That, and many more.”

The Old Crow laughed. “Ha!  Never get drunk the night before a battle, I say. The night after, however, is quite a different matter.”

Mazael grunted and handed his cup back to the Old Crow.

“Mazael!” It was Gerald, his armor gleaming with new polish. Poor Wesson looked exhausted. “Where have you been?”

“Thinking,” said Mazael.

Gerald laughed. “You used to warn me against worrying too much.”

“A lot can change in a month,” said Mazael.

Gerald’s expression sobered. “That is true. And a lot more will change tonight, I fear.” He paused. “Lord Richard has news for you. I fear you may not like it, thought it is necessary.”

Mazael frowned. “What news?”

“Let us begin,” said Lord Richard, his voice cutting like a knife through the babble. His vassals and captains took their seats. Mazael sat down besides Romaria, and she reached out and squeezed his hand. A cloaked man sat across from Mazael, and pulled back his hood to reveal a lean, angular face with gold-slashed silver hair and deep purple eyes. It was Sil Tarithyn, the ardmorgan of the Tribe of the Wolf. A gasp of surprise went up from the Dragonslayer’s captains, but the Elderborn’s unblinking eyes fixed on Mazael.

“We have a guest and an ally come to our cause,” said Lord Richard. “Ardmorgan Sil Tarithyn of the Tribe of the Wolf.”

“A wood demon,” said Toraine. “What can they do for us?”

Lucan laughed. “That wood demon, my brother, could put an arrow through your eye at a hundred paces. Even with that fine dragon helm of yours.” Toraine sneered, but fell silent.

“The lands of the Elderborn have been afflicted by the zuvembies, just as ours have been,” said Lord Richard. “Sil Tarithyn and his warriors have ventured from their woods to destroy the creatures. Their foes are our foes. Shall we turn away aid when it is offered?” Toraine glared but did not answer.

“And we have a second ally come to our cause,” said Lord Richard. “Sir Mazael has made the decision to join with us against his rebellious and apostate brother.”

Toraine smiled. “A wise choice. Why should all the Cravenlocks die?”

“Lord Mitor is a rebel,” said Lord Richard. “He has turned against his rightful liege lord and his rightful gods. Hence, he has forfeited his lands and titles. Sir Mazael is now Lord Mazael of Castle Cravenlock...if he chooses to take the title. If not, it shall pass to my son Lucan.” A rumble of discontent passed through the assembled lords.

It was not something Mazael wanted. For the rest of his life, men would say he had murdered his older brother to take Castle Cravenlock. Yet he had no other choice. Mitor and Rachel deserved death for their crimes, and Simonian had to be stopped. Silar’s warning repeated in Mazael’s mind. Suppose the demon magic overwhelmed him? Would he become the tyrant the monk had feared, something worse than Simonian?

He had to take the risk. He had no other choice.

“I accept,” said Mazael.

“Excellent,” said Lord Richard. “I hope Lord Mazael will do much to insure peace once our battle is won. Now, Lord Mazael, we would consider it a favor if you described what you saw at Castle Cravenlock.”

Mazael told Lord Richard’s assembled vassals and captains what he had seen, of Othar's journal, of the temple beneath the castle, the true natures of Sir Albron Eastwater and Simonian of Briault. He did not mention his own nature.

Toraine laughed. “My, my, saved by a tavern wench!  Hardly the sort of thing that goes into a song of the heroic.”

“And how would you know?” said Lucan. Lord Richard silenced his sons with a dark look.

“So,” said Lord Jonaril, reaching for a goblet. “We had always suspected Mitor of allying with dark powers. It appears his crimes are worse than even I suspected.” He smiled. “The fool has sealed his own fate. No one, not even Lord Malden Roland or Lord Alamis Castanagent, will fault us from eradicating this perversion from the face of the earth.”

“Indeed,” said Gerald. “My father has his...ah, disagreements, with Lord Richard, but he would not deny Lord Mitor’s crimes.”

A gleam came into Lord Jonaril’s eyes. “And there are, of course, the matters of Lord Roget and Lord Marcus and Sir Commander Galan Hawking. A pity they chose to ally with Mitor. Sir...ah, pardon, Lord Mazael shall receive the Cravenlock lands, certainly. But as for the others, their lands are forfeit without a doubt, and shall have to go to more deserving, loyal men. And the Justiciar lands will revert to Lord Richard, of course.”

Lord Astor sighed. “It is a shame. My brother is proud and brave, but he did have a penchant for allying with lost causes. Though I’d never have thought him capable of forsaking the gods.”

“Perhaps he did not, my lord,” said Sir Nathan. “We did not see him the temple, nor did he seem aware of its existence. Revenge against you and Lord Richard were his motives.”

Sir Tanam laughed. “Heresy or treason.” He chopped his hand down. “Either one gets the axe.”

“Might I remind you, my lords, that the battle is still to be fought?” said Lord Richard. “Matters of spoils, lands, and titles shall wait until after our victory. We must know the order and rank of our enemy. Sir Tanam?”

The Old Crow cleared his throat. “I have done extensive scouting around Castle Cravenlock. Lord Mitor has, at most, four thousand armsmen. Rather less since Lord Mazael has been there, I imagine. Mostly foot, with a thousand horse. The Cravenlock forces have declined since Sir Albron took over. Snakes can’t ride horses, I suppose. Lords Roget and Marcus together have another two thousand. The Justiciar forces are the most formidable...fifteen hundred sergeant foot soldiers and five hundred heavy lancers. To top off this motley crew, Mitor has brought in the mercenary scum of every city from Knightport to Forgotten Sea. Most, if not all, these men are encamped at the base of the castle’s hill.” He looked at Mazael. “Am I right?”

Mazael nodded. “Mitor keeps about four or five hundred men in the castle proper.”

Toraine laughed. “Hardly an army. More of an unwashed mob, I say. We shall cut through them like a scythe through wheat.”

“Take heed, young one,” said Sil Tarithyn. “You speak true. The men are nothing. The dark powers that the traitor lord serves in his pit beneath the earth are the true foe.”

Toraine smiled. “Flesh or dark power, a blade will end them all.”

“Regardless of whatever sorcery Mitor serves, his men are still flesh and blood, vulnerable to blade and bow,” said Lord Richard. “We shall split our heavy lancers and place them on the right and left wings. The heavy foot and archers shall make up the center. My son shall command the right.” Mazael did not need ask which son. “Sir Tanam shall take the left. I shall command the center. The rest of you shall remain with your individual forces, under the command of either myself, Sir Tanam, or Toraine.”

Lord Jonaril frowned. “What is our battle plan?”

“The heavy horse will attack first, striking from either side,” said Lord Richard. “The more disciplined enemy soldiers, the Justiciar knights and perhaps the Cravenlock armsmen, shall no doubt respond first. Neither Lord Mitor nor his vassals are capable commanders. Their men are undisciplined, and the mercenaries are no better. Sir Tanam and Toraine shall engage while I bring up the infantry and the archers. By that time, the enemy will have mobilized against our lancers.”

“Making them unprepared for archers and infantry,” said Mazael.

Lord Richard nodded. He turned to Sil Tarithyn. “My lord ardmorgan, I do not believe your warriors are suited for such a battle. I ask you to take your men and use them as you best see fit, striking from the flanks as opportunity dictates.”

“No,” said Sil Tarithyn.

“You refuse my father’s command?” said Toraine.

“The Elderborn are a free people, boy,” said Sil Tarithyn. “We are not your Dragonslayer lord’s servants. We did not come north to slay innocent men. Innocent those men are, for many of them do not know the darkness they serve. The Tribe of the Wolf came north to destroy the zuvembies, and to bring their maker to justice.”

“What of the garrison in the castle?” said Lucan, face shadowed in his heavy cowl. “Surely they know of the serpent temple and its black rites. Otherwise Mitor would not keep them close. Would it not be justice to slay them as well?”

“You speak wisely,” said Sil Tarithyn. “If the we must face those soldiers to reach the necromancer and the priests of the serpent god, then face them we shall.”

“Then we would be pleased to have you join us in laying siege Castle Cravenlock, once Mitor’s host has been crushed,” said Lord Richard.

“Why not have them attack the castle during the battle?” said Sir Tanam.

“Your thoughts, my old crow?” said Lord Richard.

“Now, while I’ve no doubt my lord Lucan and our other wizards are more than capable of deflecting any dark magic Simonian and the serpent blokes could conjure at us,” said the Old Crow, “I, for one, would rather not test them. After all, I’d rather not end my days as an old crow in truth. Feathers wouldn’t suit me.” A chorus of snickers rose up from the lords. “A formal battle wouldn’t suit my lord ardmorgan and his fighters. But scaling the walls and creeping up on the castle garrison and Simonian...that, I think, would work quite well for them. What have you to say for that, my lord ardmorgan?”

“Our battle is with the perversions in Castle Cravenlock,” said Sil Tarithyn. “They must be made to face justice.”

“I do believe that is a yes,” said Sir Tanam. He grinned. “We’ll strike Mitor’s great lumbering mass of troops, while my lord ardmorgan and his fighters distract Simonian and the garrison.”

“We must have assistance,” said Sil Tarithyn. “Simonian is master of dark arts. The priests of the betrayer god can call upon great necromancy. We have no druids among us. We need one of arcane skills to fight besides us.”

“I’ll go,” said Lucan.

“You?” said Lord Richard.

“You’re no warrior,” said Toraine.

Lucan sneered. “Oh, no, I’m not, brother. I’ll leave that distinction for you. But our lord ardmorgan here didn’t ask for warriors. He asked for wizards. And in that, I believe, I fill the bill admirably, more than any other man on the Grim Marches.”

“I may require your assistance,” said Lord Richard.

Lucan snorted. “For what, might I ask?  You brought me along to combat whatever dark power you might find in Castle Cravenlock. And I know all about dark powers, don’t I?”

Lord Richard regarded his son in silence, his face a mask. “Very well. You may go. Try to prove of use.”

Lucan’s smile was mocking. “Oh, I shall certainly try.”

“And I shall go, as well,” said Mazael.

Lord Richard folded his hands. “You would serve best in my host.”

“How?” said Mazael. “One among thousands?”

“We have all heard of your exploits in the Mastarian war,” said Lord Richard. “There are many commands that could use your skill.”

“Your men, not mine,” said Mazael. “And this is my fight. My brother and my sister lied to me. They betrayed me. And I will have justice for it. And we all know full well that if I take the title as Lord of Castle Cravenlock, I will be branded a murderer for all time, regardless of what Mitor’s crimes were. If I am to be named a murderer, so be it. I shall do it with my own hands.”

Lord Jonaril frowned. “You plan to kill your own sister?”

“She’s a liar and a betrayer,” said Mazael.

“Aye,” said the stout lord. “But she is just a woman! Women are frail. She was undoubtedly led down the wrong path by her brother.”

“A path she walked of her own will,” said Mazael.

“In a castle full of apostates, how could you blame her?” said Lord Jonaril. “Mitor and his allies, now that is a different matter. No one will blame you, my lord, for putting them to the sword. Indeed, all men of right virtue would congratulate you. But spare the woman, I ask.”

“Why?” said Mazael. “So she can marry one of your sons in case I die?”

Lord Jonaril coughed.

“Regardless of his motives, Lord Jonaril is right,” said Gerald.

“No,” said Mazael.

“Mitor and his followers are evil, I don’t doubt it. But Lady Rachel seemed only confused,” said Gerald.

“No,” said Mazael. “I will not spare her.”

Sir Nathan cleared his throat. “Rachel was an innocent child. I do not know what she has become. But were I in your place, Mazael, I would spare her.”

“It does not matter,” said Lord Richard. “As Lord of Castle Cravenlock, justice is Lord Mazael’s to administer. Lord Mitor Cravenlock, Lady Marcelle Cravenlock, Lord Marcus Trand, Lord Roget Hunterson, Simonian of Briault, and ‘Sir Albron’ shall all die at my command. What happens to Lady Rachel is Lord Mazael’s concern, not mine.” Lord Jonaril grumbled assent but did not look pleased, and nor did Gerald.

“Then it is settled,” said Lord Richard. “Tomorrow, we shall march. The next sunrise, we shall strike. I shall send Sil Tarithyn and his men, along with Lord Mazael, ahead to scale the castle’s walls and strike from the rear.”

“We needn’t even scale the walls,” said Mazael. “Bethy showed me a passage that leads into the castle. With her help, I should have little difficulty getting inside.”

“Excellent,” said Lord Richard.

“And I shall come, as well,” said Sir Nathan. “Lord Mitor has betrayed me. And Lord Mazael is my new liege. I am bound to follow him.”

“I came to rid the land of the zuvembies and whatever hand had raised them,” said Romaria. “I shall see this through to the end.”

“As shall I,” said Gerald. “It is my duty to put an end to this conflict, to keep my father and his lands from war.” He smiled. “And I’ve followed Sir Mazael for the last ten years. Why should I not do the same for Lord Mazael?”

“We Cirstarcian monks are sworn to rid the land of Demonsouled and San-keth,” said Silar. “It is my sacred duty to come.”

Mazael looked at them. “I am glad for your aid.”

“Well,” said Lucan, his smile sardonic. “Isn’t this a merry little band?”

“Then it is settled,” said Lord Richard. “Tomorrow, we shall march. And then we shall do battle.”

2

Dreams of Blood

Cold wind lashed at his face.

Mazael walked alongside a churning river of blood, a spray of fine droplets coating its banks with a gleaming crimson coat.

The wind howled, bringing the sound of screaming voices to his ears. Mazael's eyes followed the road to the looming bleak towers of Castle Cravenlock. The screams pleased him. They belonged to him. He would tear them from the grasp of others and make them his own. Mazael strode towards Castle Cravenlock, intending to claim it.

Something thumped against his leg, and his glance down. Lion hung from his belt in its usual place, but a strange symbol dangling from a length of chain besides it. He reached for it, but the symbol burned his fingers. He hissed and nearly threw it to the ground, but the pain faded, and he held the symbol before his eyes. It was made of three interlocking steel rings joined together in a triangular shape. Something about the symbol made him feel ill.

The screams rose from the castle, but now they filled him with revulsion.

“So torn. But it will be resolved soon.”

Lord Adalon stood on the bank of the crimson river, its splashing waves splattering his robe with blood. He held his staff in both hands, the silver raven at its top gleaming.

“How you fight with yourself!” said Lord Adalon. Red light gleamed in the depths of his green eyes. “But that is what you do. Fight. Battle. And in the end, conquer.”

Mazael looked at his father, fighting a sudden sense of terrible dread.

“But why do you fight yourself?” said Lord Adalon. “The rage, the fury...the power, are they truly your enemies?  You resist them. Yet they can make you over, make you greater, if you just give into them.”

Mazael stared at Lord Adalon’s gaunt face, his red-shot green eyes, and his twisted and yellowed teeth. “Who are you?”

Lord Adalon laughed. “You know, do you not? I am your father.”

“No,” said Mazael. “No. My father has been dead for ten years. He wouldn’t have come back. He didn’t have the courage.”

“Such small faith,” said Lord Adalon. “Think of me as your guide, then.”

“Guide?” said Mazael. “To what?”

“To your fate,” said Lord Adalon. “To your destiny.”

“You sound like Romaria,” said Mazael. Who was Romaria?  He could not remember.

Lord Adalon laughed. “I think not. She would keep you as a sheep, docile and plodding, just as all the other cattle that wander the world. But I can show you a better way, my son. You’re growing stronger, aren’t you? More of your nature has come to the surface. You couldn’t question me here otherwise. The time soon comes when you will have to make a choice.”

“Choice?” said Mazael. “Between what?”

Lord Adalon beckoned with a bony hand. “I shall show you. Come.”

Mazael backed away, his hand clutching the metal symbol, as if it could protect him from this creature that called itself his father. “No. You’re a liar.”

Lord Adalon’s eyes flashed with crimson fire. “I, a liar? I, who have labored to show you the truth of who you are, what you are? I, who am so much older than you, so much wiser, so much stronger? I, who could crush you like a gnat?” His eyes burned red, icy winds whipping over the plain.

“What are you?” said Mazael.

Lord Adalon blinked, and the decay vanished from his features, his eyes becoming green and bloodshot once more. “I am disappointed. I see you still believe those lies the fat wizard and the old knight wove into you. Very well. Let me show what awaits you. You shall soon have an opportunity that few mortals ever have. You shall have the chance to make yourself over, to become something more than mortal.”

“I don’t want it,” said Mazael. “I’ve never wanted it.”

Lord Adalon laughed. “Have you? You’ve always wanted power, my son, whether you will admit it or not. You reveled in the power of killing. You enjoyed it. And now the Dragonslayer has made you Lord of Castle Cravenlock. More power.”

“No,” said Mazael. “I took it because I had to...”

“Because you wanted to!” said Lord Adalon. “More power in your fist. So much more lies before you. All you have to do is reach out and take it! But if you refuse, this is what lies before you!”

He raised his staff high and rammed its butt into the earth. The world spun around Mazael, and everything disappeared in a blazing red glow.

He felt a railing of nicked wood beneath his hand. He stood on the balcony of Castle Cravenlock’s decrepit chapel, the only light coming from a pair of lanterns on the altar.

“I’ve been here before,” said Mazael. He struggled to remember. “You’ve taken me here before.”

“Most perceptive,” said Lord Adalon. He kicked aside a piece of a rotted pew. “Dust, ashes, and decay. Is this what you choose for yourself? Death, in the end? You have the power to become a demigod among the witless sheep that are men. Why do you refuse?”

The symbol fell from Mazael’s fingers, swinging on its chain and bouncing against his leg. “Because...is it not power. It is corruption.”

“Corruption?” said Lord Adalon. “You don’t really think that, do you?  You know better.”

“No,” said Mazael. “I...”

Lord Adalon smiled. “Let’s take a look, shall we?  Let us see what will happen if you reject this ‘corruption’”.

He clenched his fist, and the red glow shining through the chapel’s stained glass-windows brightened, bathing everything in crimson radiance.

Lord Adalon lowered his fist. “Let’s meet some old friends.”

Mazael heard a footstep.

Rachel stepped out of the shadows, clad in a long black robe with embroidered serpents twisting up the slaves. A golden crown of snakes rested on her head, and crimson runes marked her forehead and cheeks. Her eyes were yellow and slit with vertical black pupils.

“Mazael,” she whispered. Twin fangs protruded from her lips, dripping with greenish fluid. “Come here.”

Mazael’s hand shot to his sword hilt and banged against his hip. His sword was gone. Rachel laughed and lunged for him.

“Isn’t that a shame?” said Lord Adalon. “She’s going to kill you. A pity you surrendered your power. You could have destroyed her so easily, otherwise.”

A drop of venom trickled down Rachel’s chin.

Lord Adalon leaned against the railing. “You may want to duck.”

Mazael heard a snarl behind his shoulder, and dodged just as a dagger slashed through the air. Mitor lurched towards him, lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl of hatred. A dagger trembled in his hand, the razor edges gleaming in the crimson light.

“Isn’t he miserable, my boy?” said Lord Adalon. “Why don’t you tear him apart?  He’s weak and slow. Oh, yes, that’s right. You don’t want the power. But what you refuse, others will take.”

Rachel hissed and lunged, venom falling in a hissing rain to the floor. Mitor stabbed at him, the dagger’s edges cutting air. Mazael groped for his sword, his dagger...but they were not there.

“Isn’t it remarkable how much they hate you?” said Lord Adalon. “And for what?  Their pathetic little scraps of power?” He waved his hand at the domed ceiling. “This old heap of a castle?  What would they give, I wonder, to have the sort of power you so freely reject?  They will kill you to defend their wretched lives. What would they do to take what you have?”

Mazael tried to dodge, but Mitor's dagger plunged into his shoulder. He screamed and fell to one knee. Mitor howled with glee. his arm pumping, stabbing Mazael in the back again and again.

“Poor Mazael,” said Rachel. “You should have listened.”

Her teeth plunged into his forearm.

The pain exploded through his veins, the agony forcing him to his feet. He smelled smoke rising from the poisoned wounds as his arm shriveled. Rachel laughed, a mixture of his blood and her venom smeared across her lips. Mazael tried to move, but could not.

“Poor brother,” Rachel cooed. She kissed him on the cheek, and the poison sizzled into his beard and burned through his skin. “You should have listened to me.”

Mitor plunged his dagger into Mazael’s chest. The force of the blow sent him tumbling over the railing. He screamed, their laughter filling his ears.

He hit the chapel floor, and everything went black.

* * * * *

He regained consciousness some time later.

Mazael got to his knees before the altar. The pain was gone. The fang marks had vanished from his arm, and the burns from his face.

He stood and looked at his belt. His sword was still gone.

“I suppose that must have hurt.”

Lord Adalon stepped out from beneath the balcony’s shadows, his dark robes whispering against the dusty stone floor.

“How am I still alive?” said Mazael.

“An excellent question,” said Lord Adalon. “All events cast shadows. Think of what you just saw as a shadow of what will happen, if you refuse the power that is your birthright.”

“No,” said Mazael. “That won’t happen. It...”

“Oh, yes, of course, that’s right,” said Lord Adalon. “Mitor might be vermin, but Rachel, sweet, innocent, Rachel would never do such a thing. Oh, but she already has, hasn’t she? Did she not pray to that slithering worm that the San-keth worship? Did she not lie to you? And did she not leave you to die in that dark pit beneath Castle Cravenlock?”

Mazael felt the muscles in his jaw trembling.

“And if not them, then others,” said Lord Adalon. “That is the very nature of life. The quest for power. Whoever does not possess it requires it, and whoever does needs more. Even the gods themselves are no different. They grasp and clutch for the sparks of might.” He smiled and made a fist “So, these are your choices. Seize the power that is your destiny and right! Or lie down and die, and let others tear it from your corpse. And it is a choice you must soon make.”

Mitor walked out of the shadows, a poisoned dagger clutched in his fist. Rachel stood next to him, her body draped in the clinging folds of her black robes. Her reptilian eyes watched Mazael, the fangs jutting over her lips.

“And so the choice comes,” said Lord Adalon. “Will you give in to those weaker than you? Will you let them kill you? Or shall you take what is yours and destroy all who stand against you?”

Lord Adalon pulled a sheathed sword from his robes. The scabbard was dark wood inlaid with golden runes. The sword’s crosspiece and hilt were covered in crimson gold, the pommel fashioned in the shape of a roaring demon's head. Looking at it made the hair on Mazael’s neck and arms stand up. The sword was both hideous.

The sword was beautiful.

“What is that?” said Mazael.

“It is yours,” said Lord Adalon. He held the sword out hilt-first. “Your power is that of the Destroyer.”

Mitor snarled and Rachel hissed, advancing towards Mazael.

“If you want to take it, of course,” said Lord Adalon, his voice mournful. “After all, if you don’t, then Mitor and Rachel will kill you. If not them, then others.” He smiled. “But at least you will have done the right thing, eh?”

Mazael remembered the pain of Rachel’s venom, the agony as Mitor’s dagger pumped into his back. But the helplessness had been worst of all. He snarled, clamped his hand around the sword's hilt, and tore it free from the scabbard.

He caught a glimpse of the sword’s long red blade, the edges bright and sharp. Then the sword burst into howling crimson flame, and a jolt of power exploded up Mazael’s arm. Strength flowed through him like a molten river. Murderous fury filled his heart, and he embraced it, feeling it scour away the weakness in his limbs.

Rachel and Mitor flinched, and Mazael laughed at them.

Mitor howled, a dagger grasped in both hands, and charged. Mazael danced around Mitor’s attack and slashed. The burning blade cut through Mitor’s wrists like an axe through butter. Mitor wailed, crimson flames chewing at the charred stumps of his hands. Mazael stepped behind Mitor and carved off his legs at the knee. Mitor flailed and collapsed to the floor, twitching and writhing. Mazael tucked a boot under Mitor’s gut, flipped him over, and stabbed down. Lord Adalon laughed.

Mazael turned from the ruined corpse and faced Rachel.  Her fangs had vanished, and her eyes were now human and very wide. “Mazael...Mazael...oh, please, don’t, Mazael...” She backed away from him, her feet tangling in the hem of her robes.

Mazael stepped over Mitor’s corpse and raised the burning sword high. “Why don’t you run?” The fear on her face was exhilarating.

Rachel tried to flee for the stairs, but she was too slow. Mazael planted his hand between her shoulder blades and shoved. Rachel went sprawling across the floor, crying for him to stop. Her pleas only acted as fuel to the fire burning his mind. He kicked her onto her stomach, and raised his burning sword. He heard his father laughing.

And for the first time, Mazael laughed with him.

“Stop!”

A woman stood before the altar, tall and lean, a bastard sword slung over her back. There was something in her blue eyes that tugged at Mazael. The corona of fire surrounding the sword of the Destroyer flickered.

Lord Adalon’s mocking smile twisted into a grimace. “You!”

Mazael’s sword point wavered. “Who are you?”

“You know,” said the woman. “You tell me.”

The sword’s fires sputtered. “I know...you...you’re...”

“Kill her!” shrieked Lord Adalon. “Kill them both. They’re liars! Don’t you remember the pain?  Do you want them to do that to you again?”

Mazael trembled, the sword's flames roaring, and Rachel sobbed.

“He’s the liar and you know it,” said the woman. Her blue eyes stared into him. “He’ll have you destroy yourself. He’ll make you into a monster, if you let him. Don’t listen to him.”

“They’ll kill me if I don’t!” said Mazael.

“Mitor and Rachel?" said the woman, taking another step towards him. “But they don’t even know you’re Demonsouled. Do you really think there are hordes of enemies waiting to descend on you?” She pointed at Mazael’s father. “Or is he the enemy, spinning his lies around you like a spider’s webs?”

“She is the liar, my son!” said Lord Adalon. His eyes blazed red, matching the fires of Mazael’s sword. “She will claim the power of your soul, if...”

“I don’t even have a full soul,” said the woman. Her dark hair shifted as she glared at Lord Adalon, revealing the tip of a pointed ear. “And I care for Mazael. I will take nothing from him. But what of you? You’ll take everything from him, his mind, his spirit, his soul, and in the end, his life...”

“Care...” whispered Mazael.

He flung the sword aside. It struck the floor and shattered, the crimson flames winking out.

“Romaria,” said Mazael. “Your name is Romaria.”

“Stay away from her!” said Lord Adalon. “She’ll...”

“You go to hell!” roared Mazael. “You’d have had me kill her! I don’t give a damn if you’re right or not, but I’ll not listen to your words any longer!”

Lord Adalon screamed. His mouth stretched into a yawning black pit lined with jagged teeth, crimson flames bursting from the dark length of his staff. The floor trembled, thunder booming overhead. Cracks spread across the floor, burning light shining up from their depths...

Mazael shuddered and came awake.

He felt cool night air washing over his sweat-soaked clothes. He sat against a barrel on the outskirts of Lord Richard’s camp. He remembered going there to sit and to think a while. Instead, he had drifted off to sleep. And the thing in his dreams had found him, almost made him kill Rachel. Mazael lurched to his knees, doubled over, and vomited. It felt as if hammers pounded the inside of his head, matching the writhing cramps in his gut.

After some time, the pains subsided. He fell back against the barrel, panting for breath.

“Here.”

Romaria stood over him, a wineskin in her hands. He took the skin, unstopped it, and took a long pull. It helped to steady the pains in his stomach.

“Don’t drink too much of it,” said Romaria.

Mazael snorted. “A hangover would be an improvement.” He took another drink and handed it back to her. “Thank you. That helped. I had another...”

“Dream?” said Romaria. “Yes, I know. I was in it, after all.”

“What?” said Mazael. “How?  It was just...just...”

“Just a dream?” said Romaria. “They’re more than just dreams, we both know that. After the meal was finished, I came looking for you, because I knew your dreams would come.” She smiled. “You help me sleep. I’ve never been able to sleep well.”

“How did you know?” said Mazael.

“I found you here. You were thrashing and muttering in your sleep,” said Romaria. “Then I felt...pressure in my head, so I sat down besides you and found myself in your dream.” She shook her head. “You were almost lost. I didn’t recognize you. You looked like some terrible god of war...”

“Or the tyrant kings Silar told us about,” said Mazael.

Romaria nodded. “Yes.”

“Gods,” said Mazael.

“Who was that, in your dream?” said Romaria. “It couldn’t have been your father. From what I’ve heard of Lord Adalon, he was nothing like that.”

“No,” said Mazael. “He wasn’t.”

“Perhaps it was something wearing his face, as Skhath wore the face of Sir Albron Eastwater,” said Romaria.

“Perhaps it was myself,” said Mazael, “a reflection of what I really am. Perhaps it was my Demonsouled nature, talking to me.”

“No,” said Romaria.

“You know better,” said Mazael. “I almost killed you, both in the waking world and in dreams.” Despair churned at him. “I...”

“No!” said Romaria. She seized his hands. “Listen to me. That thing in your dreams, whatever it was, is not you.”

Mazael’s laugh was dark. “You’re certain of that, now?  You saw what I did. You saw the Destroyer's sword.” He remembered that sword’s sheer strength, the power running up his arm and armoring him.

“But you haven’t done any of those things!” said Romaria. “You haven't killed Mitor. You haven't killed Rachel. That creature in your dreams is a liar and a trickster. It’s a devil come to tempt you. But when that madness has overtaken you, you’ve always managed to pull back from the edge.”

“Because of you,” said Mazael. “I’d have become the thing in my dreams long ago, if it weren’t for you.”

“I think there’s a way you can stop it permanently,” said Romaria.

“How?” said Mazael. “Anything.”

“Don’t kill Mitor and Rachel,” said Romaria.

“I have to,” said Mazael. “Mitor is a wretch and a traitor. And Rachel lied to me and betrayed me. She would have killed us. If anyone deserves to die it his her!” Anger rose in his voice, and Mazael fought back his rage. “It has to be done.”

“Why?” said Romaria. “The thing in your dreams wants you to kill them. Why should you listen to it? You know it’s a liar and a deceiver. It wears the face of a dead man, Mazael!”

Mazael wished he had never returned to the Grim Marches. But would the demon magic within him have risen to the surface anyway?  If it had, he would not have had Romaria to help him fight it. He looked at her, and despite everything, was glad he had come here and had met her.

“Help me,” said Mazael. “I don’t have the strength. If it weren’t for you, I would have fallen long ago.” His fingers tightened around hers. “I need you.”

“And I you,” said Romaria.

“How?” said Mazael. “You’re not Demonsouled, as am I.”

“I don’t know,” said Romaria. “I just do.” She leaned forward and kissed him.

“Stay with me, when this is done,” said Mazael when they pulled apart.

Romaria smiled. “As what? Can you truly see me as Lady of Castle Cravenlock?”

“You’d make a damn sight better than Marcelle,” said Mazael. Romaria laughed. “For that matter, can you see me as Lord of Castle Cravenlock?”

“Oh, yes,” said Romaria. “I can see you as a king.”

“And you as my queen?” said Mazael.

Romaria laughed. “Or myself as queen and you as my lord consort.”

“I don’t think I would mind that at all,” said Mazael.

“I’ll stay with you and help you, however I can.” She reached down and picked up the holy symbol hanging from his belt. “But I’m not the only one who can help you.”

A retort formed on Mazael’s lips. Then he remembered how Bethy and Cramton had come to his aid after his prayer. He lifted the symbol, remembering how it had burned him in the dream. It had burned him when he set out to kill his siblings.

He let the symbol fall back against his belt. “I don’t know what to do. Rachel and Mitor deserve death, and I want to give it to them. I don’t know if can. Or if I should, rather.”

“You shouldn’t,” said Romaria. “Give them over to Lord Richard. Let him decide what is to be done with them.”

Mazael closed his eyes. She was right, but the rage in his chest still burned. “I don’t know what will happen.”

“No one does,” said Romaria.

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Mazael. “Perhaps I should let Lord Richard decide their fate.” He felt his face harden. “But Simonian and Skhath...I’ll kill them, if I can. Skhath’s a thing, not a man. And Simonian...”

“On this you’re right,” said Romaria. “I came north to kill Simonian, remember?  We’ve both seen the monsters his necromancy raises from the earth. He has respect for neither the living or the dead, the earth or the gods.” Her voice dropped. “If anything, think of Simonian. If you kill your brother and your sister, you may become like him.”

Mazael remembered the wizard’s muddy eyes, his tangled iron-gray beard, the dark smirk that often played across his face. He pictured the expression on his own features. It was not a pleasant thought.

“Gods forbid,” said Mazael. “Him and the thing in my dreams, whatever it is.” He clutched the holy symbol in his fist. “Gods forbid.” He licked his lips and dropped his hands into his lap to hide their trembling. “Please, whatever happens, stay with me.”

“I will,” said Romaria, “but only if you stay with me.”

Mazael pulled her close and kissed her. “That is the one thing I can guarantee.”

Chapter XI

1

The Face Beneath

They reined up a mile south of Castle Cravenlock, the watch fires atop the castle's towers throwing back the night.

“Gods in heaven,” said Lucan. “What an ugly castle. We ought to raze it with the San-keth inside.”

Mazael looked at the dark-cloaked wizard. “Beautiful, no. Strong, yes. We’re going to try to take this heap so your father doesn’t lose five thousand men storming it.”

“And Simonian and the priest of the traitor god must be made to face justice,” said Sil Tarithyn.

“I see they’ve taken greater precautions since our last visit,” said Sir Nathan. “The watch fires are new, and I there are extra guards on the walls.”

Romaria laughed. “Hardly surprising. We did practically walk out of their temple.”

“And now we’re walking back in,” said Timothy. “I rather wish the irony were lost on me.”

“I do believe this is when my lord ardmorgan and I part from your company, Sir Mazael,” said Lucan.

Sil Tarithyn and his warriors would scale the castle walls with Lucan Mandragon. They would then sweep through the castle and kill as many of the armsmen and snake worshippers as they could find. Mazael had every confidence that Sil Tarithyn’s Elderborn warriors would more than match Mitor's disorganized and undisciplined men. Lucan would assist the Elderborn, but save his magical strength for a battle with Simonian or Skhath.

Mazael and his companions would use the secret entrance Bethy described. With luck, the majority of the soldiers would have been drawn off by Sil Tarithyn’s attack. Mazael hoped to take Skhath and Simonian unawares - even with Lucan's aid, he did not think they could defeat the San-keth cleric and the Demonsouled wizard without the aid of surprise. For safety’s sake, Mazael had left the squires with Lord Richard.

Mazael nodded. “Good luck to you, Lucan, my lord ardmorgan.”

Lucan smirked. “Don’t worry for me, Lord Mazael. I make my own luck.”

“The Mother of our People shall bless our efforts this day,” said Sil Tarithyn. He adjusted the string on his great black bow. “We fight against great evil. If it is her will that any of us shall fall, then we shall depart gladly, knowing we have helped rid the earth of an abomination.”

“And good luck to you too,” said Mazael. Sil Tarithyn, Lucan, and the Elderborn warriors moved towards the castle like silent wolves. “Gerald, the tabards.”

Gerald produced black tabards marked with the three crossed silver swords of Castle Cravenlock, and Mazael and his companions donned them. With luck, they could pass as another band of Cravenlock armsmen. Mazael doubted the lax soldiers would spare them more than a perfunctory glance.

The reek of the camp grew stronger as they drew closer. They rode through the hodgepodge tangle of tents, stables, heaps of supplies, and flapping banners. Lord Richard would tear through this rabble like a hot poker. A drunken man in a Cravenlock tabard, bereft of his trousers, chased after a giggling woman, and both ran past without sparing Mazael another glance.

The ground grew steeper and rockier as they approached the base of the castle's hill, and Mazael reined up.

“Here,” said Mazael. “Bethy said the door would be here, between those two boulders.” A worn path let to a wide gap between two lichen-spotted boulders.

“You there! Halt!”

Mazael turned, reaching into his cloak for Lion's hilt. Three men in Cravenlock tabards and chain mail hurried up the hill.

“This section of the camp is forbidden to common soldiers,” said an armsman. Mazael saw the green lines of a serpent tattoo on his forehead. “Only those who have taken sacred oaths of fealty to Lord Mitor are allowed here.”

“Sacred oaths?” said Mazael. “You mean those who have knelt and kissed that filthy slime-crawling worm?”

“Blasphemy!” snarled the soldiers.

An armsman peered forward. “I know you!  Sir Mazael! Take...”

Mazael rammed Lion through the armsman's face. Another soldier turned to attack, and Gerald's longsword plunged into his neck. The survivor ran, and made it three steps before Romaria's arrow lanced into his back and sent him tumbling down the slope.

“We should conceal the bodies,” said Gerald.

Mazael shook his head. “No time. Besides, I’ll wager that it isn’t uncommon for some of these thugs to wind up dead in the morning.”

They dismounted, secured the horses, and hurried up the path. Concealed between the boulders stood a flat plane of weathered rock, its surface pitted by wind and rain and moss. Mazael knelt and brushed away a pile of pebbles and dust, revealing a smooth lump of red granite, out of place among the gray rock, just as Bethy had described. He clenched a fist and pressed it into the stone, pushing the stone into the earth. There was a click, and the weathered rock face slid aside to reveal a dark opening. Timothy stepped into the passage, muttered a spell, and lifted his fist, the glow from his fingers illuminating at tunnel leading into the temple complex. After the others had entered, Mazael pressed a stone in the wall, and the door slid shut behind them.

“Let’s pay Simonian and Skhath a visit, shall we?” said Mazael. They stripped off their Cravenlock tabards and dropped them by the door. Mazael drew Lion, the sword's edges beginning to glow.

Creatures of dark magic were nearby.

The passageway sloped upwards, the walls and floor caked with the dust of ages. Romaria ranged ahead, scouting, and returned in a few moments.

“This corridor opens into the dungeon that held us,” said Romaria. “There’s a guardroom with about six armsmen. I think two more are guarding the cells.”

“We can take them,” said Mazael.

“It sounds like there's a ceremony going on the temple," said Romaria. "I could hear the chanting. And the cells are full. Every one of them has at least one prisoner, some more than one.”

“Mitor makes new friends so quickly," said Mazael. "Did you happen to see who was in there?”

Romaria shook her head. “I didn’t want to get that close.”

“I doubt they’ll be fond of Mitor,” said Silar. “We may have found some potential allies.”

“Well,” said Mazael. “Let’s find out.”

He followed Romaria into the familiar dungeon corridor, torch-cast shadows dancing on the walls. A guard looked up, and Mazael recognized one of the armsmen who had guarded his cell. The soldier just had time to gasp before Lion ripped across his throat. Another guard stood at the far end of the corridor, and shouted out an alarm. The door behind him burst open, and a half-dozen armsmen raced out.

Mazael dropped into a crouch as he heard the creak of Romaria's bow. An arrow flew over his head and flung the lead soldier to the ground. The next man tried to rush him, and Mazael blocked, sidestepped, and killed the armsman with a single quick trust. The survivors came at him in a single confused rush. Mazael backpedaled, snapping Lion back and forth as he parried and blocked.

Timothy shouted a spell and flung out his hand. Golden lights flashed around an armsman, and the man yawned, blinked, and slumped to the ground. With a cry of alarm the remaining soldiers threw down their weapons and ran. Romaria’s bow twanged, flinging another man to the floor. Silar leapt forward, wrapped his arms around an armsman's throat, and smashed the man's head into the wall with a hideous crack. Sir Nathan and Sir Gerald shoved forward, their swords raised.

The fight was over a few heartbeats later.

“Is everyone all right?” said Mazael.

“For now,” said Sir Nathan.

“I say, I say!” came a voice from a cell. “What is going on? Who is out there? Damn you! Mitor!”

Mazael frowned. “I recognize that voice. Find the keys.”

Romaria found them in the guardroom, and Mazael opened the cell door and found himself face-to-face with Sir Commander Galan Hawking.

“Sir Mazael?” said Galan. “Mitor said he had killed you.”

Mazael snorted. “You ought to know better than to trust Mitor by now.”

Galan swore. “Gods, yes. To think I had been led like a sheep by that fat fool...”

“How did you wind up down here?” said Mazael.

“One of my knights saw Mitor’s soldiers take a group of children captive from the town,” said Galan. “They reported to me, we followed the armsmen, and discovered this pit of evil beneath the castle.” His eyes had a brittle, frantic light. “Such vileness. The Knights Justiciar are sworn to destroy such creatures.” He laughed, his voice hysterical. “I’d never dreamed San-keth were more than children’s fables. I suppose I’ll see a Demonsouled quite shortly.”

“You have. Simonian,” said Mazael.

Galan coughed. “Not surprising. That wizard is a foul one. Why didn’t I see it?  How could I have been so blind to all this?” He raked his trembling fingers through his hair. “Gods above, gods above, oh merciful gods...”

Mazael grabbed the Justiciar by the shoulders and shook him. “Stop babbling. How many of your men are down here?”

“Eight others, my preceptors,” said Hawking. He grimaced. “Simonian put us to sleep with sorcery. When we awoke, we were here. Mitor told my forces that I had departed for Swordor to beseech the Grand Master to bring the Justiciar armies to our cause.” He spat on the floor. “Gods be praised that I did not. To think that I had allied myself with Mitor and that serpent priest...a creature of such vileness...”

“You know better now,” said Mazael. “A tribe of the Elderborn and the Dragon’s Shadow are attacking the castle as we speak. Lord Richard’s army is a few hours away. He will smash through Mitor’s men and those mercenaries. If you want to undo some of the damage you’ve done, get to your men and get them clear. Or, better yet, have them fight alongside Lord Richard’s men.”

“Lord Richard!” said Sir Commander Galan. “Gods! I cannot decide who I hate more, him or Lord Mitor. A usurper versus a heretic, eh? What a choice! And wood elves? What good will come from consorting with those forest demons?” He grimaced. “I suppose we cannot pick and choose our allies. I shall command my men fight alongside the usurping Dragonslayer, since I have no other choice.”

Mazael smirked. “How heartening. The passage is that way. Go, now. I doubt you have much time.”

“I shall send two of my preceptors,” said Hawking. His eyes bright and feverish with guilt. “I will stay and fight besides you, Sir Mazael...rather, Lord Mazael. One way or the other, we shall make you Lord of Castle Cravenlock once this night is over.”

“Their armor and weapons are likely in the guardroom, same as ours were,” said Romaria.

“Very well,” said Mazael. “Hurry up and arm yourselves. We haven’t much time.”

Romaria opened the other cell doors, and the Justiciar preceptors stumbled. Hawking commanded two of them to return to their camp and prepare the knights and sergeants for battle.

Hawking pointed at a door on the opposite wall of the guardroom. “That door opens into some storerooms. Beyond that is the blasphemous temple.”

“I know,” said Mazael. “One of the castle servants got us out the cells. She knew all these rooms.”

“Then let us go,” said Sir Commander Galan.

Mazael kicked down the door, stepping into a high vaulted corridor. Polished red granite gleamed like fire, and closed doors rested in niches. A knot of Cravenlock armsmen stood some distance down the corridor. Besides them stood a skeletal figure with a serpent wrapped around its spine. For a moment Mazael thought it was Skhath, but this San-keth was smaller, its scales not so bright. Lion burst into hot blue flame, and the armsmen turned and flinched.

“Kill them!” screeched the San-keth priest. The armsmen raised their weapons and charged, while the priests began hissing a spell.

Mazael ran at them, Romaria raising her bow. Sir Commander Galan howled and charged, his  preceptors a half-step behind. The San-keth’s black-slit eyes fixed on Mazael, and its carrier lifted a skeletal hand.

Timothy stepped forward and shouted a word. Multicolored sparks flared up the San-keth’s enchanted skeleton, and the creature reeled, its incantation dissolving into an angry hiss. Mazael stabbed at it, and the undead carrier disintegrated into a heap of smoking bones. The San-keth reared out of the wreckage, fangs bared, and Mazael took its head off.

The battle was over quickly, with the Cravenlock armsmen overwhelmed and slain. The hall ended in a double set of black doors. Chanting rose from behind the doors, yet Mazael heard screams and bellowed commands echoing from other chambers.

“It seems as if Sil Tarithyn and the Dragon’s Shadow have made their presence known,” said Mazael. The massive doors were locked and barred. “Timothy, if you please!”

The young wizard nodded and began another incantation. He pointed at the doors, and Mazael heard the bar shatter and fall to the floor. The doors swung open with a slow groan, and Timothy grunted and wiped sweat from his forehead.

Mazael stepped through the doors and into the temple, his boots clicking against the blood-red marble floor, the walls and pillars with their ghastly carvings rising around him. The huge statue of the serpent god loomed over the altar. A fresh corpse lay atop the altar, blood running down its sides, and a ring of people knelt before the dais, Mitor, Marcelle, Rachel, and Lord Roget and Lord Marcus among them. Skhath stood before the kneeling supplicants, a golden chalice in his skeletal hands.

“Drink you now of this blood, offered up to great Sepharivaim,” said Skhath.

"Skhath!" roared Mazael, lifting Lion.

The San-keth reared back and hissed. “You! Kill him!  I command...”

The doors on the other wall of the temple burst open, and a pair of screaming armsmen burst through. “Lord Mitor!  Lord Mitor!  We’re under attack...” The man’s scream ended in a wet gurgle as an Elderborn arrow sank into his chest.

“Stop them!” howled Mitor. “Kill Mazael, kill him now!”

“Mitor!” roared Sir Commander Galan. “Face me, you sniveling liar!”

Everything exploded into chaos. The Cravenlock armsmen in the temple drew their weapons. Skhath threw the chalice to the ground and reached for Rachel. Lord Roget Hunterson fell to his knees, clutching his chest, while Lord Marcus Trand sprinted for the doors. Skhath grabbed Rachel and pulled her up. Arrows hissed through the open doors.

Mazael charged, Romaria a half-step behind him. An armsman brandished a mace and sprang at Mazael. Mazael parried the mace, Lion ringing from the force of the blow, and Romaria took off the man's head with a powerful two-handed cut.

They fought their way through the press side-by-side. Galan Hawking howled with fury, striking left and right. Sir Nathan bellowed commands, taking command of the Justiciars as Galan raged. Mazael saw Skhath, Mitor, Marcelle, and Rachel running for a shadowed staircase under the balcony. He growled and launched a backhand that gutted a Cravenlock soldier.

“We’ve got to catch them!” said Mazael. Romaria gave him a worried glance, and nodded.

A soldier came at Mazael armed with a war axe and a heavy shield. Mazael beat aside his attack and went on the offensive, Lion flashing and spinning in a storm of blue flame. The man's axe clipped Mazael's shoulder, but he twisted and stabbed, Lion's point plunging into the man's heart.

He already felt the wound on his shoulder healing itself as the armsman fell.

Then they were in the clear. Mazael saw Elderborn running along the balcony, sending arrows lancing down. The air rang with screams and crashing steel. Mazael and Romaria jumped past a pair of dying men and ran for the staircase.

The staircase was as twisted as a serpent and as narrow as a needle’s eye. Mazael heard Mitor’s labored breath above him, and the grinding of stone against stone. Then the stairs ended in a closed stone door with no sign of a handle. Another one of the castle's hidden doors, no doubt. He had to find the trigger.

Rachel was on the other side of that door.

“Look for a hidden key or switch,” Mazael said. Romaria nodded and began searching.

“Damn you!” Mazael hear Mitor’s voice through cracks in the stone wall. “Damn you!”

“Silence!” said Skhath. “Simonian, you miserable traitor!  I shall sink my fangs into your lying...”

“Come now,” came Simonian’s amused voice. “We both know you can do no such thing. If you wish to escape, simply take horses and flee through the gate.”

“Save us!” said Marcelle. “Save us, save us!”

“We cannot leave through the gate!  The courtyard is thick with the Elderborn.” Skhath’s voice rose to a sibilant snarl. “You must use your arts to take us from this place. It is our only hope!”

“Your only hope,” said Simonian, and he laughed. “You have brought this on yourself. Did you really think you could conquer the Grim Marches with Mitor as your patsy?” His laughter redoubled. “You poor fool. It’s rather amusing. You and Mitor both wanted to conquer the Grim Marches. Now Lord Richard, or Lord Mazael, most likely, will kill you both. A fine joke.”

“Kill Mazael, at least!” screamed Mitor. “Damn you, wizard, I bought your services!  Kill him!”

“Why should I do that?” said Simonian. “I have no argument with Lord Mazael.”

“Don’t call him that!” said Mitor. “I am Lord of Castle Cravenlock, I am liege lord of the Grim Marches...”

“Lord Mazael is more than you,” said Simonian. “More than any of you crawling mortals.”

“It doesn’t have to be like this!” said Rachel. Her was voice so soft Mazael could barely hear it. “Mazael isn’t the monster you think he is. He could show mercy yet, if we surrender. Skhath, please, there’s still a way to end...”

“Do not touch me!” said Skhath. Mazael heard a crackle of a spell and Rachel’s scream.

“I will kill you for this betrayal, you faithless infidel,” said Skhath. “I shall do that, at least.”

Simonian roared with laughter. “How do you propose to do that? Think, Skhath!  Do you know what the ultimate irony is? You have failed in your purpose, but in doing so, have fulfilled mine perfectly...”

“Got it!” said Romaria. She pressed her fingers into a crack between two stones.

The stone door slid aside with a groan, opening below the balcony in the castle's chapel. Dozens of candles on the altar threw back the darkness, revealing  windows that had been painted over with scenes from the San-keth temple. Simonian stood atop the altar, cloaked in his dark robes, while Skhath, Mitor, and Marcelle stared up at the necromancer. A leather weapons belt hung from Skhath’s shoulder, holding a sheathed longsword and a pair of daggers.

Rachel lay sprawled at the foot of the dais, eyes closed.

“Ah!” said Simonian. “It’s seems I won’t have to kill you after all. Lord Mazael will do that for me.” Simonian made a spinning gesture with his hand and faded from sight. Skhath hissed and lunged for the necromancer, but his skeletal fingers raked only empty air.

“He’s still there,” said Romaria. “It’s an illusion. He’s made himself invisible.”

“Mazael Cravenlock,” said Skhath. “You have made a ruin of everything!  By the true god, I should have killed you!”

“Probably,” said Mazael.

Mitor’s cowered behind the serpent priest. “Kill him, Skhath, oh, please, kill him now.” Mitor was haggard, his face sallow with terror. Mazael felt a moment of pity, but contempt soon replaced it. Mitor had brought this disaster on himself.

“It needn’t come to this, Sir Mazael,” said Skhath. “Lord of Castle Cravenlock? Bah! You’ll be the Dragonslayer’s slave, just as Lord Adalon and Mitor were. But I can change that. With the power of Karag Tormeth and great Sepharivaim behind you, you could become liege lord of the Grim Marches, even king...”

“Shut up,” said Mazael, striding through the rows of pews.

“It doesn’t seem as if slithering Sepharivaim’s power did Lady Arissa much good,” said Romaria. “Nor did it do Mitor any good. Do you think Mazael is that stupid?”

“You want to kill me?  You still have the chance.” Mazael lifted Lion. “Try.” He slapped the flat of his blade against Romaria’s sword, the blue flames spreading to her weapon.

Romaria swung her heavy sword in a loop. “Shall we see if a half-breed wild woman is a match for a full-blooded serpent?”

Skhath shoved Mitor and Marcelle in front of him. “You think I shall fall as easily as Simonian's zuvembies or Mitor’s idiot soldiers?  I shall not. I have the power of Sepharivaim behind me, humans. It is time you learned to fear his strength!”

Skhath snatched the daggers from his weapons belt, the dark blades gleaming with poison. Mazael raised his sword in guard to block any thrown daggers. Mitor and Marcelle were both screaming, begging.

Then the serpent priest stepped forward and slammed the daggers into the Lord and Lady of Castle Cravenlock.

Mazael froze in astonishment. Mitor fell to his knees, his eyes fixed on Mazael. Blood gushed from his mouth, and he collapsed to the floor in a heap. Marcelle managed to stand for a moment longer, blood trickling down her face, then she collapsed atop her husband. Blood dripped from their mouths and ears in a gathering dark pool.

“Why did you do that?” said Romaria. She looked as stunned as Mazael.

Skhath laughed and Lion burned white-hot.

The blood oozed over Mitor’s face and transformed it into a gruesome mask, his clothes sizzling and smoking as the black blood touched them. Their blood flowed over their Mitor and Marcelle's bodies like a coat of paint, filling the chapel with a hideous stench. Mazael could not take his eyes from the ghastly sight.

“Mazael!  He’s casting a spell!” said Romaria.

Mazael’s eyes snapped up as Skhath’s dead hands flickered in a spell. Green light danced up his arms. “Fool! See the wrath of Sepharivaim!”

Black blood covered Mitor and Marcelle’s naked bodies from head to foot.

Then the corpses moved.

“Simonian prided himself on his necromancy,” said Skhath. “I do not need his help! He has nothing to match the wrath of Sepharivaim.”

The two corpses stood, the black blood making them look like animated shadows. They moved with a sliding, deadly grace, a far cry above the shuffling zuvembies, or even the armored warriors Mazael had fought in the temple corridor.

“Kill them both,” said Skhath. “Kill the unbelievers!”

The creatures lunged at Mazael, fingers hooked into claws. Skhath reached over his skeleton’s shoulder and drew the sword.

Mazael leapt back as Mitor’s animated corpse clawed at him, leaving a trail of black bloodstains on the floor. He worked his sword in intricate circles, the monstrosity flinching away from the fire in his sword. He saw Romaria struggling against Marcelle’s corpse.

Skhath strode towards him, sword grasped in skeletal hand. “When I faced you before, I had to hold back, lest you discover my true nature.” The serpent’s hissing laughter echoed. “Now I need not.”

His spellbound skeleton moved with grace and power. Mazael knew that if he could get his sword through Skhath’s defense the magical fires would rip apart the skeleton. But the serpent priest moved too fast. Mitor's corpse grabbed for Mazael, the thing’s fingers brushing his shoulder, and a deathly chill sank into his left arm. Skhath’s silvery sword bit through Mazael’s armor and skidded off a rib. Mazael grunted and staggered back to a guard stance, feeling his blood stick to the inside of his tunic. He heard Romaria’s rapid breathing and muttered curses as she struggled.

“I shall make you confess the glory of Sepharivaim before I take your life!” howled Skhath. His sword went high, then low, and angled in a stab for Mazael’s chest. Mazael beat aside the thrust and slashed, and Skhath rolled his wrists and caught the blow. Mazael tensed his legs and shoved. Skhath's undead skeleton was lighter than Mazael, and the serpent priest reeled back. Mazael lunged forward for the kill, but Mitor's blood-soaked corpse interposed itself. Bloody fingers raked across Mazael's cuirass, the chill sinking deep into his chest. The cold in his chest slowed him just long enough for Skhath to tear a gash down his leg. Mazael realized he could not face both Skath and the animated corpse by himself.

Romaria had been driven to the other side of the chapel, near the barred doors that opened into the courtyard. She wielded her bastard sword with both hands, the blue flame of her blade bathing her face in an azure glow. Marcelle’s corpse had been slashed and torn in a dozen places, yet it still pressed forward.

Mazael attacked at Mitor’s corpse in a flurry of slashes. The thing retreated from his attack, and he scored a minor hit on its shoulder. The black blood shriveled away, revealing a patch of white flesh, a keening wail escaping Mitor's mouth. But Mazael didn’t dare press the attack with Skhath’s sword darting and stabbing. The tip of the serpent priest’s blade nicked off Mazael’s helm. The blow staggered him, and he barely parried a strike that would have driven through his heart.

Skhath’s hissing laughter filled Mazael’s ears.

Mazael grimaced and took Lion in both hands as Skhath and Mitor's corpse drove him towards the wall. Once they had him against the wall, he couldn't evade their blows, and they stood between him and Romaria.

Mazael growled. Some of the battle-rage welled up in his mind. He welcomed it.

He parried Skhath’s next slash and shoved hard. Skhath stumbled, skeletal feet clacking against the floor. Mazael wheeled left just as Mitor reached for him, twisting his sword, and Mitor’s hand clamped around Lion’s blade instead. There was a brilliant blue flash, and the undead thing wailed. It fell back, most of its left arm gone, the stump a sizzling mass of burned flesh.

Mazael sprinted past Mitor’s wailing corpse, Lion clenched in both fists. Skhath seized his sword and rose to one knee, but Mazael was past him in a second. He heard the Mitor-thing in pursuit. Mazael ignored them. He had one chance to do this right.

Romaria and Marcelle’s corpse moved in an intricate dance. Romaria’s eyes fixed on Mazael’s for a moment, and then she backed away from the dead thing, letting it drive her towards the wall. Mazael heard Skhath and Mitor’s corpse behind him.

He sprang at Marcelle's corpse. It started to turn, but too late. Mazael brought Lion down in a huge two-handed cut, the blade slashing through Marcelle's shoulder and into her chest. Blue fire blazed, black blood shriveling. The creature shrieked, its voice a knife against Mazael’s ears. Romaria drove her sword into Marcelle's ruined chest. There was another flash of blue fire, brighter than before. Mazael caught a brief glimpse of Marcelle, the black blood burned away, thrashing like a landed fish on their blades. Then her body withered into black, stinking ash.

Mazael spun in time to catch Skhath’s enraged thrust. The serpent priest went on the offensive, swinging his gleaming sword in mighty two-handed blows. Romaria launched a looping swing, and Skhath hopped back, the bones of his carrier clacking.

“Kill him!” hissed Skhath.

Mitor’s corpse lurched forward, and Mazael slashed Lion across the corpse’s chest. Romaria took off its right arm with another chop. It wailed and stumbled back, the black blood crumbling from Mitor's pale body. Mazael saw Mitor’s face, the bloodshot green eyes dead and staring, and stabbed Lion into Mitor's chest. Blue fire burst through the dead thing, and Mitor’s corpse shuddered and disintegrated into a spray of ashes.

Skhath backed away from them, sword raised in guard. His head swiveled back and forth as he looked for some means of escape.

“No tricks left, snake?” said Romaria. “Seems the might of Sepharivaim wasn’t so great.”

“Blasphemer,” said Skhath, his voice a dry whisper. He ran forward, sword raised high.

Mazael moved to parry, but Skhath’s coils suddenly unwound from the skeleton’s spine. The serpent, hurled forward by its carrier’s momentum, flew like an arrow for Mazael’s face. Skhath’s jaws yawned wide, revealing gleaming white fangs. Mazael tried to change his parry in time.

Romaria’s sword tore a long gash on Skhath’s scaled flank. The force of her blow knocked the San-keth aside, and the serpent struck the ground, writhing and hissing. Mazael lashed out and struck the headless skeleton, smashing it with a single blow.

Skhath slithered towards the altar, leaving a trail of fresh blood. Mazael overtook the writhing serpent and brought his foot down, pinning Skhath behind the head. Skhath hissed and cursed, spitting venom, but his jaws could not reach Mazael’s leg.

“Stop this!  Stop this!” said Skhath. “You dare not touch a servant of Sepharivaim, you dare not, he will avenge, Sepharivaim, save me, protect me...”

Mazael’s sword came down and ended the creature’s frantic prayers. He kicked the staring head aside in disgust. The long scaled body stopped its thrashing and lay very still. The chapel fell silent.

Rachel still lay at the base of the altar. Her clothes were shredded and torn, her skin marked with bruises and cuts. Mazael looked at his sister and felt such a peculiar mixture of pity and rage that he thought his head would explode. Rachel had helped bring about all the darkness that had befallen the Grim Marches. She deserved to die just as much as Mitor had. Yet Rachel had been a prisoner here for the last fifteen years. And Mitor had paid enough for both of them.

Romaria touched his arm. “Don’t. There’s been enough death already.”

“It’s not finished yet,” said Mazael. “Is he still here?”

Romaria nodded. She pulled a silver coin from her belt and made it dance across her fingers as she cast a spell. There was a flash, and Simonian appeared atop the altar, his invisibility dispelled.

His murky eyes shone with amusement.

“Well,” said Simonian. “That was impressive. Mightier men than you have fallen to the wrath of Sepharivaim.”

“Who are you?” said Romaria.

“I am who I am, dear lady,” said Simonian.

“No,” said Romaria. “I recognize the spell upon you now. It’s the same sort of spell Skhath always wore when he masqueraded as Sir Albron Eastwater. Who are you? Another San-keth priest?”

“No,” said Mazael. “What are you?”

Simonian laughed. “Perceptive, is she not?  Well...why not?  This beard itches terribly. And it is the end of things...why should you now not know the truth?”

Simonian's face began to shimmer and ripple, the features morphing and changing like sculptor's putty. His features flowed into those of Lord Adalon Cravenlock, the grinning Lord Adalon Mazael had seen in his dreams. The faces of a dozen men appeared, vanished, appeared again. Then the illusion vanished, revealing a lean, hawk-nosed face with a trimmed beard and cold gray eyes.

It was Mattias Comorian, the jongleur he had met at Eastwater inn weeks ago.

“Is...is that his true form?” said Mazael.

“No,” said Romaria. “There’s still an illusion there.”

Mattias laughed. “This is what I looked like as a mortal man, many years ago.” The jongleur’s smoother voice had replaced Simonian’s rough tones. “If you were to gaze upon me in all my glory...the sight would rather destroy your minds.”

“You were here all along!” said Mazael. “You were at the inn. You were Simonian. And you were the thing in my dreams, weren’t you?" His mind spun at the realiziation, filling with dread. "What manner of creature are you?”

“Why, the same as you,” said the thing standing atop the altar.

“What is your name?  Who are you, really?” said Romaria. “Answer!”

The creature laughed. “Names? What is a name?  I’ve had so many in my life. Call me Mattias. It’s my favorite. But in Briault I am known as Simonian the Necromancer. In Ritoria, mothers used to call me Old Man Ghoul. They still warn their children, lest I snatch them away. The Travish peasants still whisper tales of Margath the Terrible.” He smiled, as if recalling a fond memory. “There was Cristiphar Barragon, who convinced the last Mandrag king to lead Dracaryl to its downfall. I was Marugot the Warlock, who advised King Julius Roland to wage war to the ruin of his land. Sir Trakis of Richtofar, who counseled the Patriarch of Cristafel to lead his holy war into Travia and turn the rivers red with blood.” He laughed. “Ah, names, names, so many names I have worn! I’ve lost count. The Elderborn call me sar’diskhar, the Hand of Chaos. But the High Elderborn name is closest to the truth, closest to what they called me in the palaces of Tristafel long ago...altamane’malevagr...the Old Demon.”

Mazael remembered all the tales he had heard in his life, all the times peasants had cursed and muttered the words “Old Demon.” Fear and rage coursed through him in equal measure.

But also a sensation of strange rightness. As if for the first time he had met someone who truly was like himself.

“But you needn’t call me any of those names,” said Mattias, the Old Demon, spreading his arms wide. “There is only one thing you can call me.”

“What?” said Mazael.

“Father,” said Mattias.

Mazael looked at Mattias’s cold gray eyes.

The eyes were mirror images of his own.

“No,” said Mazael. “That...that cannot be.”

“Oh, but it is,” said Mattias, grinning. “Don’t you see?  How many Cravenlocks have gray eyes? Look at your miserable mother. How she despised her husband, how she lusted for power!” He leered. “She would have done anything for someone who could bring her power. Look at your wretched, dead brother and your foolish sister. You are beyond them. You see, they were Lord Adalon’s children, but you are my son. You are more than simply Demonsouled!  Most of our so-called kindred have but the barest thread of my father’s magic in their souls. But I am his son, the son of a god, and you are my son!”

“Don’t listen to him, Mazael,” said Romaria.

“How...how can this be?” said Mazael. His hands shook so badly he could barely hold his sword. “I...

Mattias smiled. “Don’t you see, my son?  Our father, the Great Demon, died long ago. We are his heirs, his descendants. The world belongs to us. Come with me, Mazael, and I will teach you. I will show you all you can accomplish with the power in your soul. I will show you how to transcend death, to live beyond the mortal fools who crawl across this world like cattle. I will show you how to rule them, to make them dance to your will.”

“You don’t have the right,” said Romaria. “The Great Demon didn’t have the right.”

The Old Demon laughed. “My dear lady, I have the right to do whatever I wish. And so does Mazael. You, and those like you, belong to us.”

“No,” said Romaria. “Don’t listen to him. You’ve heard what he’s done. You’ve seen the vileness he has wrought here.”

“I know,” said Mazael. “I know.” Romaria was right. Yet he felt the power within. Mattias’s words had coaxed it out of the dark corners of his soul. It was sweeter than anything he’d known.

He wanted it so badly.

“Don’t listen to him,” said Romaria. “You don’t have to. I’m here with you.”

Mattias snorted. “How cloying. Do you obey her will in all matters?  You are more than her and can become greater still. I offer you the power of the gods, and you heed a half-breed mortal?”

“You’re a liar,” said Mazael.

A glimmer of red fire flashed in Mattias’s eyes. “Am I?”

“Yes,” said Romaria. “He’s seen the evil you’ve raised. He’s seen what the demon power does. I swore an oath, when I left Deepforest Keep, to bring an end to your evil.”

Mattias flexed his fingers. “Try.”

Romaria obliged, her bow coming up with blinding speed. Mazael ran towards the altar, Lion blazing like a torch.

The Old Demon was faster.

His hand shot forward, a rune etched in lines of fire burning on his palm. It exploded in a flash of red-orange light. Romaria’s bow burst into flames, and the force knocked Mazael over and sent him tumbling down the dais steps, Lion flying from his hand. Romaria shrieked in agony, and a bolt of pain shot through Mazael's chest.

Some time later, he had the strength to look up.

Romaria lay sprawled across the dais steps near Rachel. Charred ribs jutted from the ruin of her chest, wisps of smoke rising from her clothes.. Mazael came to one knee and reached for her. She was dead.

For a long time he stared at her.

“You bastard,” said Mazael at last. The fury broiled up, and he welcomed it. “You murdering bastard!”

Mattias raised his eyebrows. “Bastard? That’s cruel. She tried to kill me. Do I not have a right to defend myself?”

“You killed her!” said Mazael.

“She wanted to keep you from your destiny,” said Mattias. “She wanted to hold you back.” He smiled. “Besides, I didn’t kill Romaria.” He pointed. “She did.”

Mazael looked at Rachel. “What?”

“Lord Richard drove out the San-keth,” said Mattias. “Who do you think invited them back? She did. Who do you think convinced Mitor to allow it? Who do you think pulled Lord Marcus and Lord Roget into the worship of Sepharivaim?  And who allowed Skhath to mate with her...”

“Be quiet!” said Mazael. But the anger surged beneath his mind like a river of molten iron.

“She did,” hissed Mattias. A grin spread across his face like a sore. “It is her fault!  Kill her!  Do justice. Take the power, if for no other reason than that. You think you will become evil?  Bah! Take up your power and do justice, Lord of Castle Cravenlock. Rachel Cravenlock is responsible for all that has befallen. She is responsible for Romaria’s death. Kill her. Avenge all the evil that has fallen on these lands!”

Mazael stood and drew a dagger. Rachel lay at his feet, her breath fluttering in her chest. He saw the runes marking her arms and the emerald serpent scribed on her forehead. Romaria was dead because of her. The Grim Marches were at war because of her. This woman, this whore deserved death for what she had done. The rage spread through his veins like molten metal. His hand clenched around the dagger’s hilt...

Something struck his boot, and he looked down. A charred apple lay against his foot. It had rolled from Romaria’s burnt cloak.

A rush of memories surged through Mazael. He remembered meeting Rachel for the first time, remembered how she had always agreed with him. She had not been a strong child, nor had she grown into a strong woman. He remembered when Lord Adalon had sent him away. While he had fought, drunk, and whored his way across the kingdom, Rachel had been left here alone with Skhath and Mitor and worse creatures. She had done terrible things.

But Mazael had almost done terrible things, too.

He tossed the dagger aside. “No.”

Mattias blinked. “No?”

“I can forgive Rachel for what she’s done,” said Mazael. “But she didn’t kill Romaria. You did.”

“She betrayed you!” said Mattias. “She lied to you...”

“And so did you,” said Mazael. “Don’t talk to me of lies, not when you weave them yourself.” A cold certainty rose in his mind. “You’ve been here from the beginning, haven’t you?  You said so yourself. Skhath had fulfilled your purpose, you told him.”

Mattias’s cold gray eyes glittered. “You could not possibly understand my purpose. Skhath? Skhath was a fool!  He thought he could carve an empire for himself. Mitor wanted power. I offered him the tiniest crumbs of it, and he followed me like a braying donkey after a carrot. And your mother wanted power so badly she would have done anything for me.” He grinned. “And she did. Don’t you see, Mazael, my son? It has all been for you.”

“What do you mean?” said Mazael.

“I came to the Grim Marches to father you. I made you what you are. It was my seed that put the power into your soul,” said Mattias. A glimmer of red light shone in his eyes, and his mouth seemed like a pit into nothingness. “Don’t you see? Everything I have done has made you stronger, made you greater. Who do you think told Lady Arissa to make Lord Adalon send you away? Why do you think I made fools such as Skhath and Mitor dance to my tune? You have it in you to become greater than any mortal, greater than any Demonsouled that has ever lived! My designs called out your power, forced you to confront it, and now you can embrace it.”

“My entire life has been nothing more than your lie?” yelled Mazael.

“Yes,” hissed Mattias. He spread his arms, looming on the altar like a dark god. “Look at what I have done for you. Who can stand against you? Think of what you can become! Lord of the Grim Marches? King? Master of the world? Ten thousand years from now men will still speak the name of Mazael the Destroyer with fear and reverence! I will only offer once more. Embrace your destiny and take what is yours!” Power and strength seemed to roll off the Old Demon like smoke, and fear struck Mazael to the heart.

Mazael looked at Romaria, at Rachel, at the burned apple. His hand clenched around Silar’s holy symbol.

He looked into his father’s cold, burning eyes. “No. No! You murdered Othar and Romaria, and the gods know how many others, and for what? Nothing. I will not give in to the madness you gave me. No. I deny you.”

Mattias reeled in disbelief. “No?  No!” He threw back his head and laughed, cords standing out in his neck. “I knew your will was strong. You are the first of my children who ever resisted the call.”

The hair on the back of Mazael’s neck stood up. “There are others?”

Mattias grinned, revealing teeth that had become yellow and twisted. “Many others. You have merely hastened your fate, you know.” His hands came up to his shoulders and grasped the hood of his robes. “I never lose. My children serve me for a time. But in the end, they always rebel.”

“And then you kill them?” said Mazael. Lion was too far away for him to reach.

“Oh, no,” said Mattias. “You’re going to have a very rare honor, my son. You’re going to see my true face, without the illusion.” He pulled his hood up, masking his face in shadows. “And I never kill my children.”

He threw back the hood.

Mattias’s skin had become gray and rotten. His face was gaunt and angular, a demon’s face. Curved black horns rose from his brow and curled down his cheeks. Burning red eyes glared out from beneath matted, greasy hair. His teeth had become twisted fangs, his mouth a bottomless black pit.

“I DEVOUR THEM!” roared the Old Demon, his voice thundering with the fury of the abyss.

He leapt from the altar, his black robes billowing like a pair of wings.

Mattias’s mouth yawned impossibly wide, opening like the gates of hell. Mazael could not reach Lion. All he had was Silar’s holy symbol. He could still save himself. If he submitted to Mattias, submitted to the Old Demon . . .

“Gods help me,” Mazael said, throwing up his fist.

Something jerked in his fist, and Mattias howled. Silar’s holy symbol trembled, a rime of white light flashing across the steel, and the Old Demon took a step back.

“Help me,” whispered Mazael. He fought his terror and stepped forward, the light from the three interlocked rings flashing.

“What is this?” hissed Mattias.

“Get out of here,” said Mazael. “Leave the Grim Marches and never return. I can’t possibly kill you. You’re stronger than I. But this is my castle now. You made it that way. And I command you to leave. Now.” A curious feeling of calm swept over him. The symbol pulsed with power. He could not defeat Mattias by himself. But perhaps he was not alone.

“You dare!” hissed Mattias. “No one commands me!” He leapt, claws extended for Mazael’s throat.

Mazael thrust the holy symbol at the Old Demon’s face. The metal exploded with white radiance, and the light filled the chapel, driving back the shadows. Mattias howled in pain, his clawed hands raised to cover his eyes.

“Go,” said Mazael. “Go and never return.”

Mattias staggered back. “You...ah, Mazael, I must compliment you. No one has ever had the strength to stop me. Ah, you are greater than my power, I see that now. I...will go.” He turned, slumped in his dark robes.

Mazael’s hand lowered. “You will?”

Mattias shuddered. “Yes.” He whirled. “With your soul in my hand!”

The Old Demon moved with inhuman speed. Mazael yelled and lifted the holy symbol, and Mattias's clawed hand closed around Mazael's. His father's skin felt cold and dead. The white light from the symbol flickered as Mattias pushed Mazael back. The Old Demon’s lips writhed in a ghastly grin.

“You are mine,” hissed Mattias.

“Go,” said Mazael. Mattias snarled, his black tongue scraping against his teeth. “Go!” Something shifted in Mazael. An iron, determined fury flowed from the symbol and filled him.

Mattias flinched.

“Go! In the name of Amatheon and Amater and Joraviar and all the gods of heaven, I command you, BE GONE!”

The words boomed like thunder, ripping from Mazael’s throat with awesome force. The symbol exploded with white fire, flinging Mattias to the floor. The defaced windows of the chapel shattered, and glass shards rained to the floor, the barred doors exploding open. Rachel sighed, the runes and serpent mark vanishing from her skin. Mattias slammed into the altar, cringing from the blazing fire.

“BE GONE!” said Mazael. The floor trembled with the sound of his words. The terrible might of the Old Demon seemed insignificant before the thundering fire. “GO AND NEVER RETURN!”

Mattias howled and fled for the door. His black robes billowed behind him, becoming longer and darker, taking the shape of dark wings. With a final cry he leapt through the ruined doors and took to the air. The black, winged thing flew away to the east, vanishing into the pale pink sky. The fire from the symbol pulsed in one final burst, and faded away.

Mazael sank to his knees, too weary and too overcome by grief and wonder to stand. Outside, the sounds of fighting faded as dawn broke.

Chapter XII

1

Lord Marcus Trand’s Last Stand

The battle lasted less than an hour.

The armies camped outside Castle Cravenlock remained oblivious to Sil Tarithyn’s attack, the death of Lord Mitor, and Lord Richard’s approaching force. Even when Lord Marcus appeared, shouting incoherent warnings of impending doom, the mercenaries remained at ease.

Then Lord Richard’s army struck.

Sir Tanam and Toraine’s wings of heavy horse cut through the camp like a scythe through wheat. Lord Marcus tried to rally his men from Roseblood Keep, and came under attack from Sir Commander Galan Hawking’s Justiciars for his trouble. The mercenary camp disintegrated, and Cravenlock armsmen fled in every direction. Lord Marcus tried to flee and Sir Tanam put a lance through his chest. Then Lord Richard struck with his footmen and archers. The mercenaries were slaughtered and driven off, the Cravenlock armsmen broken, and Lord Marcus and Lord Roget’s men were killed.

Lord Mitor’s rebellion had come to a sudden and ignominious end.

2

The Lord of Castle Cravenlock

“My lord?”

Mazael turned, saw Adalar standing in the door. “Yes?

“Lord Richard has ridden up from the camp. He would like to speak with you on the ramparts,” said Adalar.

“Very well,” said Mazael. “Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”

He snatched up his cloak and tossed it around his shoulders. The weather had turned unseasonably cold in the last week. It was a blessing. The colder air had kept the bodies from rotting until they had all been burned. Plague would have been the last thing the ravaged lands of Castle Cravenlock needed.

Mazael swept down the spiraling stairs of the King’s Tower, passing the spot where he had walked into Romaria. He had ordered her body interred in the castle’s crypt and sent a message through Sil Tarithyn to Lord Athaelin in Deepforest Keep. He doubted he would receive a response.

It had made him feel better, if only for a moment.

In the courtyard, Sir Nathan and Sir Gerald drilled the surviving Cravenlock armsmen. Nathan had sorted through them, keeping those he had deemed trustworthy, and sending away the rest. All told, Castle Cravenlock had lost half of its armsmen.

Master Cramton stood on the steps to the keep and bellowed orders. Mazael had made him the castle’s seneschal, and the former innkeeper had risen to the task, mobilizing the castle’s host of demoralized and frightened servants. Battle damage was repaired, corpses removed, and food provided for the many guests and soldiers. Bethy was now mistress of the kitchens. Mazael had not eaten so well since he had left Knightcastle.

He spotted Lord Richard on the northern wall, his crimson armor gleaming in the morning sunlight. His son Toraine stood at his side, a dark reflection in black armor, while Lucan remained apart, wrapped in his dark cloak. The rumors said Toraine had acquitted himself well in the battle, but they also said Lucan had called up hellfire and lightning, and used them to slaughter San-keth worshippers by the dozen.

Mazael climbed the stairs up to the rampart.

“Ah,” said Lord Richard. “Lord Mazael. Please, join us.”

“I believe I already have,” said Mazael.

“Indeed,” said Lord Richard. “Toraine, Lucan, leave. Lord Mazael and I have matters to discuss.”

Toraine grumbled and walked away. Lucan left without a word.

“My sons vex me, at times,” Lord Richard said. “Sometimes I fear to leave Swordgrim and the Grim Marches in Toraine’s hands when I die.” He looked out over the plains and the wreckage of battle.

“They don’t seem very fond of each other,” said Mazael.

Lord Richard almost smiled. “I have done much in my life, but perhaps my sons are my greatest failure. I should not have left them entirely to their mother’s care. She was a fool.”

Mazael thought of Lady Arissa and nodded.

“But the past is gone. To dwell upon it is folly,” said Lord Richard. “It is the future that must concern us now.” He paused. “I understand you have made Sir Gerald Roland your armsmaster.”

“That’s right,” said Mazael.

“Explain,” said Lord Richard.

Mazael shrugged. “Sir Nathan wouldn’t take the job. Claims he’s too old. I shouted at him until I turned hoarse, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Sir Nathan is a capable man, but he is old,” said Lord Richard. “He is right to insist that a younger man take up his duties. And your young Sir Gerald seems most skillful, from what I have observed. Yet there are certainly many qualified knights for the duty. Why have you picked a Roland?”

Mazael laughed. “Are you afraid that I’m going to ally with Lord Malden against you?”

“It is a possibility,” said Lord Richard.

“No,” said Mazael, “it is not. I am tired of war. I’ve chosen Sir Gerald for three reasons. First, as I have said, I will not continue my idiot brother’s war against you. Second, because of this, Lord Malden will not take up arms against you either. For all his flaws, Lord Malden loves his sons. So long as Gerald is my armsmaster, and I am not at war with you, he will not rise. Third, I plan to give my sister in marriage to Gerald.”

Lord Richard raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

“Gerald always took pity on Rachel, even when I favored executing her,” said Mazael. “And he is more compassionate than I. They will go well together, I believe.”

“Perhaps,” said Lord Richard. He looked out over the Marches. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Take Lucan as my court wizard?” said Mazael.

Lord Richard did not look surprised. “My sons despise one another. For their sake, and for the sake of the land, they must be kept apart. Now, I know you planned to take Timothy deBlanc, as your court wizard...”

“I can have two,” said Mazael. “They seem to work together well enough. And Timothy has his hands full examining and destroying the items found in the San-keth temple. Lucan’s aid would be welcome.”

“I am most pleased with your progress in this,” said Lord Richard. “Twice now I have faced an uprising of a San-keth cult in Castle Cravenlock. I have no desire to do so a third time. Had I known there was such an extensive temple complex hidden here, I would have razed the castle and killed all the Cravenlocks.”

“I’m rather glad you didn’t,” said Mazael.

“My others vassals grow restless,” said Lord Richard. “I shall depart for Swordgrim by noon. I am certain your hands are capable of attending to matters here. Do not fail me in this.”

“I shall not,” said Mazael. Lord Richard nodded and left.

Mazael watched him go. He felt tired and sad, but not angry. The maddening rage had not surfaced since Mitor’s death and the Old Demon's defeat. The healing was still there, as were the speed and strength, but Mazael suspected that they had become part of him forever. He remembered what Silar had told him of Demonsouled who had conquered their darker half. Perhaps he had done so, but at cost of Romaria’s life. Were it not for her, he would have become as monstrous as Mattias.

“Thank you, Romaria,” whispered Mazael. His fingers brushed the holy symbol dangling from his belt. “And thank you.”

Grief hung on him for a moment as he thought of Othar and Romaria. He even felt sadness for his brother and his poor, cuckolded father. He sighed and clenched his fist. As Lord Richard had said, the past was gone.

He had work to do.

Mazael left the ramparts and walked back into his castle.

THE END

Thank you for reading DEMONSOULED. Turn the page for a sample chapter from Soul of Tyrants, the next book in the DEMONSOULED series. For immediate notification of new releases, you can sign up for my email newsletter here, or watch for news on my Facebook page.

SOUL OF TYRANTS Bonus Chapter

Here is a sample chapter from Soul of Tyrants, the next book in the Demonsouled series.

Lord Mazael Cravenlock left the camp and watched the sun rise over the Grim Marches, as he did every morning. The dawn seemed to paint the winter-brown plains the color of blood.

Mazael scowled, his bearded jaw clenching.

The blood might prove real, soon enough.

“My lord?”

A stern-faced boy of about fifteen years stepped to Mazael’s side, carrying a pile of armor.

Mazael nodded. “Adalar. I am ready.”

Adalar Greatheart grunted. “Hold out your arms, my lord.”

Mazael complied. The dawn’s bloody rays slanted into the camp, throwing long black shadows. Squires hastened back and forth, bearing arms and armor, polishing shields and sharpening swords. Bacon sizzled over the campfires, and horses neighed and grunted.

Despite his rise to the lordship of Castle Cravenlock, Mazael still wore the battered armor from his days as a wandering, landless knight; a mail shirt, scarred steel cuirass, leather gauntlets, and a helmet. A black surcoat with the House of Cravenlock’s three crossed swords was his sole mark of rank.

Around his waist went a worn leather belt with a battered scabbard. In the scabbard rested a magnificent longsword with a golden pommel shaped like a lion’s head.

“Send Sir Gerald to me,” said Mazael, “and get yourself something to eat before we set out.”

“My lord,” said Adalar.

“And I mean it,” said Mazael, pointing. “Eat something. The other squires can manage themselves long enough for you to eat.”

Adalar flashed a rare grin. The boy was sterner than his father, sometimes. “My lord.”

Mazael shook his head, crossed his arms, and watched the camp. He had forty knights and their attendant squires with him. More than enough for what he had in mind.

Or so he hoped.

Armor clanked, and Mazael looked over his shoulder. A young, gold-haired man in polished plate and a fine blue surcoat emblazoned with a stylized greathelm walked towards Mazael, followed by a dour, pimpled squire of about thirteen.

“Gerald,” said Mazael to his armsmaster. “Are we ready?”

“Soon enough,” said Gerald. He scratched a mustache trimmed with razor precision. “We’ll be ready to ride soon. Mayhap these ruffians will see reason.”

Mazael snorted. “And maybe we’ll all sit down for a feast afterwards.”

Gerald shrugged. “It does seem unlikely. Wesson! Fetch some breakfast, please.”

The pimpled squire grunted and hastened to the cook fires.

“No, it’ll come down to steel,” said Mazael. “We’ve dealt with these bands before. Lord Richard killed most of Mitor’s damned mercenaries, but the survivors have failed to appreciate the lesson.”

“Slow fellows,” said Gerald. “A pity your brother didn’t think to hire smarter mercenaries.”

“Mitor never thought of anything,” said Mazael, scowling at the mention of his dead brother, the previous Lord of Castle Cravenlock. “And if he had hired smarter mercenaries, he might still be alive.”

“No loss, that,” said Gerald. Wesson returned, bearing some bread and bacon. “Perhaps we can talk some sense into this band.”

“Not likely.”

Gerald shook his head. “You always take such a bleak view,” he said, around a mouthful of bacon.

“And I’m usually right,” said Mazael. He raised his voice. “Break camp and mount up! Move! I want to be at White Rock before midday!”

The squires began rolling up tents and rounding up the horses. Mazael took a piece of Gerald’s bacon and watched the camp vanish. Soon the toiling squires loaded the pack animals, the knights mounted their horses, and they were ready.

A thin knight with a pinched face and a scraggly mustache rode towards Mazael. In his left hand he carried a tall lance crowned with the black-and-silver Cravenlock banner.

“Sir Aulus?” said Mazael.

“My lord,” said Sir Aulus Hirdan, his deep voice incongruous against his wasted appearance. “We are ready.”

“Good,” said Mazael. Adalar returned, leading a large, ill-tempered destrier. The horse looked like it wanted to bite someone. Mazael stepped to the beast’s side, running his hand along its neck. The big horse stamped and snorted, throwing its mane.

“Well, Chariot,” said Mazael to his war horse. “Once again. You’ll kill someone before the day’s done.”

Chariot almost looked pleased.

Mazael sprang up into the saddle. The squires mounted their palfreys, leading the pack horses, and rode to the side of their knights.

“We ought to say a prayer before we ride out,” said Gerald.

“Steel will settle this, not the gods,” said Mazael.

“The gods watch over all mortal affairs,” said Gerald

“Aye,” said Mazael, closing his eyes. He knew that very well, knew it far better than Gerald. “Ride out!”

They rode away to the south.

###

A few hours later they came to the village of White Rock, near the silent, looming trees of the Great Southern Forest. The village itself huddled within a stout palisade of sharpened logs. White Rock had survived Lord Richard Mandragon’s conquest of the Grim Marches, Lord Mitor’s failed rebellion, and a small army of corpses animated by necromantic arts.

Compared to that, a band of sixty ragged mercenaries seemed a small threat. And Mazael was determined that no harm would befall White Rock. The village had sworn him loyalty, and Mazael had promised protection.

He drew his knights in a line facing both White Rock and the mercenary camp. White Rock had proven inhospitable to the mercenaries, to judge from the arrow-ridden corpses near the palisade’s gate.

“Rabble,” said Mazael. He rarely became angry, not since Romaria’s death, but faint flicker of anger burned in his chest. These scum dared to prey upon his lands, his people?

“Perhaps they’ll be wise enough to stand down,” said Gerald, reining in at Mazael’s side.

Mazael snorted. “Perhaps. Aulus!”

Sir Aulus spurred his horse forward, the Cravenlock banner flapping, his right hand raised in parley. The ragged mercenaries turned and faced him, muttering with interest.

“Hear ye all!” Aulus called, his stentorian voice booming over the plains. “Mazael, Lord of Castle Cravenlock, commands you to lay down your arms and depart peacefully from his lands at once. Amnesty shall be offered to those who surrender!”

A chorus of jeers and ragged laughs went up. The largest of the mercenaries, a hulking brute in rusty mail, whirled and dropped his trousers.

“Disgraceful,” said Gerald. Aulus turned and galloped back to Mazael’s line.

“I told you,” said Mazael. He reached down and drew his longsword. Lion’s blade gleamed like blue ice in the dull winter sunlight.

“They’ve no respect for you,” said Gerald, shaking his head.

“Of course not,” said Mazael. “I’m Mitor’s younger brother. Mitor was fat and weak and stupid. Why should I be any different?”

Of course, Mazael was only Mitor’s half-brother. But Gerald didn’t know that, and neither did the mercenaries.

If they had known Mazael’s true father, they might have regarded him differently.

With outright terror, most likely.

Gerald grinned, drawing his own blade. “Shall we teach them otherwise?”

“I suppose so,” said Mazael.

In his younger days, he had felt a raging joy at the prospect of battle, a ferocious and delighted bloodlust. Since Romaria had died, he had felt nothing of the sort. Now he felt only disgust and a vague weariness. This was necessary, and nothing more.

But if he had to fight, he would fight well.

He adjusted his helm, pointed Lion at the mercenaries, and kicked Chariot to a gallop. The big horse snorted and rumbled forward. A half-second later Mazael’s knights surged after him, swords and lances gleaming.

The mercenaries gaped at them for a moment, then lunged for their weapons in a scrambled panic. They managed to form into a ragged line, but too late to stop the knights. Mazael beat aside a spear, reversed Lion, and took off a mercenary’s head in a sweeping backhand. Chariot ran down another, pummeling the man to bloody pulp.

The knights tore through the line of mercenaries. Nearly half had been cut down, without loss to Mazael’s men, while the rest fled in all directions.

“Reform!” yelled Mazael, wheeling Chariot around. “Another charge!”

“Stand, lads!” roared the big mercenary in the rusty mail shirt, brandishing a ridged mace. “Stand and fight, if you don’t want to die!”

Some of the mercenaries kept running. Others turned, gripped their weapons, and set themselves. Mazael guided Chariot towards the mercenary leader, raising Lion for an overhand slash.

The mercenary snarled and flung his mace at the last minute, jumping out of Chariot’s path. The mace’s head crashed into Mazael’s breastplate with a shriek of tortured metal. Mazael hissed in pain, heard something crack within his chest. He reeled in the saddle, Lion dangling from his grasp. The mercenary yanked a dagger free and sprang, howling, and Mazael thrust out. The mercenary impaled himself and died twitching.

Mazael kicked the dying man free and found that the battle had ended. Most of the mercenaries lay dead and dying, the brown grasses stained with red blood. The few survivors stood in a ring of scowling knights. Mazael grunted in pain and trotted Chariot towards the ring. He knew the pain well; he had broken ribs more than once.

The pain lessened as he rode, an odd tingling spreading through his chest.

“Mazael!” Gerald rode towards him, blood dripping from the length of his longsword. “Are you well? I saw that mace hit you…”

“I’ll be fine,” said Mazael.

“Perhaps you should…”

“I said I’ll be fine,” said Mazael, trying not to growl. “Any losses?”

“None,” said Gerald. Wesson rode up and set to work cleaning Gerald’s sword. “I think you were the only one wounded.”

“Embarrassing,” said Mazael. He jerked his head at the captured mercenaries. “How many prisoners?”

“Seven,” said Gerald. Adalar joined them, cast a concerned look at Mazael.

“Seven,” repeated Mazael. “Good enough. Question them.”

“Why?” said Gerald.

“We’ve taken a half-dozen of these mercenary bands in the last three months,” said Mazael. “Mercenaries love easy plunder, not armed opposition. They should have fled long ago.” He took a long, painful breath. “I think someone’s hiring them.”

Gerald looked stunned. “Who would do such a thing?”

“I don’t know,” said Mazael. “Not all my vassals were pleased to see me replace Mitor.” He shrugged. “Lord Richard, maybe. Or Toraine Mandragon. Or perhaps even your father.”

“My father would not do something so underhanded!” said Gerald.

Mazael shrugged again. “Perhaps not. But I doubt he was pleased to hear of me becoming Lord of Castle Cravenlock. Sir Aulus!” Mazael’s herald rode over. “Question them. If I am pleased with their answers, they might yet leave the Grim Marches alive.” He considered this for a moment. “Possibly.”

Aulus nodded and went about his work.

Mazael sat in the saddle and waited.

A fierce itching filled his chest, as if the broken rib was knitting itself back together.

###

“Sir Roger Gravesend,” said Gerald, disgusted.

The surviving mercenaries trudged away, relieved of their weapons, armor, coin, and cloaks.

“I should have known,” said Mazael, shaking his head. “He was not happy when Mitor was killed.”

“And rumor held that he followed the San-keth way,” said Gerald. “Is he at Castle Cravenlock?”

“As it happens, yes,” said Mazael, turning Chariot around. “Perhaps we’ll have a long talk with him.”

“How is your chest?” said Gerald.

Mazael frowned. “What?”

Gerald pointed. “That mace. It looked like a fierce blow.”

“That?” said Mazael. He had forgotten. “It’s fine. The armor turned the worst of it.”

Gerald gave the dent in Mazael’s breastplate a dubious look.

Mazael forced a smile. “I’m well. Enough talk. Let’s go home.”

Gerald nodded. “I would enjoy spending a night under a proper roof.” He rode for the squires and knights, herding them into the line.

Mazael sighed in relief. Gerald had not noticed. It would take weeks for a normal man to recover from a badly broken rib.

Mazael’s injury had healed in a matter of minutes.

No one knew the truth. Romaria had known, but she was dead at the hands of the Old Demon.

Mazael was Demonsouled, the Old Demon’s son, and the blood of the Great Demon flowed through his veins.

Follow this link to continue reading Soul of Tyrants

About the Author

Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair 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.

Visit his website at:

http://www.jonathanmoeller.com

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http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/screed

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Table of Contents

Other books by the author

Epigraph

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

SOUL OF TYRANTS Bonus Chapter

About the Author

SOUL OF TYRANTS

Jonathan Moeller

Book Description

Mazael, now Lord of Castle Cravenlock, has subdued the demonic power within his soul, though at terrible cost to himself. Yet peace remains elusive. Mazael's former overlord plans a war of pride. A corrupt order of militant knights scheme for brutal and bloody conquest. The serpent people and their followers plot a terrible vengeance upon Mazael and his sister.

And a foe more terrible than any he has yet faced awaits.

For Mazael was not the only child of the Old Demon...

Soul of Tyrants

Copyright 2011 by Jonathan Moeller

Cover design by Clarissa Yeo

Stock Image copyright | Marcus Ranum | www.ranum.com

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.

Epigraph

I know indeed what evil I intend to do,

But stronger than all afterthoughts is my fury,

Fury that brings upon mortals the greatest evils.

-Euripedes, Medea

Chapter 1

1

Wolves among Sheep

Lord Mazael Cravenlock left the camp and watched the sun rise over the Grim Marches, as he did every morning. The dawn seemed to paint the winter-brown plains the color of blood.

Mazael scowled, his bearded jaw clenching.

The blood might prove real, soon enough.

“My lord?”

A stern-faced boy of about fifteen years stepped to Mazael’s side, carrying a pile of armor.

Mazael nodded. “Adalar. I am ready.”

Adalar Greatheart grunted. “Hold out your arms, my lord.”

Mazael complied. The dawn’s bloody rays slanted into the camp, throwing long black shadows. Squires hastened back and forth, bearing arms and armor, polishing shields and sharpening swords. Bacon sizzled over the campfires, and horses neighed and grunted.

Despite his rise to the lordship of Castle Cravenlock, Mazael still wore the battered armor from his days as a wandering, landless knight; a mail shirt, scarred steel cuirass, leather gauntlets, and a helmet. A black surcoat with the House of Cravenlock’s three crossed swords was his sole mark of rank.

Around his waist went a worn leather belt with a battered scabbard. In the scabbard rested a magnificent longsword with a golden pommel shaped like a lion’s head.

“Send Sir Gerald to me,” said Mazael, “and get yourself something to eat before we set out.”

“My lord,” said Adalar.

“And I mean it,” said Mazael, pointing. “Eat something. The other squires can manage themselves long enough for you to eat.”

Adalar flashed a rare grin. The boy was sterner than his father, sometimes. “My lord.”

Mazael shook his head, crossed his arms, and watched the camp. He had forty knights and their attendant squires with him. More than enough for what he had in mind.

Or so he hoped.

Armor clanked, and Mazael looked over his shoulder. A young, gold-haired man in polished plate and a fine blue surcoat emblazoned with a stylized greathelm walked towards Mazael, followed by a dour, pimpled squire of about thirteen.

“Gerald,” said Mazael to his armsmaster. “Are we ready?”

“Soon enough,” said Gerald. He scratched a mustache trimmed with razor precision. “We’ll be ready to ride soon. Mayhap these ruffians will see reason.”

Mazael snorted. “And maybe we’ll all sit down for a feast afterwards.”

Gerald shrugged. “It does seem unlikely. Wesson! Fetch some breakfast, please.”

The pimpled squire grunted and hastened to the cook fires.

“No, it’ll come down to steel,” said Mazael. “We’ve dealt with these bands before. Lord Richard killed most of Mitor’s damned mercenaries, but the survivors have failed to appreciate the lesson.”

“Slow fellows,” said Gerald. “A pity your brother didn’t think to hire smarter mercenaries.”

“Mitor never thought of anything,” said Mazael, scowling at the mention of his dead brother, the previous Lord of Castle Cravenlock. “And if he had hired smarter mercenaries, he might still be alive.”

“No loss, that,” said Gerald. Wesson returned, bearing some bread and bacon. “Perhaps we can talk some sense into this band.”

“Not likely.”

Gerald shook his head. “You always take such a bleak view,” he said, around a mouthful of bacon.

“And I’m usually right,” said Mazael. He raised his voice. “Break camp and mount up! Move! I want to be at White Rock before midday!”

The squires began rolling up tents and rounding up the horses. Mazael took a piece of Gerald’s bacon and watched the camp vanish. Soon the toiling squires loaded the pack animals, the knights mounted their horses, and they were ready.

A thin knight with a pinched face and a scraggly mustache rode towards Mazael. In his left hand he carried a tall lance crowned with the black-and-silver Cravenlock banner.

“Sir Aulus?” said Mazael.

“My lord,” said Sir Aulus Hirdan, his deep voice incongruous against his wasted appearance. “We are ready.”

“Good,” said Mazael. Adalar returned, leading a large, ill-tempered destrier. The horse looked like it wanted to bite someone. Mazael stepped to the beast’s side, running his hand along its neck. The big horse stamped and snorted, throwing its mane.

“Well, Chariot,” said Mazael to his war horse. “Once again. You’ll kill someone before the day’s done.”

Chariot almost looked pleased.

Mazael sprang up into the saddle. The squires mounted their palfreys, leading the pack horses, and rode to the side of their knights.

“We ought to say a prayer before we ride out,” said Gerald.

“Steel will settle this, not the gods,” said Mazael.

“The gods watch over all mortal affairs,” said Gerald

“Aye,” said Mazael, closing his eyes. He knew that very well, knew it far better than Gerald. “Ride out!”

They rode away to the south.

###

A few hours later they came to the village of White Rock, near the silent, looming trees of the Great Southern Forest. The village itself huddled within a stout palisade of sharpened logs. White Rock had survived Lord Richard Mandragon’s conquest of the Grim Marches, Lord Mitor’s failed rebellion, and a small army of corpses animated by necromantic arts.

Compared to that, a band of sixty ragged mercenaries seemed a small threat. And Mazael was determined that no harm would befall White Rock. The village had sworn him loyalty, and Mazael had promised protection.

He drew his knights in a line facing both White Rock and the mercenary camp. White Rock had proven inhospitable to the mercenaries, to judge from the arrow-ridden corpses near the palisade’s gate.

“Rabble,” said Mazael. He rarely became angry, not since Romaria’s death, but faint flicker of anger burned in his chest. These scum dared to prey upon his lands, his people?

“Perhaps they’ll be wise enough to stand down,” said Gerald, reining in at Mazael’s side.

Mazael snorted. “Perhaps. Aulus!”

Sir Aulus spurred his horse forward, the Cravenlock banner flapping, his right hand raised in parley. The ragged mercenaries turned and faced him, muttering with interest.

“Hear ye all!” Aulus called, his stentorian voice booming over the plains. “Mazael, Lord of Castle Cravenlock, commands you to lay down your arms and depart peacefully from his lands at once. Amnesty shall be offered to those who surrender!”

A chorus of jeers and ragged laughs went up. The largest of the mercenaries, a hulking brute in rusty mail, whirled and dropped his trousers.

“Disgraceful,” said Gerald. Aulus turned and galloped back to Mazael’s line.

“I told you,” said Mazael. He reached down and drew his longsword. Lion’s blade gleamed like blue ice in the dull winter sunlight.

“They’ve no respect for you,” said Gerald, shaking his head.

“Of course not,” said Mazael. “I’m Mitor’s younger brother. Mitor was fat and weak and stupid. Why should I be any different?”

Of course, Mazael was only Mitor’s half-brother. But Gerald didn’t know that, and neither did the mercenaries.

If they had known Mazael’s true father, they might have regarded him differently.

With outright terror, most likely.

Gerald grinned, drawing his own blade. “Shall we teach them otherwise?”

“I suppose so,” said Mazael.

In his younger days, he had felt a raging joy at the prospect of battle, a ferocious and delighted bloodlust. Since Romaria had died, he had felt nothing of the sort. Now he felt only disgust and a vague weariness. This was necessary, and nothing more.

But if he had to fight, he would fight well.

He adjusted his helm, pointed Lion at the mercenaries, and kicked Chariot to a gallop. The big horse snorted and rumbled forward. A half-second later Mazael’s knights surged after him, swords and lances gleaming.

The mercenaries gaped at them for a moment, then lunged for their weapons in a scrambled panic. They managed to form into a ragged line, but too late to stop the knights. Mazael beat aside a spear, reversed Lion, and took off a mercenary’s head in a sweeping backhand. Chariot ran down another, pummeling the man to bloody pulp.

The knights tore through the line of mercenaries. Nearly half had been cut down, without loss to Mazael’s men, while the rest fled in all directions.

“Reform!” yelled Mazael, wheeling Chariot around. “Another charge!”

“Stand, lads!” roared the big mercenary in the rusty mail shirt, brandishing a ridged mace. “Stand and fight, if you don’t want to die!”

Some of the mercenaries kept running. Others turned, gripped their weapons, and set themselves. Mazael guided Chariot towards the mercenary leader, raising Lion for an overhand slash.

The mercenary snarled and flung his mace at the last minute, jumping out of Chariot’s path. The mace’s head crashed into Mazael’s breastplate with a shriek of tortured metal. Mazael hissed in pain, heard something crack within his chest. He reeled in the saddle, Lion dangling from his grasp. The mercenary yanked a dagger free and sprang, howling, and Mazael thrust out. The mercenary impaled himself and died twitching.

Mazael kicked the dying man free and found that the battle had ended. Most of the mercenaries lay dead and dying, the brown grasses stained with red blood. The few survivors stood in a ring of scowling knights. Mazael grunted in pain and trotted Chariot towards the ring. He knew the pain well; he had broken ribs more than once.

The pain lessened as he rode, an odd tingling spreading through his chest.

“Mazael!” Gerald rode towards him, blood dripping from the length of his longsword. “Are you well? I saw that mace hit you…”

“I’ll be fine,” said Mazael.

“Perhaps you should…”

“I said I’ll be fine,” said Mazael, trying not to growl. “Any losses?”

“None,” said Gerald. Wesson rode up and set to work cleaning Gerald’s sword. “I think you were the only one wounded.”

“Embarrassing,” said Mazael. He jerked his head at the captured mercenaries. “How many prisoners?”

“Seven,” said Gerald. Adalar joined them, cast a concerned look at Mazael.

“Seven,” repeated Mazael. “Good enough. Question them.”

“Why?” said Gerald.

“We’ve taken a half-dozen of these mercenary bands in the last three months,” said Mazael. “Mercenaries love easy plunder, not armed opposition. They should have fled long ago.” He took a long, painful breath. “I think someone’s hiring them.”

Gerald looked stunned. “Who would do such a thing?”

“I don’t know,” said Mazael. “Not all my vassals were pleased to see me replace Mitor.” He shrugged. “Lord Richard, maybe. Or Toraine Mandragon. Or perhaps even your father.”

“My father would not do something so underhanded!” said Gerald.

Mazael shrugged again. “Perhaps not. But I doubt he was pleased to hear of me becoming Lord of Castle Cravenlock. Sir Aulus!” Mazael’s herald rode over. “Question them. If I am pleased with their answers, they might yet leave the Grim Marches alive.” He considered this for a moment. “Possibly.”

Aulus nodded and went about his work.

Mazael sat in the saddle and waited.

A fierce itching filled his chest, as if the broken rib was knitting itself back together.

###

“Sir Roger Gravesend,” said Gerald, disgusted.

The surviving mercenaries trudged away, relieved of their weapons, armor, coin, and cloaks.

“I should have known,” said Mazael, shaking his head. “He was not happy when Mitor was killed.”

“And rumor held that he followed the San-keth way,” said Gerald. “Is he at Castle Cravenlock?”

“As it happens, yes,” said Mazael, turning Chariot around. “Perhaps we’ll have a long talk with him.”

“How is your chest?” said Gerald.

Mazael frowned. “What?”

Gerald pointed. “That mace. It looked like a fierce blow.”

“That?” said Mazael. He had forgotten. “It’s fine. The armor turned the worst of it.”

Gerald gave the dent in Mazael’s breastplate a dubious look.

Mazael forced a smile. “I’m well. Enough talk. Let’s go home.”

Gerald nodded. “I would enjoy spending a night under a proper roof.” He rode for the squires and knights, herding them into the line.

Mazael sighed in relief. Gerald had not noticed. It would take weeks for a normal man to recover from a badly broken rib.

Mazael’s injury had healed in a matter of minutes.

No one knew the truth. Romaria had known, but she was dead at the hands of the Old Demon.

Mazael was Demonsouled, the Old Demon’s son, and the blood of the Great Demon flowed through his veins.

2

Lord of Castle Cravenlock

Two days’ ride took them home.

Castle Cravenlock squatted atop a craggy hill, a massive pile of dark stone, grim towers, and arched windows. The Cravenlock banner flapped from the highest tower, while the banners of Mazael’s knights and vassals flew from the lower battlements. It was an ugly castle. Romaria had said it looked like the lair of an evil wizard from a children’s tale, and Mazael agreed with her.

Still, it was home.

Mazael and his knights rode past flocks of sheep, heavy with winter wool, and through the castle’s town, an overgrown village of four thousand people. They clattered up the road and to the castle’s barbican. The watchmen bowed and stepped aside. Mazael reined up before the keep’s gates, dirty snow and frozen earth churning beneath Chariot’s hooves. Servants hurried to and fro, intent on their various tasks. Chickens waddled through the yard, pecking for dropped corn.

Adalar took Chariot’s reins as Mazael swung out of the saddle. A small army of squires and pages hastened out of the keep, assisting their knights. Every now and again Adalar cast them fierce glares, and Mazael grinned. If the castle’s squires feared Adalar, then the pages held him in naked terror.

“Sir Gerald!” called Mazael, pulling off his leather gauntlets. “See to things here!”

Gerald nodded and let Adalar and Wesson drive the squires.

Mazael crossed the courtyard, entered the keep, and strode into the castle’s cavernous great hall. Stale smoke drifted beneath the vaulted stone arches. Perhaps twenty men lay wrapped in blankets on the floor, snoring, weapons and armor piled besides their bedrolls. Mazael was lord of over four hundred knights and a few dozen minor lords. From forty to eighty loitered about his hall at any given time. Some came to fulfill their obligations of armed service. Some came because they had nothing better to do. Sir Aulus Hirdan served as herald year-round to escape his nagging wife.

And one, Sir Roger Gravesend, had come to kill Mazael.

Mazael spotted Sir Roger sleeping near one of the fireplaces. In his younger days, Mazael might have simply walked over and killed the man. But Mazael had rejected his Demonsouled heritage, renounced it at great cost, and would not murder Sir Roger out of hand.

Besides, he had better ways to deal with Sir Roger.

Mazael made his way unnoticed to the dais at the far end of the hall and climbed the lord’s private stair. It led to what had once been the lord and lady’s apartments. The apartments also contained one of the concealed entrances to the catacombs and San-keth temple beneath the castle. Mazael had no wish to ever set foot in that accursed temple again. So he had ordered the rooms walled up. Now only a narrow corridor remained, leading to the chapel’s balcony.

He entered the balcony and looked into the chapel. Incense hung heavy in the air, wisps of smoke curling beneath the domed ceiling. A half-dozen priests moved about the altar, droning prayers in the ancient tongue of Tristafel, beseeching Amatheon and Amater and Joraviar for protection.

The balcony was deserted but for a slender woman with dark hair and a green gown, her head bowed, lips moving soundlessly. The priests concluded their ceremony, and Mazael crossed the balcony and sat beside the woman.

She looked up in surprise, sad green eyes widening, and smiled. “Mazael!”

“Rachel,” he said.

His sister leaned over and kissed his cheek.

Of course, she was only his half-sister. But Mazael didn’t care. She was his sister, by blood or not. They had been through too much together. They had outlived their ruthless and cruel mother, had endured Lord Adalon’s defeat, and had survived Lord Mitor’s doomed rebellion and San-keth worship. Mazael had almost killed Rachel, succumbed to the Old Demon’s hideous taunts and taken her life.

He was glad he hadn’t.

“You’re back early,” said Rachel. She hesitated. “Did things go well?”

“Well enough,” said Mazael. “Another band of Mitor’s mercenaries decided to indulge in a little looting and raping before they left. We persuaded them otherwise.”

Rachel’s lip twitched. “I’m sure. Is…Gerald all right?”

“Untouched,” said Mazael.

“A letter came from Lord Malden while you were gone,” said Rachel.

“It did?” said Mazael, thinking of Gerald’s father. “What did it say?”

“Nothing,” said Rachel. “At least nothing of importance. Only that he was sending his son Sir Tobias Roland here to negotiate the terms of the marriage.” She hesitated. “Do…you think he will say yes?”

“I don’t know,” said Mazael. Lord Malden Roland was a proud and masterful man, and revealed little of his mind even to trusted servants.

Lord Malden might not approve of Mazael becoming Lord of Castle Cravenlock.

And he might not approve of his youngest son marrying Mazael’s sister.

“I don’t know,” repeated Mazael, feeling a twinge of guilt. He had spent fifteen years as a landless knight, fighting and drinking and whoring his way across the High King’s lands. Rachel had spent those same years trapped at Castle Cravenlock, dominated by Mitor, twisted bit by bit to the worship of the San-keth.

She gave him a brittle smile. “You think there might not be a wedding?”

Mazael sighed. “Lord Richard gave his approval, but grudgingly, and he might change his mind.”

Rachel scoffed. “What does Richard Mandragon’s will mean to us?” Rachel had never quite gotten over her hatred of the man who had defeated her father.

“He is the liege lord of the Grim Marches, our liege lord, like it or not,” said Mazael, “and could crush us, if he chose. But he won’t. It’s Gerald’s father that worries me.”

“Lord Malden.”

Mazael nodded. “He may not agree to this marriage.”

“Why not?”

“He hates Lord Richard,” said Mazael. “He’s never forgiven him for Belifane’s death.” Mazael looked at the chapel’s windows, remembering the bloody sunrise. “He’s wanted revenge for fifteen years. If he has to cover the Grim Marches in a sea of blood to kill Lord Richard, he’ll do it.” Mazael sighed again. “And he might want to kill me.”

“You? Why?”

“I was a knight in his court,” said Mazael. “Since I’ve become Lord of Castle Cravenlock, he’ll expect me to side with him against Lord Richard.”

“And you won’t.”

“No. No more wars. I’ve seen enough of it. I will fight if I must, but only if I must.” Mazael remembered the Old Demon’s gloating boasts and shuddered. The Old Demon had arranged Lord Mitor’s rebellion, manipulated everything, for the sole purpose of releasing Mazael’s Demonsouled nature. What might the Old Demon do with a war between Lord Richard and Lord Malden?

And the Old Demon had other children. Romaria had saved him from his Demonsouled nature, but Mazael doubted his Demonsouled half-brothers and half-sisters had been so fortunate. What might they do in such a war?

“Mazael?”

Mazael shook himself out of the reverie.

“You looked so grim,” said Rachel, looking at him with a hint of fear.

“I will not slaughter men to slake Lord Malden’s pride,” said Mazael. “If that ruins the marriage, I am sorry.”

“I love Gerald, Mazael,” said Rachel.

“What has love to do with marriage?” said Mazael.

“Nothing, usually,” said Rachel. “Our mother and father hated each other. Mitor and his wife loathed each other.” She shrugged. “I always expected Mitor to marry me to someone I would hate. Some lord or knight or even a bandit chief he needed. Then you betrothed me to Gerald. I thought you did that…to keep me from falling into my old ways, the San-keth worship.”

“I did,” said Mazael.

“I know,” said Rachel. “But he’s different than I thought he would be. He’s not like Mitor. He’s…helped me so much, he’s kind and thoughtful. I love him, Mazael. I want to marry him.”

Mazael squeezed her hand. “If I can make it happen, I will. If you’re married to Gerald, Lord Malden can’t move against Lord Richard without my aid, and I won’t help him war against Lord Richard.”

“And if I marry Gerald, I’ll be happy,” said Rachel.

“That as well,” said Mazael. “Though if Lord Malden goes to war against Lord Richard, I doubt you, or anyone else, will be happy.” He thought again of the Old Demon’s boasts.

“Are you sure you are well?” said Rachel. “You looked a bit pale.”

“I need to ask you something. How well do you know Sir Roger Gravesend?”

“Sir Roger?” said Rachel, frowning. “Better than I would like. He supported Mitor from the beginning, encouraged him to rebel,” she hesitated, “and went right along with him when Skhath encouraged the San-keth worship.”

“So he worshipped the snake-god with Mitor,” said Mazael, avoiding Rachel’s own participation in the foul rites.

“He did,” said Rachel. “Mitor trusted him as much as he trusted anyone, except maybe Simonian.” Mazael winced at the mention of the necromancer’s name, the disguise the Old Demon had assumed. “Mitor would probably have wound up giving me to him, except…”

“Except he pledged you to Skhath,” said Mazael. Rachel would have become the bride of the San-keth priest, given birth to changelings of mixed San-keth and human blood.

Rachel closed her eyes. “Don’t remind me. I don’t like to think of those days.”

“I’m sorry.”

Rachel shook her head. “Don’t be. Why did you ask?”

“Sir Roger is hiring those mercenary bands,” said Mazael.

“Why would he do that?”

Mazael shrugged. “I don’t know. Revenge, perhaps. Or maybe he’s trying to kill me. I doubt he appreciates my lordship.”

“If he’s trying to kill you, why not hang him at once?” said Rachel.

“No proof,” said Mazael.

“He’s trying to kill you!” said Rachel, a hint of hysteria entering her voice. “You’re the only hope Castle Cravenlock has. If you die…I don’t know what we’d do…”

“Rachel,” said Mazael, taking her shoulders. “After surviving Mitor, Skhath, and Simonian, I think it will take more than a petty knight to kill me.”

“If you say so,” said Rachel.

“I do,” said Mazael. “Go. Gerald’s probably wondering where you.”

Rachel smiled. “He would be.” She rose, adjusting her skirts.

“Wait.” Mazael caught her wrist. “Do you know where Sir Nathan and Timothy are?”

“The north wall, I think,” she said, brushing back a stray lock of hair.

“Thank you,” said Mazael. “I’ll see you at dinner, then.”

She smiled, kissed him again, and vanished through the door.

Mazael stared at the altar, watching the last of the smoke dissipate. He wanted Rachel’s marriage to Gerald, wanted it as a lever to keep Lord Richard and Lord Malden from each other’s throats. He had expected Gerald to treat Rachel gallantly, Rachel to serve as a dutiful wife.

He had not expected the two of them to fall in love.

Mazael had failed Rachel before. Wars or no wars, he did not want to fail her again. He glanced at the stairs before the altar, his vision blurring a bit. Romaria had fallen there, slain at the hands of the Old Demon. Mazael would have married her, as Gerald was now going to marry Rachel…

He could brood later. Right now he had work to do. He gathered his cloak about him, exited the keep, and climbed the stairs to the castle’s curtain wall. The wind was warmer than it had been earlier in the day.

Three men stood in a loose circle on the northern wall, arguing with each other. The first looked as old and tough as an ancient oak, the hilt of a greatsword rising over his shoulder. The second wore all black, and had a nervous, twitchy look. The third man was red-faced, balding, and paused every now and again to wipe his brow.

“The castle is still here,” said Mazael, “so I will assume you have done well.”

As one the men turned to look at him.

“Lord Mazael,” said the old man, handing him a rolled sheet of vellum.

“Thank you, Sir Nathan,” said Mazael, taking the scroll and opening it. At the bottom of the page glimmered the silver greathelm sigil of the Rolands. “From Lord Malden, I presume?”

“How did you know?” said the nervous, black-clad man.

“Rachel mentioned it,” Mazael told Timothy deBlanc, his court wizard. Timothy looked like a frightened farmer, but had stayed at Mazael’s side through some very dangerous times. “Sir Tobias will be here any day, I see.”

“Aye,” said the fat man, wiping his brow again. “Lord Malden must have sent the letter only a few days before Sir Tobias left Knightcastle. We should have ample food to lodge Sir Tobias and his men.” He hesitated, biting his lip. “Though I hope Sir Tobias doesn’t wish to stay overlong.”

“Knowing Sir Tobias, Master Cramton, I doubt it,” said Mazael. Cramton served as Mazael’s seneschal. The man had the courage of a mouse, but could smell graft and embezzlement from fifty miles away. “See to the preparations.”

“My lord.” Cramton hastened away.

“Was my son’s service satisfactory, my lord?” said Sir Nathan.

“Quite,” said Mazael. “You always ask the same question, and I always give you the same answer. Sir Gerald is in the courtyard, and could use your help, probably.”

“He is the armsmaster,” said Sir Nathan, “not I.” Sir Nathan had been Castle Cravenlock’s armsmaster for decades, until Mitor had stripped him of the post. Mazael had tried to give it back to Nathan, more than once, but the old knight always refused.

“Go help him anyway.”

A ghost of a smile touched Nathan’s weathered face. “My lord.” He left, leaving Mazael alone with Timothy.

“How goes the work?” said Mazael.

“Well enough,” said Timothy, scratching his chin. He coughed and squinted at the wall. “Lucan and I have almost finished the ward-spell against the undead. No San-keth clerics will enter the castle without our knowledge.”

“Good,” said Mazael. “I have had enough of the San-keth to last a lifetime.”

Timothy offered a vigorous nod. “As have I.”

“What of the catacombs?” The hidden San-keth temple had lain beneath Castle Cravenlock for centuries, forgotten and secret. Mazael would have collapsed it, if doing so would have not brought most of the castle crashing down.

“Mostly sealed, I’m pleased to say,” said Timothy.  “The images have been smashed, the bas-reliefs destroyed. I’ll have the peasants fill the entrances with as much rubble as possible. With any luck, no eyes will ever see that place again. The destruction of the temple’s library is the most difficult remaining task.”

Mazael snorted. “How hard can it be to destroy a pile of scrolls and books? Just toss the damned things into the fire and have done with it.”

“They won’t burn, I’m afraid,” said Timothy. “Most of them are warded by powerful spells. A few of the books have protections that are, ah, dangerous, and will blast a man’s mind if he opens the cover. Lucan and I must go through them one by one, pierce the warding spells, and destroy the books.”

Mazael thought for a moment. “Is Lucan’s help useful?”

“Invaluable, my lord,” said Timothy. He seemed to brace himself. “In all honesty, I must say that he is a far more skilled than I. He would make a better court wizard.”

“No,” said Mazael. “Lucan is…not a man others trust. Or even like.”

“No,” agreed Timothy. “He…is moody, certainly. But he has never done anything to alarm me. I don’t understand why he’s so feared.”

“You wouldn’t,” said Mazael. Lucan was a more powerful wizard than Timothy. But Timothy was loyal and plainspoken. And folk, noble and common alike, feared and loathed wizards. Timothy rarely inspired such fear.

Besides, Mazael trusted Timothy.

He did not trust Lucan Mandragon.

“I will finish the wards as soon as possible,” said Timothy. He hesitated. “The San-keth will come again, someday. For revenge.”

“Oh, they will,” said Mazael. “But we’ll be ready.”

Timothy nodded, though he did not look very confident.

“And your other duties?” said Mazael.

“I’ve finished the ward-spells around the granaries,” said Timothy. He shrugged. “I think I did them right. With any luck, rats won’t be a problem this year. Though I’ll have to rework them next season.”

“Good enough,” said Mazael, clapping the wizard’s shoulder. Timothy smiled, bowed, and hastened away. Mazael stood on the wall for a moment, watching the castle, his castle, bustle with activity. The place had lost much of the pall that had hung over it during Mitor’s rule. The Grim Marches were half-desolate, had never quite recovered from Lord Adalon’s defeat. More ruined villages than prosperous ones filled the plains. Mazael meant to change that. He wanted his people to be prosperous and fat and happy, safe from bandits and cruel lords.

He looked up.

A dark-cloaked shape stood atop the highest tower of the keep, gazing to the west.

That dark figure might hold the key to the Grim Marches’s prosperity or destruction.

It was no use putting it off. Mazael descended into the courtyard and circled around the back of the keep, past the kitchens. Chickens destined for the table picked at the barren earth, while the sheep huddled together in their pen. A half-dozen servants burst from the kitchen doors, carrying buckets. A young woman in a rough skirt and a white peasant blouse stalked after them, waving a wooden spoon and shouting orders.

“And see that you fill the buckets to the brim this time! When I tell you I want six buckets of water, I want six buckets of water, by all the gods.” She slapped the spoon against her hand. “Run!” She turned, saw Mazael, and offered him a brilliant, albeit gap-toothed, smile.

“My lord Mazael,” she said, gripping her skirt and doing a deep curtsy.

He saw right down the front of her blouse.

“Madame Bethy,” said Mazael, smiling, despite himself. “All’s well in the kitchens?”

“Well enough, my lord,” she said, her smile widening, “though we don’t see nearly enough of you.”

Bethy was mistress of the kitchens, and ruled them with a firm hand that made Adalar and his father look downright mild.

Mazael suspected she also wanted to become his mistress.

“Do the new servants give you much trouble?” said Mazael.

“No end of it,” said Bethy, snorting. “Not a one of them knows which end of a spoon is which.” She stepped forward, lowering her voice, and her scent, smoke mixed with sweat, flooded into Mazael’s nostrils. He stifled an urge to smell her hair. “But none of them are snake-kissers. I’d know.”

“Good,” said Mazael. The folk of Mazael’s lands had abandoned the San-keth faith, or so they claimed. Mazael did not doubt that more than a few holdouts remained, praying to Sepharivaim in hidden cellars and abandoned barns. “Keep a close eye on them.”

“I will,” said Bethy. “If I find any, I’ll tell you at once.” Her expression softened, became playful, and she stepped so close to Mazael that she almost touched him. “In private, perhaps, when my lord is alone?”

Mazael stared at her. The heat from the kitchens’ fires had made her sweat, given her face a slight sheen. Her hair rested in an untidy bun atop her head, but it only exposed the curve of her neck.

“So mighty a lord,” she murmured, “ought not to be alone.”

Mazael had not lain with a woman for over a year. The Old Demon had taken Romaria from him before they ever had the chance. But Romaria was dead and Mazael was not, and Bethy was here and willing. But Mazael dared not sleep with her, nor with any other woman.

Mazael was Demonsouled, son of the Old Demon.

His tainted blood, his curse of murder and rage, would pass on to his children.

And he had not led a chaste life before learning the truth of his heritage. Suppose he had fathered a Demonsouled child on some merchant’s widow, on a long-forgotten whore? Suppose he had fathered more than one?

Mazael dared not take that risk, no matter how much a woman made his blood boil.

“If you find any snake-kissers,” said Mazael, his voice a bit hoarse, “let me know at once.”

Bethy looked disappointed, but smiled again. “Of course, my lord.” She did another curtsy, letting Mazael see down her blouse again, and vanished into the kitchens.

“Damn her,” Mazael muttered.

The guards at the keep’s gates bowed to him and pulled open the doors at his approach. Mazael would never get used to that. He nodded to the guards,  took to the stairs, and climbed to the top of the keep.

He stepped onto the highest turret, the wind tugging at his hair and cloak.

The Grim Marches stretched away in all directions, flat and brown. Gray clouds covered the sky, slashed with red light from the rising sun. Spirals of smoke rose from the chimneys in the town below.

A man stood at the battlements, wrapped in a voluminous black cloak.

“So you’ve returned,” said the man, not turning. His voice, as always, held a sardonic edge, as if amused at a private, cruel joke.

“So I have,” said Mazael, his hand twitching to Lion’s hilt. “Surprised? Or disappointed?”

“Neither. You have, Lord Mazael, proven remarkably difficult to kill.” The voice’s dark amusement grew. “To your late brother’s great dismay, no doubt.”

“I’m sure,” said Mazael, walking to the cloaked man’s side.

The top of the black cowl came to Mazael’s bearded jaw.

“Another glorious morning in the Grim Marches,” said the man. He had a pale, gaunt face, and eyes like glittering disks of obsidian. Many men named him the Dragon’s Shadow in a mixture of scornful mockery and sheer terror.

They had good reason to fear him. Lucan Mandragon, son of Richard Mandragon, was the most powerful wizard in the Grim Marches.

He could not have been older than twenty.

“The mercenaries proved foolish enough to fight?” said Lucan.

“As always.”

“Ah,” said Lucan. His cruel smile seemed out of place on such a young man. “The bloody sunrises of the Grim Marches. Appropriate, really. Given that the Grim Marches themselves may soon drown in blood.”

“Not if I can do anything about it,” said Mazael.

“Can you?” said Lucan. “I have never met Lord Malden, but he does not seem a man to forgive the death of a son.”

“Sir Belifane’s death was his own fault,” said Mazael, “not your father’s.”

“I doubt Lord Malden views matters with such equanimity.”

“Lord Malden can’t fight Lord Richard without my aid,” said Mazael. “And if Rachel marries Gerald Roland, Lord Malden won’t get my help.”

“My father will consider such a marriage a threat to his power. And my noble lord father,” Lucan’s sneer intensified, “is not a man to suffer challenges.”

“He doesn’t want war, either,” said Mazael. “He told me so himself.”

Lucan scoffed. “He doesn’t want war because he doesn’t believe he can win. If my father ever has the chance to rid himself of Malden Roland, he will do so ruthlessly and without hesitation.”

“And he cannot do so without my aid,” said Mazael, “and so, we will have no war.”

The younger man stared at him. Mazael met the black gaze without flinching. Lucan had stayed at Castle Cravenlock for over a year, at Lord Richard’s express wish, yet Mazael had never been able to determine just what Lucan wanted. The Dragon’s Shadow had a black reputation, yet Mazael had seen no reason for it, save for Lucan’s constant foul humor.

Lucan smiled without rancor. He rarely did so, yet the black mood seemed to fall from his face, and for a moment he seemed an entirely different man. “A noble goal, Lord Mazael. Certainly noble.” His face hardened, the mask returning. “Now let us see if you can achieve it.”

“I will,” said Mazael.

“And likely you’ll fail,” said Lucan. “Strive for peace all you wish. But it will come to war. Blood and terror in the end.” He waved his hand over the expanses of the Grim Marches. “It always does.”

Mazael thought of the Old Demon standing on the altar in Castle Cravenlock’s chapel, his mocking, hideous boasts. “No. It need not.”

But Mitor and his wife had died there, as had the San-keth priest Skhath.

As had Romaria.

“We will not come to war if I can avoid it,” said Mazael.

Lucan inclined his head, yielding nothing.

“Now. Tell me. What do you know of Sir Roger Gravesend?” said Mazael.

“A braying ass. A man without wisdom, subtlety, or any trace of wit. Though a competent enough swordsman.”

“He has been hiring the mercenary bands,” said Mazael.

A dark eyebrow rose. “Has he? It seems a wasted effort.”

“I wonder where he obtained the gold,” said Mazael. “From your father, perhaps?”

“My father?” Lucan looked amused. “I am hardly one to sing of the praises of Lord Richard, the great and mighty Dragonslayer, but he is not one to throw his gold down a black hole.”

“He approves only grudgingly of Rachel’s betrothal to Gerald,” said Mazael. “He might use a man like Sir Roger to show his disapproval.”

Lucan laughed aloud. “If my father were unhappy with you, he’d come here himself, with his armies, raze this ugly pile of a castle to the ground, and mount your head on a pike.” He laughed again, the sound ugly. “Or he’d just have me kill you.”

Mazael dropped his hand to Lion’s hilt. “You might try.”

They glared at each other for a moment, the wind snapping their cloaks.

Lucan sighed. “A futile gesture, since my father has not ordered me to kill you. In fact, he’s quite pleased with you.” He shrugged. “You’re certainly an improvement over that toadstool Mitor, at least.”

“High praise,” said Mazael. “Where do you think Sir Roger’s getting his gold?”

“The San-keth, probably.”

“The San-keth? Why?” said Mazael.

Again Lucan’s eyebrow rose. “Why not? They have every reason to wish you and Lady Rachel dead. You killed a San-keth priest. And your sister betrayed them. In their eyes she is now an apostate.” Lucan smirked. “And no faith has ever been tolerant of apostates.”

“A clumsy way to go about it,” said Mazael.

“It is,” agreed Lucan, “quite clumsy. I have seen better. The San-keth have thrice tried to murder my father. Fortunately, my father had my aid,” his lip twitched, “however unappreciated.”

“I will find out the truth tomorrow, at court,” said Mazael.

“And just how shall you accomplish this feat?”

“A peasant has come to the castle, bringing accusations against Sir Roger,” said Mazael. “I’ll need your help.”

Lucan smirked. “In what fashion?”

“You will tell me if Sir Roger speaks the truth or not,” said Mazael.

“Ah,” breathed Lucan. “So I see. Well.” His black eyes glittered like glass knives. “This ought to be interesting. I’ll look forward to it.”

Mazael nodded. Timothy claimed not to understand why so many feared Lucan Mandragon.

But Mazael understood, understood quite well.

He turned and left.

###

Mazael hated holding court.

He recognized the necessity, of course. If he wanted his lands to become prosperous and safe, he needed to rule them. Without a strong lord in Castle Cravenlock, marauders and bandits of all sorts would descend on the southern Grim Marches like flies to a corpse.

But, by all the gods, court irritated him. He suffered a never-ending stream of landless knights, petty lordlings, and lords seeking a husband for their daughters. They all wanted money, or lands, or for Mazael to fight their enemies.

Mazael hated to sit in one place for long. Lord Mitor had held court in the Great Hall, issuing his judgments from his throne-like chair. Mazael preferred to stalk the Great Hall as he listened and spoke. Sometimes he wandered into the courtyard. His court had no choice to follow him, like prostitutes trailing an army. It drove the clerks mad, but that didn’t trouble Mazael.

It did not help that Lord Richard had banished the Justiciar Order from his lands. The Justiciar Knights had supported Lord Mitor’s rebellion and paid the price. Lord Richard stripped them of their lands and expelled them from the Grim Marches, with the threat of death should they ever return. Richard Mandragon had taken the lion’s share of the seized lands for himself, of course. But he had given a goodly portion of them to Mazael.

Lord Malden must have been enraged. The Justiciar Order was one of his closet allies.

Ever since, landless knights and petty lords had besieged Mazael, offering eternal fidelity and service in exchange for land. He had refused most and forcefully evicted the rest.

Now Mazael paced the great hall, fingers drumming on Lion’s pommel, listening to the speech of a would-be vassal, yet another landless knight with more ambition than sense.

“My lord Mazael,” said the knight, a thick-bearded, red-nosed man with battle-scarred armor, “this manor, from the western bank of the Northwater to the village of Gray Barrow, belongs to my bloodline by right.”

“Oh?” said Mazael. He had not heard this argument before. “Why is that?”

“Because,” said the knight, “I am Sir Jarron Dracarone, last of that line, and my house was one of the original founders of Dracaryl. We were among the first to swear fealty to the first Lord of Castle Cravenlock, twelve hundred years ago, and served him loyally since.”

“You are, are you?” said Mazael. “I’ve been Lord of this castle for nearly a year, yet I seem to have missed your loyal service.”

“My house was banished, centuries ago,” said Sir Jarron, “and only now have I returned to claim my ancestral lands.”

“What a stirring tale,” said Mazael. “Worthy of a high ballad. Lady Rachel?”

Rachel stirred. She sat on the dais, at the high table, besides Gerald. “Lord brother?”

“You’re more familiar with the lore of the Grim Marches than I,” said Mazael. “Tell me, when was the House of Cravenlock founded?”

“A thousand years ago,” said Rachel.

“Really?” said Mazael, glancing sidelong at Sir Jarron. “Not twelve hundred? And, pray, just what happened to the last son of House Dracarone?”

“He died five hundred years ago, along with both his brothers,” said Rachel, “at the Battle of Markast Bridge, when the High King overthrew the last king of Dracaryl.”

“So,” said Mazael, staring at Sir Jarron, who had begun sweating, “you’re either the long-lost scion of a noble house five centuries extinct, or you’re a particularly incompetent liar. Which one, I wonder?”

“My lord,” croaked Sir Jarron, “I…”

“Sir Gerald!” said Mazael. “Please have Sir Jarron shown out.” Gerald pointed. Two armsmen stepped to Sir Jarron’s side.

“You dare!” said Sir Jarron, scowling. “These are my rightful lands! I will not be denied.”

“You may go to Swordgrim and press your suit before Lord Richard, if you like,” said Mazael. “But I am far more tolerant of fools than Lord Richard. I am merely banishing you from my lands. Lord Richard would mount your head above his gates as a warning to other charlatans. Safe journeys, sir knight.”

Sir Jarron got redder.

The armsmen led him away.

A shadow swirled on one of the balconies. Mazael glanced up. Lucan Mandragon stood at the rail, wrapped in his dark cloak, and titled his head. He stood amongst a gaggle of knights’ wives, yet none seemed to notice him. Lucan possessed the ability, spell-granted or otherwise, to move unnoticed among people. He could stand among a crowd and remain utterly unobserved.

Mazael wondered if Lucan had ever used that power on him.

He pushed the disquieting thought away and glanced aside. Sir Roger Gravesend sat on a bench near the high table, his cloak thrown back, his black hair and beard glinting. He spoke in low tones to one of Rachel’s maids, making the girl giggle and blush.

He didn’t seem like a follower of the San-keth way. But, then, neither had Mitor.

Nor had Rachel, for that matter.

“Sir Aulus!”

“My lord!” said Mazael’s herald, straightening from his post by the doors.

“Send in Wat of Bloody Ridge,” said Mazael.

Sir Roger’s head turned at the mention of the smallest village in his manor.

“The freeman Wat!” said Sir Aulus, his sonorous voice booming through the hall, “freeholder in the village of Bloody Ridge!”

A short, sun-browned man shuffled through the doors, clutching a battered hat in his hands. He wore rough, but clean, homespun, his shoes scraping against the stone floor. A bloodstained bandage wrapped his forehead.

Sir Roger’s eyes narrowed, the maid forgotten.

“My lord,” said Wat, bowing, “I’m honored to be here…I am, truly…”

“Yes, yes,” said Mazael. “Why are you here?”

“My lord,” said Wat, bowing again, “I’ll…”

“Stand up!” said Mazael. “I can’t hear if you talk to the floor.”

“My lord.” The peasant straightened. “My family’s held their land in Bloody Ridge since the time of the old kings. We always paid a third to our lords, as tradition says, no more, no less.” He swallowed, eyes darting to Sir Roger. “Then after old Lord Mitor was…ah, died, Sir Roger said…”

“Lies!” said Sir Roger, stalking to Mazael’s side. “This peasant lies.”

“Is he not Wat of Bloody Ridge?” said Mazael.

“He is,” said Sir Roger, “but…”

“And is he not a freeholder in your lands?” said Mazael.

“He was,” said Sir Roger, “but…”

“He has not lied yet.” Mazael gestured to Wat. “Speak.”

Wat swallowed, but kept talking. “Sir Roger told us all the land in the manor was his now, his alone, and that all the folk had to give him two-thirds of their crops. We wouldn’t stand for it…we thought maybe his bailiff was just dishonest, that Sir Roger didn’t know what was happening. So we went and petitioned him. I showed Sir Roger the paper old kings had given my forefathers, the paper saying the land was ours. Sir Roger laughed at me, threw my paper in the fire! Then he sent his men into the village. They took all the crops, everything. My second son tried to stop them. They,” Wat’s face worked, “they cut my boy down, and they struck me when I tried to stop them.” His fingers twitched at the bandage. “I woke up, and I didn’t know what to do. But my wife heard you were a just man, my lord, and she said I should go to you. So I did.”

“A filthy lie!” said Sir Roger, snarling. “It has always been the tradition of Bloody Ridge that the peasants give two parts of their crops to their lord. The peasants revolted against their rightful lord and I put them down.”

Mazael glanced up at the balcony.

Lucan shook his head, smirking.

“That, sir knight, is a lie,” said Mazael, “and I become wroth when my vassals lie to me.”

“You accuse me of lying?” said Sir Roger.

“Were you not listening?” said Mazael. “And I wish to know something else. Why have you been hiring Mitor’s old mercenaries to loot and ravage?”

“What is this?” said Sir Roger. “I have done nothing of the sort!”

Lucan shook his head, lip curling.

“You have,” said Mazael. “That is why you’ve been stealing your peasants’ crops, I deem. You needed some way to pay the mercenaries. Another thing, Sir Roger. Did you kiss the snake when my brother still ruled?”

Sir Roger paled. “You issued amnesty to all those who worshipped the snake-god, so long as they confessed.”

“I did,” said Mazael, “but you never confessed to anything.”

“I never worshipped that filthy idol!” said Sir Roger.

Lucan laughed. No one but Mazael heard him.

“A day for lofty tales, it seems,” said Mazael. “A lost son of House Dracarone returns to claim his lands, and poor Roger Gravesend has to defend himself from rebellious peasants. Of course, Sir Jarron was a fraud, and you are as well, sir knight. I suspect you kissed the snake, have been displeased with my rule, and now hire mercenaries to show your displeasure. Have I neared the mark?”

Sir Roger’s face twisted. “I will not be called a liar!” He began to draw his sword.

Mazael was faster. He stepped forward, seized Sir Roger’s wrist, and twisted. Sir Roger hissed, the sword dropping from his hand, and went white with pain.

“Drawing steel against your lord in his own hall?” said Mazael. Sir Roger tried to wrench away, but Mazael tightened his grip and twisted. “You’d abandon both guest right and your vows to your lord? It’s a fortunate thing I stopped you. Otherwise I could cut you down right now and no one would protest.”

Sir Roger wheezed and dropped to his knees.

“As your previous bailiff is guilty of murder,” said Mazael, “you’ll need a new one. Wat!”

The peasant gaped at Sir Roger. “My lord?”

“You’d make a fine bailiff, I believe,” said Mazael. “Henceforth, you are the bailiff of Bloody Ridge.”

Wat’s jaw dropped.

“Appointing the bailiff is my right!” groaned Sir Roger through clenched teeth.

“True,” said Mazael. “But, alas, the manor of Bloody Ridge seems insufficient for a knight of your stature.” He gestured to Sir Gerald, who barked a command. Two more armsmen hastened forward. “Until we find suitable lands for you, you’ll remain here, as my honored guest.” He let go.

Sir Roger toppled to the floor with a groan.

“Kindly see Sir Roger to his chambers,” said Mazael.

The two armsmen dragged the groaning Sir Roger away.

“As it happens,” said Mazael, “I would prefer that my vassals only take a fourth of their peasants’ crops.”

“My lord is generous,” said Wat, bowing, “most generous.”

“Sir Gerald,” said Mazael, “send Wat back to Bloody Ridge, with an appropriate escort of armsmen. He will have to remove the former bailiff, after all.”

Gerald gave the orders. Wat left the hall, half-weeping with gratitude.

Mazael sighed and glanced up at the balcony. Lucan smirked, and moved his hands in mocking applause. Then he turned and vanished in a swirl of black cloak.

“Lord Thomas Malacast,” called Sir Aulus, thumping his herald’s staff against the stone floor, “of Graywind Hold, seeking the Justiciar manor that bordered upon his estate.”

Mazael sighed.

###

Hours later, court concluded, Mazael dropped into Mitor’s old throne with a sigh, looping his leg over the carved arm. “By all the gods, Adalar, get me some wine.”

Adalar glanced at a page, who dashed from the hall.

“Thirsty?” said Gerald, Rachel on his arm. His squire Wesson followed after, still carrying Gerald’s shield.

“I could drink a damned river,” said Mazael. “Preferably of wine.”

The pages returned, bearing a flagon and a goblet of wine. Mazael took the goblet, drained it, and gestured for the page to refill it.

“What are you going to do with Sir Roger?” said Gerald.

“I haven’t decided yet,” said Mazael. “I could banish him, but he’d only raise a band of brigands and make trouble. I could keep him imprisoned indefinitely.” He shrugged, took another drink of wine. “Or perhaps I’ll hand him over to Lord Richard.”

“Maybe…” Rachel hesitated, looking away, “maybe you should just kill him.”

“Rachel!” said Gerald, looking shocked. “A man under Mazael’s own roof!”

“He did draw his sword in the hall,” said Rachel. “And he’s…he’s…” She sighed and shook her head, dark hair sliding over her shoulders. “I look at him and fear that he’ll bring woe upon us in the future.”

“He’s powerless enough, locked in the north tower,” said Mazael. “He can’t harm us from there.”

“I know,” said Rachel. “It’s just…”

“I’ll have close watch kept over him,” said Mazael. “Perhaps even have Lucan watch him.”

“No!” said Rachel.

“Why not?”

“I don’t trust Lucan Mandragon,” said Rachel. “He’s Richard Mandragon’s son, for one.”

“That’s hardly a crime,” said Mazael, “and it’s only by Lord Richard’s sufferance that we still live.”

“I know,” said Rachel, sighing, “I know. Lucan frightens me, Mazael.”

“I agree with my betrothed,” said Gerald. “The Dragon’s Shadow is not to be trusted.”

Mazael glanced at the balconies, but saw no sign of Lucan. “Why not?”

“Rumor has it that he is a powerful necromancer, nearly the equal of Simonian,” said Gerald.

“Rumors say many things,” said Mazael.

“And…and I see no fear in him,” said Rachel. “Of anyone, or anything. Nothing but contempt. I…think he might betray you, one day.” She stared at her hands. “Don’t you remember? You told me that Lord Richard promised Castle Cravenlock to Lucan, if you died in battle.”

Mazael said nothing.

###

The bas-reliefs had been smashed, the statues broken, the graven images shattered, their rubble used to choke the entrances leading into the temple. Now the corridors, the storerooms, the libraries, the dungeons, and the great temple chamber lay dark and silent. The titanic golden serpent-idol, an image of the snake-god Sepharivaim, had been melted, the gold buried. Only one narrow spiral stairwell led up to the castle.

Once the staircase had been filled with rubble, the San-keth temple would lie buried and forgotten forever.

Or, Lucan Mandragon mused, so Mazael Cravenlock thought.

A boot scraped against stone. Timothy deBlanc came down the stairs, brushing dust from his black coat, a lantern blazing his hand.

“Timothy,” said Lucan, inclining his head.

“Lucan,” said Timothy. He coughed and waved a hand in front of his face. “I’ll be pleased when we’re done with this place. I’ve had quite enough.”

“Fear not,” said Lucan, taking the lantern and holding it aloft. “Another day’s work, and you’ll never need to set foot in here again.”

Of course, Lucan himself intended to return frequently.

He had long needed a secret place to work without interruption. He had used the vaults under Swordgrim, but his ever-suspicious father knew about it, and Lucan’s labors had been hampered to no end. But here, if everyone believed the San-keth temple sealed and forgotten, Lucan could come and go as he pleased.

“Another case of those books and scrolls to destroy,” said Timothy, “and we’ll be done.”

“Or so we think,” said Lucan, adjusting his cloak. “I think it would be wise to cast your divinatory spell once again. We may have missed something.”

“We were very thorough,” said Timothy, frowning.

“Yet we may have missed something,” said Lucan, “and it would not reflect well upon us if we left some evil tome to torment future generations.”

Timothy nodded, rubbing his goatee. “You’re likely right. A moment.” He stepped back, pulled a quartz crystal from his pocket, and wrapped it with a length of silver wire. He stepped back, closed his eyes, and began muttering, gesturing with the wire-wrapped crystal. Lucan watched, following the motions of the crystal, feeling the gathering of arcane power as Timothy continued the spell.

The crystal flashed and shimmered. Timothy spoke the last word of the spell and shuddered. The crystal blazed with silver light and went dim. Lucan watched Timothy, ready with a spell of his own.

“Nothing,” said Timothy, wiping sweat from his brow. “Rather, nothing else. I sense only the last shelf in the temple’s library. Nothing more.”

Lucan nodded, hiding a smile of relief.

Timothy had not sensed the cache of books and scrolls Lucan had hidden. The temple’s library had proven a marvelous depository of arcane and necromantic lore. Lucan could not let such a treasure trove escape his grasp.

“Good,” said Lucan, “good. No reason to become careless, especially before the end.”

“A rule applicable to so many situations,” said Timothy.

“Quite right,” said Lucan, gesturing at the door to the temple’s library. “Shall we?”

They walked down the vaulted corridor and into the temple’s library. Ancient bookshelves lined the walls, mantled in shadows and dust. A single shelf held crumbling tomes and bound scrolls. Lucan walked in a circle around the walls, lighting the torches. Timothy gathered up an armful of books and scrolls and dumped them on the long table running the center of the room. Lucan set the lantern on the table, sat down, and they began work.

Lucan muttered the spell to sense magic over a scroll. “A simple warding, no more.” He handed it to Timothy. The older man nodded, lit a brass brazier with the lantern, and tossed the scroll into the coals. The scroll snarled with raging green and blue flames for a moment, then crumbled into embers.

Timothy muttered the same spell, tracing a sigil over a closed book. “Ah…a necromantic ward. You’d best do this one, Lucan.”

Lucan grunted and examined the book, probing the spell. It was a petty necromantic trick, designed to shrivel the arm of anyone who opened the cover. He shielded himself in a ward and opened the cover. The necromantic enchantment spat green flames, but fizzled against Lucan’s protections.

“High Tristafellin,” mused Lucan, examining the writing. He shook his head in disgust. “Bastardized. Some pages in San-keth, probably added later.” He flipped through the book. It held simple and feeble spells, the sort any idle dilettante might master.

“Perhaps the oft-copied remnants of a work that may have existed in the time of Tristafel,” suggested Timothy, tossing a bundle of ragged parchments into the brazier. A glowing snarl of crimson smoke shot upward, lashed against the ceiling, and vanished. “Certainly we’ve seen other books of that nature.”

“Certainly,” said Lucan.

Something on the last page caught his eye, a spell written in San-keth.

“Verily,” read the spell’s description, “many creatures of diverse natures do throng the world, cunning in deception, and servant of Sepharivaim may find himself hard-pressed to tell the True People from the lesser races. Therefore, a skilled adept may perform this ritual, upon a few drops of blood, to learn the true nature of a soul, whether of the True People, mortal men, elder race, and demon-blooded…”

Lucan gazed at the spell with interest.

“Lucan? Is something amiss?”

Lucan looked up. Timothy stared at him with concern, half-rising from his chair.

“I am well,” said Lucan. He tipped the book back.

“I feared you had been beguiled by some enchantment.”

Lucan laughed. “Certainly not.” In one swift motion he tore the page with the spell free, concealed it in his cloak, and tossed the book into the flames. It shuddered with sparks and purple flames, flared with gray light, and then crumbled into glowing dust. “I fail to see how anyone could find value in these scribbled ravings.”

“I quite agree,” said Timothy, squinting at a tattered scroll. “Lord Mazael was most insistent that they be destroyed. These books are too dangerous.”

“Yes,” murmured Lucan.

Lord Mazael.

Now there was an enigma. The man mystified him. Mazael Cravenlock had been a landless, rogue knight before becoming a lord. Lucan had dealt with dozens of such men, and they were almost always bloodthirsty and rapacious, eager to expand their wealth and power, whatever the cost.

Yet Mazael wanted peace between Lord Richard and Lord Malden. He could have sided with Lord Malden against Lord Richard. Or he could have broken his old ties with Lord Malden and attacked Knightrealm in Lord Richard’s name.

Yet Mazael refused to do either. Such altruistic behavior made Lucan suspicious. What did Lord Mazael really want?

“Once we’ve finished with this,” said Timothy, tearing a scroll into pieces and tossing the shreds into the fire one by one, “we ought to focus further on the wards to sense the undead. Perhaps we should begin with the barbican and gates.”

“As you wish,” said Lucan, feigning interest. He rather doubted, though, that the San-keth or their minions would bother to come through the gate.

But something besides Lord Mazael’s apparent noble character troubled Lucan.

To Lucan’s magical senses, Mazael felt unusual, almost blurred, as if his spirit had been scarred by some potent spell.

Or as if two spirits inhabited his flesh.

And he seemed immune to the mindclouding spell Lucan used to move unobserved through the castle. Nor could Lucan read Mazael’s thoughts. His spells permitted Lucan to pluck thoughts from the minds of others, usually without much difficulty.

Yet to Lucan’s spells, Mazael’s mind felt like an impenetrable wall of molten iron.

“I’m grateful for your assistance,” said Timothy, “truly. You ought to be the court wizard, not I.”

Lucan looked up in surprise, jarred out his musings. “Oh?”

“Your skills far surpass my own,” said Timothy.

Lucan laughed. “They do. But what of that? You aren’t dreaded and loathed from one end of the Grim Marches to the other. The peasants don’t consider you a devil. ” A bit of anger rose in Lucan’s chest, and to his annoyance, it crept into his voice. He calmed himself and continued. “But it matters not. I would not be Lord Mazael’s court wizard, not even if he begged me.” He threw a book into the fire with a bit more force than necessary.

“Why is that?” said Timothy.

“Why is what?” said Lucan, watching the book burn.

“Why are you so feared?” said Timothy. He shrugged. “Certainly, you’re powerful. And wizards are feared everywhere, though more so in some lands that others.”

“I certainly will not be visiting Swordor or Mastaria,” said Lucan.

“Nor I,” said Timothy. “Neither the Knights Justiciar nor the Knights Dominiar are very favorable to our art. But that is not the point. Why do they fear you so?” He shrugged. “I see no reason for it, after all.”

“That is most kind,” said Lucan. He stared at the brazier for a moment. “Let us say…I had an unsavory teacher.”

One half of his mind laughed and gibbered. The other half recoiled in frightened horror.

“That wasn’t your fault,” said Timothy.

“No,” said Lucan, shaking himself. The dark laughter in his mind faded away. “It was not. But that matters very little.” He picked up the next scroll in the diminishing pile. “I wish to speak no more of this.”

“Of course,” said Timothy. “But if you wish to speak more of it, I will be glad to listen.”

Lucan smiled. The expression felt strange, almost alien, on his face. He did not often smile any more. “Thank you. I’ll remember that.” Of course, he had no intention of ever discussing his past with Timothy, or anyone.

But the thought pleased him, a little bit.

“We should resume work,” said Lucan, gesturing at the piled books.

Timothy nodded.

Lucan felt the torn page within his cloak and smiled.

Soon enough, he would solve the riddle of Lord Mazael Cravenlock.

3

Heir of Swordgrim

Mazael awoke with a headache and a foul taste in his mouth. He rolled out of bed, walked naked to the table against the wall, and washed out his mouth with a swallow of wine.

He rarely slept well, these days. The Old Demon no longer troubled him with spell-wrought nightmares, but feverish dreams had drifted across his mind like poisoned foam over fouled waters. He had dreamt of Sir Roger, his hands clamped about Rachel’s throat, and of giant snakes slithering through the foundations of Castle Cravenlock.

And he saw, over and over again, the killing flare of the Old Demon’s spell, saw Romaria topple before the chapel’s altar.

Mazael took another swallow of wine. For a moment he wanted to fall back into bed. Today would only bring another succession of scheming vassals and greedy lords. Why even bother? Lucan was right. It would end in blood or death, one way or another.

The thought repulsed him. Mazael growled and pushed the wine away. He had lands to rule and people to lead, and could not do so if he staggered about drunk.

It was still dark, though the sun had just begun to rise, and Adalar and the pages still lay asleep. Mazael saw no reason to wake them and dressed himself. He slipped down the stairs of the King’s Tower and into the chilly courtyard.

Gerald and Sir Nathan trained the armsmen and squires just after sunrise. Mazael tapped Lion’s pommel and grinned. He had spent too much time dealing with recalcitrant vassals and corrupt knights. A few hours spent thrashing his armsmen and knights would shake off his depression.

He glanced up at the curtain wall and stopped. Gerald and Sir Nathan stood atop the barbican gate, leaning against the battlements. Sir Nathan pointed over the wall, shaking his head. Mazael frowned and joined them.

“Trouble?” said Mazael.

“Possibly,” said Gerald. “We were just about to send for you.”

Sir Nathan pointed. “Look.”

Mazael saw the glimmer of campfires on the horizon. He made out the dark shapes of tents, hazy in the morning gloom.

“How many men?” said Mazael.

“A hundred, possibly,” said Sir Nathan. “Maybe one hundred and fifty.”

“More mercenaries?” said Gerald.

Sir Nathan shook his head. “The camp is too orderly.”

“Then who?” said Gerald.

Mazael shrugged. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

The sun crept up, inch by inch, and Mazael saw dozens of tethered horses. Figures moved back and forth through the camp. He saw a banner flapping over the tents, though it was too dark to make out details.

“If they take it into their heads to burn the town, they’re close enough to do it,” said Sir Nathan.

“Aye,” said Mazael. “Gerald. Rouse the squires and the knights. Get them ready. If our visitors ride for the town, we’ll sally out and stop them.”

Gerald ran from the ramparts.

“He shouldn’t run,” said Sir Nathan. “He ought to show confidence to his men.”

“Well, do you want to be armsmaster?”

“No.”

“Then he can run.”

Sir Nathan grunted, but said nothing more. The courtyards clattered and echoed as squires led out the horses from the stables, as knights donned armor and helm, picked up sword and shield. In the camp men rolled up tents and mounted horses.

Mazael folded his arms and waited.

The sun brightened, and Mazael saw the black sigil on the red banner.

He swore softly.

“We should prepare a welcome,” said Sir Nathan.

Mazael saw a black-armored figure emerge from a tent, swing onto a magnificent destrier. “Or maybe we should stay armed.”

“Is that not Lord Richard?” said Sir Nathan.

Mazael shook his head. “No. I might have preferred rogue mercenaries. They would have been easier to handle than Toraine Mandragon.”

A flicker of surprise went over Sir Nathan’s face. “What would Toraine want here?”

“I don’t know,” said Mazael. Why had Lord Richard’s eldest son come here? Toraine’s party began riding for the castle, the Mandragon banner flapping overhead. “Let’s go find out.”

He descended to the courtyard, Sir Nathan at his side. Gerald emerged from the keep with Rachel on his arm. Mitor had considered marrying Rachel to Toraine, and Lord Richard had done likewise. Mazael hoped Gerald didn’t do anything rash.

Gerald gave orders, and armsmen moved into an honor guard around the gate. A few moments later a band of horsemen thundered into the courtyard, the Mandragon banner billowing overhead. A dozen knights in gleaming plate followed. In their midst rode a tall man in a strange combination of black chain and dull black plate, riding the most expensive destrier Mazael had ever seen. The rider reined up, pulled off his helmet, and vaulted from the saddle in a single fluid movement. He had piercing black eyes, red hair, and a trimmed beard like a spike of flame.

He looked a lot like Lucan Mandragon, except taller, stronger, and more striking. And where Lucan’s expression seemed contemptuous, Toraine’s resembled that of a rabid wolf.

Men often said that Toraine was not Demonsouled, but ought to be.

“Lord Heir,” said Mazael, inclining his head, using the title Toraine Mandragon insisted upon.

“Lord Mazael,” said Toraine, a cold glint in his eye. “My father’s favorite vassal. I thought you’d look fatter after a year ruling this,” he gestured at the castle’s tower, “ugly heap. But you look wasted away. Pity.” He thrust out his helmet. A squire in Mandragon livery took it. “Pity indeed. You know, if fat Mitor had managed to kill you instead of the other way around…”

“I didn’t kill Mitor,” said Mazael.

“Oh, of course,” said Toraine. His smirk resembled Lucan’s. “If Mitor had killed you, then my father would have killed Mitor.” He gestured at the castle again. “Then my father would have given Castle Cravenlock to me. Though I would have torn this wreck down and begun from scratch.”

Mazael returned Toraine’s smirk. “But as it happened, Skhath killed Mitor, I survived, and Castle Cravenlock is mine, not yours.”

Mazael saw Rachel’s knuckles whiten as she gripped Gerald’s hand.

Toraine scowled. “You’re not frightened of me, are you?”

“No,” said Mazael. Toraine’s squires flinched. “Should I be? You’re my liege lord’s eldest son. Assuming we both live long enough, you’ll be my liege lord, one day. We ought to be the closest of friends.”

“Even my closest friends are frightened of me, and rightly,” said Toraine, sounding thoughtful. “You should be too.”

“Whatever for?” said a scornful voice. “I see no reason to be frightened. Amused, perhaps, but not frightened.”

Lucan stepped past Rachel and Gerald, adjusting his black cloak.

Anger flashed across Toraine’s face, vanishing behind his smirk. “Why, brother. It has been too long.”

“It has been a year,” said Lucan, “and not at all long enough.”

“Not long enough?” said Toraine. “I had thought you would want to return to Swordgrim and end your banishment.”

“It was not banishment, as you well know,” said Lucan. “I am weary of Swordgrim and weary of you, my dear brother. Or had you forgotten that? Just as you seem to have forgotten that our lord father promised Castle Cravenlock to me if Lord Mazael fell, not to you.”

Toraine laughed, his eyes narrowed. “Then you ought to count yourself lucky, Lord Mazael. Those Lucan finds inconvenient tend to die most mysteriously.”

“I find you inconvenient, not mention dull and tiresome,” said Lucan, his glower a dark mirror of Toraine’s, “and yet you still live.”

Toraine’s hand dropped to the hilt of the curved blade at his belt. “A threat against your future liege lord, brother? I ought to strike you dead for that.”

“You are not my liege lord yet,” said Lucan. “You have to outlive our lord father first. A doubtful proposition, that.” His voice hardened. “And I remember what I promised you, after Tymaen’s wedding. Raise a hand against me and I’ll wither the flesh on your bones.”

Toraine snarled, drew his sword, and took a step forward. Lucan sneered and raised his hand, muttering under his breath. Things might have gone very bad, but Mazael stepped between them, grabbed Lucan’s wrist, and seized Toraine’s sword arm.

The two brothers glared at Mazael.

“Enough of this!” said Mazael.

“You dare lay a hand on the Heir of Swordgrim!” spat Toraine, eyes blazing with fury.

“I don’t give a damn if you’re the High King and Lucan’s the Patriarch of the Amathavian Church!” said Mazael. “I am the Lord of Castle Cravenlock, not you, not him, and I will not have blood spilled in my courtyard! Do you understand? Raise a hand against each other, and I’ll kill both of you and deal with Lord Richard later.”

Both sons of Richard Mandragon gaped at Mazael as if he’d gone mad.

Then Lucan laughed and shook free of Mazael’s grip. “I believe you’re serious, Lord Mazael.” He laughed again. “It would almost be amusing to watch.”

Toraine just stared at Mazael, eyes furious. Mazael realized that he had made an enemy.

It didn’t trouble him. Toraine had never been friendly, anyway.

Toraine turned and bowed to Rachel. “My fair lady,” he said. “You look as radiant as I remember.” He took her hand and kissed it.

Gerald’s eyes narrowed.

“Thank you, Lord Heir,” said Rachel. Her voice only trembled a bit.

Toraine glanced at Gerald, smirked. “Lord Malden’s youngest son, eh?”

“I am Sir Gerald Roland.”

Toraine ignored him and kept speaking to Rachel. “Youngest sons are never important.” He glared at Lucan. “No doubt Sir Gerald will become lord of some rock on Knightrealm’s coast. You can sit at his side as he rules over dead fish and seagulls. And you could have been the lady of the Grim Marches.” He shook his head and stepped back.

“I’m quite happy, my lord Heir,” said Rachel.

“And what concern is that of mine?” snapped Toraine. He turned to Mazael. “I will lodge here for three or four days, I think. Long enough to meet this emissary Lord Malden dispatched. Sir Tobias, yes?”

Mazael tried not to wince. The thought of Toraine Mandragon and Sir Tobias Roland in the same room was alarming. “I believe so.”

“Excellent,” said Toraine. He gestured, and the rest of his party filed through the gate. Mazael saw thirty knights, a number of armsmen, some ragged merchants, and a large band of whores. “Walk with me, Lord Mazael. Alone. We have things to discuss.”

“As you wish,” said Mazael. Gerald and Master Cramton hurried forward, directing the knights to the stables.

Toraine wandered across the courtyard, leaving Mazael with no choice but to follow. They climbed to the battlements, Toraine’s red cloak, emblazoned with a black dragon, flaring out behind him. Toraine reached the ramparts and strolled with a proprietary air, running his hand along the cold stone battlements.

“You seem to have attracted quite a few followers,” said Mazael, looking at the merchants and whores in Toraine’s party.

Toraine laughed. “They have their uses. The common folk are drawn to our power, like maggots to meat. When I am finished with them, I will discard them and take new ones.”

Mazael’s lips thinned. “No doubt.”

“I assume you’re wondering why I’ve come,” said Toraine, “as I have far better things to do than to loiter about backwater castles.”

“I assume Lord Richard commanded you,” said Mazael.

Toraine’s obsidian eyes narrowed. “My father does not command me in all matters.”

“Yes, but in most matters,” said Mazael, “he keeps you on a short leash. Else you’d have razed most of the neighboring lands, alienated your father’s vassals, and gotten yourself killed or assassinated.”

Toraine whirled and glared, face inches from Mazael’s “You ought to speak with more respect.”

“I speak forthrightly,” said Mazael, “as I do with Lord Richard. Shall I do any less with you? Though Lord Richard does accept counsel more calmly than you.”

Toraine stepped back, but his glare did not waver. Mazael felt a wave of disgusted disquiet. Lord Richard was a vigorous man in his mid-forties, likely to rule for at least another score of years. Yet disease and mishap were all too common. Suppose Lord Richard died and Toraine became the new lord of the Grim Marches? Or suppose Toraine had Lord Richard assassinated and seized the lordship?

One day Mazael might find himself fighting this young madman.

For a brief moment Mazael considered shoving Toraine from the rampart. Better to kill him here and now, before Toraine had the chance to lead thousands of others to death. Mazael could claim it was an accident. Lord Richard would believe the lie…

His hands had tightened into fists before he stopped in horror. Random, sudden murder was the way of his Demonsouled blood. He would not give in to it. Romaria had died to free him from its curse, and by all the gods, he would not make her sacrifice meaningless.

“Ill, Lord Mazael?” said Toraine, watching him with an expression of guarded caution. Perhaps he had divined something of Mazael’s thoughts. “Or distracted?” He smiled. “Some of my whores are most skilled…”

“Enough,” growled Mazael, shaking his head. “We argue all day, and as you’ve said, I have better things to do. Why did Lord Richard send you here?”

Toraine looked at Rachel and Gerald, who stood speaking with Toraine’s knights. “Your sister’s marriage to this Roland.”

“What of it?” said Mazael. “Lord Richard gave his assent, if grudgingly.”

“Yes,” said Toraine. “Why do you plan to wed your sister to a son of my father’s mortal enemy?”

“Simply because your father and Gerald’s are mortal enemies, and their strength is evenly matched” said Mazael. “Castle Cravenlock is the second strongest lordship in the Grim Marches, after Swordgrim. Without my help, Lord Richard cannot fight Knightrealm. And unless I aid Lord Malden, he cannot fight the Grim Marches.”

“Yes,” said Toraine, his smirk returning. “Unless you aid Lord Malden, unless you betray the Mandragons, they will be no war.”

“And I won’t,” said Mazael, “so there will be no war.”

“Unless you betray us,” said Toraine.

“I gave Lord Richard my sworn word,” said Mazael, voice hardening.

Toraine laughed. “And what worth has sworn word? Your brother swore to my father, as well.” He laughed again. “And he joined the snake-kissers, and would have sought Knightcastle’s aid, if Lord Malden hadn’t been too wise to support such a fool.” He grinned. “You want to know why I’m here, Lord Mazael?”

Mazael said nothing.

“If you betray my father, then you will have to contend with me.”

Mazael still said nothing.

“They call me the Black Dragon for good reason. If you betray us, I’ll fall on your lands like a storm. I will burn your crops, raze your villages, slaughter your peasants like sheep. I’ll take this castle for my own. Then I’ll hunt you down. I’ll take your sister, rape her bloody, and throw her to my men when I’m finished with her. And then I’ll kill you.”

Now Mazael glared into Toraine’s eyes. “I won’t betray Lord Richard. I don’t want war between Knightrealm and the Grim Marches. And by all the gods, I swear that if you do any of that...if you raise a finger against my sister…if you even so much as give her a threatening glance, then I will kill you.”

Toraine looked away first. “Twice you’ve threatened to kill me today.”

“Not threatened,” said Mazael, “but promised. And only if you threaten me first.” He gestured at the castle. “No doubt you’re weary from the journey. I’ll have a page see you to your chambers.”

“I am not weary,” said Toraine, “and feel the need to stretch my muscles. Your armsmaster trains the men in the morning, no? Perhaps I shall train with them.”

Mazael gritted his teeth. “As you wish.”

###

Sir Roger Gravesend paced his tower cell, scowling.

Of course, it wasn’t really a cell. It had rich carpets, ornate tapestries, comfortable chairs, and large bed. He had as much wine as he wished, and in fact spent most of his time drunk.

But it was a cell, just the same.

Sir Roger filled his goblet again and drained it in a swift gulp.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he mumbled. “They promised me.” The room began to spin. He refilled his goblet, wine splashing across his tunic, and staggered to a chair. “They betrayed me.”

The door opened. A serving girl in rough homespun entered, curtsied, and laid a platter of meat, bread, and dried fruit on the table.

“They said it was just the beginning,” mumbled Sir Roger, oblivious to the serving girl, “they’d help me.” He took a long drink of wine and slammed the goblet against the arm of the chair. “They betrayed me!”

“Perhaps they haven’t, sir knight,” murmured the serving girl.

Sir Roger looked up. “What? What did you say?”

“Maybe they haven’t abandoned you,” she said, looking at him.

Sir Roger smiled. The girl looked about fifteen or sixteen. “You’re a comely wench.” He beckoned. “Why don’t you come over here, eh? We’ll have ourselves a good time.”

She  gave him a shy smile, swayed across the room, and settled on his lap. A wide, unsteady grin spread across his face.

“We’ll have ourselves a good time tonight, we surely will,” whispered the girl. “And they didn’t betray you, sir knight.”

Sir Roger blinked. “What?”

“Why don’t you open the front of my dress?” cooed the girl, nipping at his ear. She leaned back and smiled.

Sir Roger grinned back and fumbled for the leather ties at her throat. The front of her dress fell open. Sir Roger licked his lips, and reached for her breast.

His hand froze a few inches from the pale skin, his jaw dropping open in sudden alarm.

Above her left breast, over her heart, rested the small mark of a coiled serpent.

Sir Roger looked at the girl’s face.

Her eyes flashed yellow and he caught a glimpse of pointed, dripping fangs.

“Oh, gods!” shrieked Sir Roger, rocking back into the chair. “Get off me. Get off me!” He tried to push her away, but the girl’s hands locked about his wrists like iron bands, slamming his arms against the chair.

She leaned forward, face against his, and ran the pointed tips of her fangs down his cheek.

“You need a shave, sir knight,” purred the girl.

“Don’t kill me,” said Sir Roger, sweating. “I didn’t betray our master,” her fangs pressed deeper, “don’t kill me, please, don’t…”

“Sir Roger,” said the girl, leaning back, “we know you didn’t betray us.” She pulled her dress open wider. On her shoulder rested a small black mark, the sigil of a serpent wrapped about a cloak-black fang.

“You…you serve the holy one Blackfang?” said Sir Roger, awed. “He is coming himself?”

“He is,” said the girl, closing her dress. “The time has come, faithful Roger Gravesend. The enemies of our faith will pay tonight. Lord Mazael Cravenlock shall die for the murder of holy Skhath. Rachel Cravenlock shall die for her apostasy. And both Lucan and Toraine Mandragon shall die, for their father’s crimes against the priests of great Sepharivaim.”

“Toraine Mandragon is here?” said Sir Roger.

“He is,” said the girl, “come to threaten Mazael.”

“But…but Lucan Mandragon is a powerful wizard. Extremely dangerous. All folk hold him in fear…”

The girl scoffed. “Do you think his puny arts can threaten a servant of great Sepharivaim?”

“No, no, of course not,” said Sir Roger.

“They will die tonight,” said the girl, “and you, faithful Roger, shall have your freedom, and great reward for your loyalty to the servants of mighty Sepharivaim.” She smiled, eyes glinting yellow. “Perhaps we will arrange for you to become the new Lord of Castle Cravenlock.” She slid off him. “Wait for us. Be ready.”

She vanished through the door in a swirl of skirts.

Sir Roger stared after her, and took another swallow of wine.

###

Wood clacked against wood.

Men crowded the courtyard before the castle’s barracks. In one corner the armsmen drilled with halberds and spears, under the scowling gaze of grizzled sergeants. Archery butts had been lined against the curtain wall, and crossbowmen sent bolts thudding into the straw. Before the steps of the barracks the squires and pages stood in pairs, crossing wooden practice swords. Sir Gerald and Sir Nathan stood on the stairs, overseeing everything.

Mazael walked towards the barracks, Toraine Mandragon at his side. Toraine strolled unconcerned through the various melees. Rumor had it that the dull black plates of his armor were the scales of a black dragon, a black dragon slain upon Toraine's blade, the scales capable of deflecting almost anything.

“How orderly,” said Toraine, observing the crossbowmen.

“The Lord Heir approves, then?” said Mazael.

Toraine gave a thin smile. “Such effort. I might think you were training an army for rebellion. But I have your protestations of loyalty, of course.”

Mazael almost wished he had let Lucan and Toraine come to blows.

“Do you ever participate?” said Toraine. “Such a mighty lord as yourself. You must be able to defeat any man in this castle.”

“Sometimes,” said Mazael, “when the mood takes me. Usually I spar with some of my most trusted knights.”

“Prudent, perhaps,” said Toraine, “for you never know when a man will take the opportunity to shove steel down your gullet. But mayhap it is foolish. Your skills will have gone to rust.”

“Is that your concern?” said Mazael. “It’s not as if we will ever war against each other, of course.”

“Of course,” said Toraine, smirking. “But, come, I feel the need for exercise. Let us train against each other.”

Some of the squires and armsmen stopped to stare at them.

“My lord Heir?” said Mazael.

“It has been a while since you faced a proper challenge, I think,” said Toraine, snapping his fingers. Two of his squires removed his cloak. “Let us see the mettle of Castle Cravenlock’s lord.”

“As you wish,” said Mazael. “Adalar!” Adalar broke free from the squires and ran to Mazael’s side. “My armor. And two practice swords.”

“Practice swords?” scoffed Toraine. “Are we boys, to play with sticks? Proper steel, I think.” He thumped the pommel of his sword.

Adalar and two pages returned with Mazael’s mail hauberk, cuirass, and gauntlets. “I’ve no wish hurt you by mischance, lord Heir.”

Toraine smiled. “You won’t.”

“And shall we just gut each other, then?” said Mazael. “Or fight until first blood?”

“I doubt my father would appreciate it if I spilled Cravenlock blood here,” said Toraine. He tapped his chest. “No, a simple tap to the breastplate will suffice.” He watched as Adalar carried over Mazael’s armor. “Assuming that can block a sword thrust, of course.”

More silence fell over the courtyard as the squires and armsmen drifted over to watch. Mazael gritted his teeth and wished Sir Nathan would order them back to work. It reminded him too much of his fight with Skhath, when the San-keth priest had still cloaked himself in the illusion of a human knight.

Mazael pulled on his armor, aided by Adalar. Toraine stepped back and drew his sword, settling into a guard position. His squires hastened forward and undid his sword belt, lest his scabbard entangle his legs. Toraine held a long sword with curved blade, the light, fast saber favored by the nomads of the south. Mazael drew Lion, the blade glimmering with a cold blue sheen.

Toraine stepped forward, sword held in both hands, the blade before his face. “Ready, Lord Mazael?”

Mazael dropped into a light crouch, body sideways, Lion out before him. “If you are!”

Toraine moved in a blur of black armor and red hair, chopping at Mazael’s face. Mazael sidestepped, parried, and thrust for Toraine’s throat. Toraine pushed Lion down, spun, and brought his saber down for an overhead chop. The swords clanged and rang with the effort of the battle.

Toraine stepped back, saber point tracing figure-eights. “Fast, for an old man.”

“I’m but ten years your senior,” said Mazael, circling Toraine. Toraine began circling him in return, neither his eyes nor his blade wavering. “Boy.”

Toraine sprang forward, feinted for Mazael’s head, and dropped his strike low. Mazael kicked the flat of the blade aside and stabbed. Toraine twisted away, sword flailing.

“Poor form,” growled Toraine, “using your boot in such a manner.”

“In battle,” said Mazael, feinting for Toraine’s arm, Toraine stepping aside, “form matters less than who still’s standing when it’s all over. You’ve killed enough people. I thought you’d know that.”

Toraine growled, his eyes blazing, and flung himself at Mazael. His saber flashed high, low, whirling in steel spirals. Mazael blocked and ducked and parried, Lion clanging in his hands. Toraine’s momentum played out, and Mazael spun and threw a two-handed chop that Toraine’s saber barely turned.

They reeled back and forth in the ragged circle, Toraine’s saber flashing and stabbing against Lion’s blade. Mazael’s blood pumped through his arms, his breath deep and strong. Despite himself, he began to enjoy the swordplay. Toraine moved his blade with masterful skill, perhaps better than almost anyone in Castle Cravenlock. It had been a long time since Mazael had faced a serious challenge. Even the battles against the scattered mercenaries had been little more than organized slaughter.

Bit by bit, Mazael probed the edge of Toraine’s defenses, Lion’s blade flashing. Toraine had skill, but lacked Mazael’s experience. He did not vary his defensive moves. Mazael thrust and swung, following Toraine’s defenses, preparing his winning blow.

Then something slammed hard into his back.

Mazael stumbled, pain bursting through his shoulders. He dropped to one knee, even as Toraine’s thrust screamed past and tore a ragged furrow across Mazael’s left bicep. Toraine overbalanced, surprise and triumph and alarm mingled on his face. Agony spread through Mazael’s arm.

Rage exploded within him, turned his blood to howling flame.

Mazael leapt back to his feet with a roar and a surge of speed, backhanding Toraine across the face, and the younger man fell back with a groan of pain. Lion gleamed, and Mazael raised it high, ready to ram it through Toraine’s eye, ready to watch blood and brains splash across the courtyard earth…

“Mazael!”

He blinked.

Rachel gripped his arm, staring at him with a worried expression. Gerald was at her side, sword half drawn.

“Rachel?” said Mazael. He scarce recognized his own voice. Blood dripped from the cut on his arm, soaking into the ground. Toraine stared up at him, breathing hard, hands raised in guard. He looked terrified.

“For gods’ sake, don’t kill him,” said Rachel, pleading. “It was just a cut. Just a little blood. It’ll heal.”

“Blood,” croaked Mazael, looking down at Toraine. He watched his dripping blood spatter on the ground.

His blood…

With a surge of horror, Mazael realized that his Demonsouled blood had almost taken hold of him once more, had almost driven him to murder in a blind rage.

It had almost made Romaria’s sacrifice worthless.

Disgusted and ashamed, he stepped back, picking up Toraine’s saber.

Toraine climbed to his feet, rubbing his jaw. “Well.” His voice had a slight tremor. “So this is the famous rage of Mazael Cravenlock. Quite impressive.”

Mazael reversed the blade and handed the hilt to Toraine. “My apologies. I did not mean to frighten you.”

“You didn’t,” said Toraine. “I…suppose it was my fault. I shouldn’t have thrust when you stumbled.”

A fresh flicker of rage awoke in Mazael’s mind. “Someone pushed me.”

“Who would dare? You lost your balance, surely,” said Toraine, still rubbing his jaw.

“Someone pushed me,” said Mazael, “I’m sure.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Rachel. “We’d best get your arm bandaged. Adalar!” Mazael’s squire hurried to her side. “Get Timothy at once!”

“My lady.” Adalar dashed away.

“I think perhaps I will retire to those guest chambers now,” said Toraine. “Getting knocked to the ground does rather knock the wind from a man.”

“Of course.” Mazael ordered a page to show Toraine to the guest chambers in the southwestern tower. Timothy appeared, face furrowed with concern, and began clucking over the cut in Mazael’s arm. Mazael endured the ministrations, brooding. Timothy cleaned the wound and wound bandages about it.

He cursed his folly. What hope of peace might the Grim Marches have if he cut down Lord Richard’s son in a blind fury? Lord Richard would seek vengeance, and Mazael would have no choice but to seek Lord Malden’s aid, and then the Grim Marches would drown in blood and war.

And how would the Old Demon exploit such a bloodletting?

Mazael sighed.

“You look pale. I hope the wound doesn’t fester,” said Rachel, still frowning.

“It won’t,” said Mazael.

“Your confidence flatters me, my lord,” said Timothy.

Mazael had the utmost confidence in Timothy, but that didn’t matter.

The power in his Demonsouled blood healed even the most grievous wounds.

And even as Timothy finished, the wound closed beneath the bandage, the skin knitting together of its own accord.

“Let us have some breakfast,” said Rachel, touching his arm.

“You look thirsty, after all,” said Gerald, trying to smile.

Mazael nodded and let Rachel lead him to the great hall.

###

Some time later, Lucan Mandragon strolled through the deserted courtyard, wrapped in his mindclouding spell and his dark cloak.

It had been a risk, though a slight one, to strike Mazael with the spell from behind. Lucan’s mindclouding permitted him to stand ignored in the crowd of spectators, but Mazael had always been able to see through it. Fortunately, Mazael’s attention had always been focused on Toraine.

Of course, Mazael might have killed Toraine in his wrath.

Lucan laughed. That had would have been less of risk and more of a pleasant surprise. But, still, Lucan wanted peace as much as Mazael, and Toraine’s death would hardly help.

He stopped where Toraine and Mazael had fought. A few drops of dried blood stained the earth. Lucan’s cold smile widened as he knelt. He produced a dagger and scraped the bloodstained dirt into a pouch.

“Now, my lord Mazael,” said Lucan, rising, “we’ll find things out, will we not?”

He remembered Mazael’s furious rage, the murderous light in his eyes, and Lucan’s smile vanished in a sudden chill.

He had never encountered such fury before, though he had read of it, and suspected its source.

“Yes, Lord Mazael,” he murmured, flexing his fingers, fingers that could conjure a score of lethal spells, “we’ll find out, will we not?”

Chapter 2

1

The Wrath of Sepharivaim

Mazael rubbed his aching head. “That didn’t go well.”

He stood alone with Gerald and Rachel in the courtyard. Night had fallen, and most of the castle’s residents had retired.

Rachel shrugged. “At least Toraine didn’t kill anyone.”

The Lord Heir had loitered about the great hall during court, glaring at Mazael over dinner. He had insulted several of Mazael’s knights, and made vigorous efforts to seduce their wives. Mazael hoped he had been unsuccessful. If a vengeful husband gutted Toraine in a duel, Lord Richard would be wroth.

“I have a pair of armsmen at his door,” said Gerald, “as an honor guard. They’ll let us know if he tries anything…troublesome.”

“Good,” said Mazael, clapping Gerald’s shoulder, “good. No wonder Lucan hates him so. Quite a pair, aren’t they? Lucan may be a black wizard, but at least he has a civil tongue in his head.”

“Speaking of Lucan,” said Gerald, “where is he? I haven’t seen him since this morning.”

Mazael shrugged. “Nor have I.”

Rachel scowled. “He’s up to something, I’m sure.”

“Maybe,” said Mazael. “Or perhaps he’s afraid he can’t control himself around Toraine.” He grimaced. “Like me.”

“That was an accident…” Gerald and Rachel began in unison.

“I know, I know,” said Mazael, waving his hand. “Go to bed. I’m weary enough, and I’ve no doubt you are also. Go.”

Gerald gave Rachel a chaste kiss on the cheek, and she turned and joined her waiting maids. Mazael turned and stalked towards his bedchamber. He barred the door behind him and threw himself on the bed, not bothering to undress.

But he could not sleep, and stared at the ceiling. For a moment he considered summoning Bethy, but shoved the notion aside. Bad enough he had succumbed to his Demonsouled nature once today. No need to risk passing his curse on to an unwitting child.

###

Lucan crossed to the far wall of his chamber, a small cell wedged beneath the chambers of the court wizard. To most eyes, the wall looked blank, a featureless stretch of worn gray stone.

Only Lucan’s eyes saw the complex sigil painted onto the stone, an ornate combination of summoning and conjuration symbols. Of course, a wizard of sufficient skill would have noticed the mark, but Lucan doubted another wizard in the Grim Marches possessed such mastery.

He stepped forward, ran his fingers along the sigil’s lines, and muttered a quick incantation. Gray mist welled from the sigil, wrapping him in its chilly embrace.

When it cleared, Lucan stood in the vaulted central corridor of the sealed San-keth temple. He smiled in satisfaction. The sigil had worked, snatching him from the material world, through the spiritual world, and depositing him into the temple corridor.

He adjusted the pouch holding the bloodstained dirt and made his way to the cathedral-like temple chamber itself. A towering golden image of Sepharivaim, god of the San-keth, had once loomed over the altar. Reliefs on the walls and columns had displayed images of the San-keth torturing helpless humans. Mazael had ordered the idol destroyed, the statues smashed.

The temple had quite a different look now.

Sagging bookshelves lined the walls of the balconies, laden Lucan’s books and scrolls. Long tables on the temple’s main floor held alchemical equipment, vast collections of bottles, and a variety of arcane machinery that would have baffled poor Timothy. Lucan descended to the temple floor, looking about in satisfaction. He had wanted a secret haven for years, a place to carry on his work away from his father’s eyes.

Lucan laughed aloud, his mirth echoing off the silent stones. Ironic. His father’s own orders had given Lucan the opportunity to claim the temple for his own. He strolled past the tables, glancing over his collection of magical tools.

He stopped before an intricate double circle painted on the floor. A bewildering array of intricate runes lay between the two circles, like a ring of crawling spiders. Lucan crossed to a bookstand and a small table on the far side of the circle. On the bookstand rested the page torn from the San-keth spell book.

Lucan set the pouch of dirt on the table, focused his will, and began to chant.

He chanted for a long time. Soon, gray mist roiled and writhed within the circle. Lucan lit a small bronze censer and waved it in complex patterns. With his free hand he seized handfuls of various powders and flung them into the mist. Magical force trembled and shuddered in the air.

Lucan clapped his hands and shouted the final word of the spell.

A shrieking, tearing sound filled the temple. The circle blazed with blue light for an instant, the mist transmuting into a curtain of blue flame.

And then a hulking shape reared within the circle.

Lucan looked away at once. The spell had described no danger, but Lucan had dealt with conjured spirits often enough to know that staring at it might prove perilous, even fatal.

A hissing voice snarled out of the circle, making both Lucan’s bones and the stone floor vibrate.

“You are not of the San-keth race! What do you want of me, mortal dog?”

“One simple service, nothing more,” said Lucan, resisting the urge to gaze at the spirit creature.

“I am obligated to do nothing!”

“Of course not. But, then, you are quite imprisoned within the circle, and you cannot return to your world until I release you. So. You may perform this simple, insignificant service for me, or you will remain within that circle for the rest of time. It matters very little to me.”

Actually, Lucan would have found it inconvenient. He had no wish to move his workroom yet again. But the thing in the circle needn’t know that.

“Wretched mortal! I shall rend your soul from your flesh.”

The air shuddered with a scream of fury, the circle sparking with sapphire light. Lucan waited. The shudders and sparks intensified, growing louder and brighter. The display went on for some minutes, then fell silent.

“You’ll find,” said Lucan, “that the circle is quite impregnable. A greater spirit could have broken it, but you’re scarcely a lesser spirit. Perform a service for me, or sit there until the world crumbles into dust.”

A long silence followed. Lucan smirked.

“Very well, mortal man.” The awful voice sounded resigned. “What do you wish?”

“A simple favor, nothing more,” said Lucan. He undid the drawstring on the pouch. “Tell me what manner of mortal creature shed this blood.”

Something like a chuckle escaped the circle. “An enemy?”

“Perhaps. I don’t yet know.” Lucan scowled. “But it is no concern of yours. Do as I say!”

He flung the bloodstained earth into the circle.

The mist roiled and snarled, and for a brief moment blazed with black flames.

The chuckle came again. “Ah, mortal man! You have mighty enemies!”

“Do I?” said Lucan.

“This blood is of he who mortals called the Great Demon, long ago.”

“Ah.” Many things became clear to Lucan.

Mazael’s uncanny speed and strength, his rage, the way his eyes blazed on the rare occasions when he lost his temper. For that matter, how else could Mazael have survived both a San-keth priest and the notorious necromancer Simonian of Briault?

Mazael, Lord of Castle Cravenlock, was Demonsouled.

Lucan contemplated what to do next.

“The spirit of demonkind blazes within this blood like a black star,” hissed the creature. “This blood…ah, such might, such potency! This blood came from the Great Demon’s own line.”

Lucan’s eyes widened.

Had the Old Demon himself fathered Mazael? Lucan had always believed the Old Demon a myth, a creature of peasant fable. But if the last son of the Great Demon still walked the earth after three thousand years…

“I prophesy, mortal. The Demonsouled shall destroy you,” cackled the creature, “and I shall laugh…”

“Be silent and be gone,” snarled Lucan, muttering a spell.

A thunderclap rang out, the floor trembling, a flash of light throwing dark shadows against the wall. Lucan lifted his head and gazed into the circle.

It was empty but for a scattering of bloodstained dirt.

“So,” whispered Lucan.

He didn’t know quite what to do. But best to deal with Mazael now, immediately, when Lucan could catch him off guard.

He left the temple workroom behind, making for Mazael’s chambers.

###

Sir Roger Gravesend sat up in bed, drenched in sweat.

The serving girl stood by the window, moonlight illuming her pale skin, her eyes glinting gold and back.

“It’s time, loyal Sir Roger,” she whispered.

“How did you get in here?” he croaked.

“Get dressed,” she said, pointing.

“But the guards…”

Her lips pulled back, fangs glinting. “The guards were lonely, and couldn’t resist a kiss from a pretty girl. Get dressed.”Roger obeyed and followed the girl into the hall.

The guards lay dead on the ground, lips black and eyes bulging. Sir Roger noticed the twin puncture wounds on their cheeks and shuddered.

“Take his sword,” said the girl, “you’ll need it.”

Roger scooped up a dead man’s sword, his sweaty fingers curling around the hilt. “What now?”

“Why, we will kill Mazael and Rachel Cravenlock, and then Lucan and Toraine Mandragon,” said the girl. “Weren’t you listening before?” She smiled at him. “But first we’ll kill the guards keeping watch at the gate, you and I.”

“But why?” said Roger, rubbing his free hand on his trouser legs. “Shouldn’t we kill Lord Mazael first?”

“That honor is reserved for holy Blackfang,” said the girl.

Roger almost dropped the sword. “He’s…he’s coming here. Himself?”

“You fail to listen, again,” said the girl. “Now you will see a holy one of Sepharivaim. Now you will see the power of Sepharivaim unleashed.” Her fangs pressed against her lower lips. “But first, one final test of loyalty. You will betray Mazael and kill the guards at the barbican gate.”

Roger stared at her cold face, her reptilian eyes. “But…but…” He had gone too far to quail now. “All right. But…what is your name?”

Her tongue flicked across her lips. It was forked. “You…may call me Calibah. Now come. We have unbelievers to kill.”

Sir Roger shrugged and followed her through the darkened corridors.

###

Mazael’s eyes shot open. He had not spent fifteen years as a landless, wandering knight without sleeping lightly. He rolled out of bed, snatched up Lion, and came into a crouch, sword ready.

Lucan Mandragon stood in the doorway, his face a pale blur beneath his black cowl.

“Lucan?” said Mazael, lowering his sword. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Lucan said nothing, but walked into the room, cloak whispering against the floor.

“How did you get past the guards?” said Mazael.

“Please,” said Lucan. He walked to the table, waved his hand, and muttered something. The candles lit themselves, throwing their glow over the room. “You may have observed me moving through the castle unnoticed, ignored by everyone.”

“I have,” said Mazael. Something in Lucan’s tone made him raise Lion once more.

Lucan settled in a cushioned chair, adjusting his cloak. “I possess a mindclouding spell that permits me to walk unseen, so long as I do nothing to draw attention to myself. A spell that leaves you curiously unaffected.”

“What do you want?” said Mazael.

“I have observed you for over a year now,” said Lucan, “and from the moment I first saw you walk…or swagger, really…into my father’s tent, I suspected something amiss.”

Mazael said nothing, Rachel’s warnings racing through his mind.

“Your strength, your speed, are clearly unnatural,” said Lucan. “Consider your rage. Knights are, as a rule, violent men. But there is anger, and then there is…something more.”

“I have reasons enough to rage,” said Mazael. “Such as this intrusion, for instance.”

“And most interesting of all, your strange ability to heal,” said Lucan. “Oh, you hide it well, I’ll grant. But I have seen you recover in hours from wounds that should have taken weeks to heal.”

“Perhaps I’m simply vigorous,” said Mazael.

“Quite vigorous,” said Lucan, gesturing. “That cut on your arm. It has vanished entirely.”

“I’ll ask one more time,” said Mazael, “What do you want?”

“Merely to talk,” said Lucan, his smirk reappearing. “You see, Lord Mazael, you’ve hidden your secret quite well. But I can look deeper and harder than most men.” His black eyes glittered. “You are Demonsouled.”

Mazael moved so fast that he scarce registered the movement himself. One moment he stood by the bed. The next he stood before the chair, his blade held to Lucan’s throat.

“You speak madness,” growled Mazael.

“Do I?” said Lucan, showing no fear at all. “I think Lord Adalon Cravenlock was not your father. I think, in fact, that your mother so loathed him that she lay with the Old Demon himself. Hence, you.”

Mazael pressed Lion closer.

“Don’t deny it,” said Lucan.

“I should kill you,” said Mazael.

“You could try,” said Lucan. “But even though your sword rests at my throat, you may find my death harder to work than you think. Do you think I came to speak with a child of the Old Demon without first preparing ample protections? And why would you want to kill me, in any case?”

“Because if your father finds out he’ll kill me,” said Mazael. “If Gerald, Rachel, Sir Nathan, Timothy ever found out…they’d turn against me. Every hand would be raised against me, to kill me before I became a monster.” His voice hardened. “And have you come to kill me, Dragon’s Shadow?”

“And why,” said Lucan, “would I do that?” A single bead of sweat slithered down his forehead.

“Don’t play riddling games with me,” said Mazael. “You know I’m Demonsouled. Why wouldn’t you try to kill me?” A dark thought came to him. “Unless you’re Demonsouled yourself.”

Lucan laughed. “Please. My soul is black enough, or at least half-black, but not Demonsouled. No, Lord Mazael, I don’t want to kill you.” He paused. “Perhaps I want to help you.”

“Help me?” said Mazael. “And how would you help me?”

“Take the sword away and we’ll speak.”

Mazael said nothing, his pulse hammering in his temples. Perhaps it was a trick. Perhaps Lucan would spell-blast him the minute Mazael lifted Lion. His fingers tightened about the hilt. Mazael had almost killed Toraine today. No sense in sparing one of Lord Richard’s sons and killing the other.

He stepped back, keeping Lion raised.

Lucan stood, rubbing his throat. “So. Tell me, if you will. When did your abilities first manifest?”

“Only a year ago,” said Mazael, “when I first returned to Castle Cravenlock.”

“You do realize your father was the Old Demon, do you not?” said Lucan.

“I do,” said Mazael, watching Lucan. “How did you find out?”

“Your blood,” said Lucan, “burns with the power. There are degrees of Demonsouled blood. Some stronger, some weaker. Yours is the strongest I have ever seen.” He lifted an eyebrow. “How did you learn the truth?”

“The Old Demon told me.”

“Himself?” said Lucan. “You stay in communication with him?”

“No,” said Mazael, growling. “You might have met him. He disguised himself as Simonian of Briault.”

For the first time a flicker of surprise crossed Lucan’s face. Mazael took a perverse pleasure in it. “Simonian?”

“Yes, Simonian,” said Mazael. “You seem to know everything. Didn’t you know that?” Lucan said nothing. Mazael paced, snarling. “You want to know the truth, Lucan? Here it is. The Old Demon was the puppeteer, and we were his puppets. He fathered me on Lady Arissa. He brought Skhath to the Grim Marches, had him create the serpent-cult. He disguised himself as Simonian, convinced Mitor to rise against Lord Richard. Do you know why?” Lucan shook his head. “Me. He arranged Mitor’s rebellion to unleash my Demonsouled blood, to force my true nature to manifest.”

“Why?” said Lucan.

“He wanted me to become something called the Destroyer,” said Mazael.

“Destroyer,” repeated Lucan.

“You know of it?”

“An ancient Tristafellin legend,” said Lucan. “It was written that of the Great Demon’s blood, one mighty scion would rise to enslave the nations of the earth and take the Great Demon’s throne for himself.” He shrugged. “Or herself, possibly.” Lucan glanced out the window, frowning. “Though it does seem odd. I rather imagine the Old Demon would want to claim the Great Demon’s throne for himself.”

“He does,” Mazael said, shuddering as he remembered the terrible glee and rage in the Old Demon’s burning gaze. “When…when I refused him, when I denied him, he…told me that all his children rebel, sooner or later. Then he devours them.”

Lucan lifted his eyebrow. “Raising them as cattle, I imagine. Harvesting them like a crop, absorbing their essence, their power. I suspect when he finds a Demonsouled mighty enough to become the Destroyer, he’ll murder the child and claim that power as his own.”

“Most likely,” muttered Mazael, remembering the Old Demon’s gaping jaws, the stench rising from his jagged fangs.

“I am curious, though,” said Lucan. “The Old Demon is at least three thousand years old. I can only imagine how powerful his arcane art has become, with centuries of practice, with his Demonsouled essence fueling his spells. How did you escape him?”

Mazael closed his eyes. “I…didn’t, not really. I would have fallen, become like him. But Romaria… stopped me. He killed her for it. That stopped me. I rejected him, called on the gods. Their power repelled him.”

“The gods?” said Lucan, dubious. “Of course.” A strange note entered his voice. “I am sorry to hear of Romaria’s end, though. You told us Simonian killed her. I suppose he did, at that. But I am still sorry. I understand that pain.”

Mazael opened his eyes, glared. “You understand nothing.”

“Don’t I?” said Lucan, voice cooling. “I understand quite well.”

“Do you?” said Mazael. “Then tell me.”

Lucan scowled.

“I’ve told you my secrets,” said Mazael. “Or, rather, you have forced them from me. What of the Dragon’s Shadow, eh? What of your secrets?”

Lucan opened his mouth. “Does not rumor tell you…”

His eyes widened, and he stepped back, lifting his hand.

“What?” said Mazael, raising Lion. “What is it?”

“The ward against undead!” hissed Lucan. “I feel it! An undead has entered the castle!”

Mazael didn’t have time to respond. His door shuddered, an axe blade bursting between the boards. An instant later the door splintered into fragments and collapsed to the stone floor.

“What is this?” yelled Mazael. “Who the devil are you?”

A half-dozen men and women skidded to a stop. Mazael recognized them from the merchants and whores that had traveled with Toraine. The biggest man carried an axe.

“What in blazes?” snarled Mazael.

They had black-slit yellow eyes, like a serpent’s, and ivory fangs curling over their lips.

“He was supposed to be asleep!” shrilled one of the serpent-eyed women.

“It matters not!” roared the man, brandishing his axe. “Die, Mazael, die for your crimes against the great god Sepharivaim! Kill him!”

As one the serpent-eyed men and women rushed at Mazael, fangs bared.

Mazael sprang to meet them. He dodged an axe blow, swung, and Lion rammed halfway through the axeman’s neck. He kicked the corpse off his blade, sending another of the assassins tumbling. One of the whores lunged at Mazael, snapping and biting. Drops of liquid fell from her fangs, drops that sizzled and smoked against the floor. Mazael dodged the poisoned bite and slammed his fist into the whore’s gut. She doubled over with a shriek, and Mazael shoved her into another of the assassins.

He sprang backwards onto his bed, kicking one man in the jaw. The leather of his boot sizzled beneath the poisoned fangs, and the man dropped. The four still on their feet stepped back, eyeing him. The whore Mazael had struck writhed on the floor.

“Lucan!” yelled Mazael. For a brief instant Mazael wondered if Lucan had fled, or, worse, if he had invited these snake-worshippers…

A ringing chant echoed through the room, and a pool of gray mist swirled across the floor. The assassins froze, frowning. Lucan surged out of the shadows, cloak billowing, and pointed.

A pair of enormous, wraithlike wolves sprang out of the mist, shimmering with pale blue light, and sprang on the assassins. Their ghostly claws and fangs had no trouble tearing skin and shredding flesh. The assassins shrieked and stumbled back, trying to ward off the ethereal beasts. Mazael sprang from the bed, Lion raised high, but to no avail. The wolves ripped the last assassin to shreds and vanished in a swirl of mist.

“Are you injured?” said Lucan.

“No,” said Mazael. “Who the devil are they?”

“Calibah,” muttered Lucan, toeing a bloody corpse. “Changelings. The spawn of a union between a human woman and a San-keth male.” Lucan smirked. “The San-keth claim to be a master race, but lack limbs, so they must sire changelings to perform their dirty work. The sort of creatures Skhath would have fathered on your sister, I imagine, had you not killed him.”

“Rachel!” said Mazael. “Gods! They’re here to kill her!” He jumped over the corpses and sprinted into the corridor, Lucan at his heels.

###

“Wake up, my lady.”

Rachel blinked open her eyes. “Is it morning already? I…”

Sir Roger Gravesend stood in her doorway, a cold-faced serving girl at his side.

“Good-bye, my lady,” said Sir Roger, laughing. “You ought to have wed me when you had the chance.”

“What?” said Rachel, flinching. “Get out! Mazael will have your head for this! Get…”

She fell silent in terror.

The serving girl had the eyes and fangs of a serpent, of a San-keth. She was a changeling, the sort of monstrous half-breed Skhath would have planted in Rachel’s womb, if Mazael had not rescued her from the dreadful cult. Rachel sat up, trying to tear free of the blankets.

Something moved, a green glow flooding the darkness.

A headless human skeleton stood at the foot of her bed, green fire writhing in its joints.

Rachel screamed in remembered terror.

The coils of an enormous, black-scaled serpent clung tight around the skeleton’s spine, the wedge-shaped head rearing up in place of the skull. Cold, reptilian eyes cored into Rachel, the forked tongue caressing the air. From one skeletal hand dangled a corroded brass urn, swinging from a rusted chain.

“Lady Rachel,” hissed the San-keth cleric, its voice rasping. “I am Blackfang, servant of great Sepharivaim. It pleases me to taste your scent at last.”

“Get away from me,” said Rachel, “get away from me!”

“You are an apostate to the faith, a traitor,” said Blackfang. “Did you think to escape punishment? You were pledged to Skhath, one of great Sepharivaim’s most faithful servants, and you betrayed him! The vengeance of the San-keth has found you. Take her!”

Four more changelings rushed through the door. She scrambled for the dagger Mazael insisted she keep under her pillow. Her fingers closed about the hilt just as the changelings seized her shoulders. She yelled and slashed out, tearing a gash in a changeling’s arm. The man snarled and struck her across the face, the dagger tumbling from her stunned fingers.

The changelings yanked her upright and ripped away her nightgown, leaving her naked. They forced her to her knees before Blackfang, her arms pinned behind her back. The stone floor felt very cold against her knees and legs.

“You met yet recant and return to the true faith,” said Blackfang. The witch-light of his skeletal carrier dazzled Rachel’s eyes. “Renounce the false gods of men, and pledge your soul and body to Sepharivaim, and you will live.”

“No,” said Rachel, her voice shaking. “No. I…I want nothing to do with you…”

“So be it,” said Blackfang.

One of the changelings seized Rachel’s hair and yanked her head back. She knew how San-keth clerics executed apostates. After pronouncing the rite of condemnation, Blackfang would plunge his poisoned fangs into her eyes, leaving her to die blinded and in agony. She screamed and fought, but the changelings’ hands held her ankles and arms like iron shackles.

“You have betrayed great Sepharivaim and the San-keth people,” intoned Blackfang.

Rachel could see nothing but the ceiling, illuminated in the ghostly glow from Blackfang’s carrier.

“I name you anathema and accursed to the San-keth, outcast and wretched,” said Blackfang. “In the name of Sepharivaim, I condemn you. Perish!”

Rachel screamed.

###

Two of the damned changelings blocked the corridor, lunging with their poisoned fangs. Mazael was in no mood for delay. He killed them both, blood splashing against the walls, and kept running.

“Can you summon those ghost-wolves of yours again?” said Mazael, racing down the tower steps.

“No,” said Lucan. “Under the laws of the binding compact, I cannot call them again until the full moon as passed. But I am not without other…”

A dark shape came up the stairs.

“My lord!” It was Timothy. “The ward against undead! It…” His eyes widened at the blood on Lion’s blade.

“I know, they came for me,” said Mazael. “Move, man! Rouse the castle! Take as many armsmen as you can find and get to Toraine’s quarters. The changelings were men from his party. He might have gone over to the San-keth himself…”

“Toraine?” scoffed Lucan. “Not likely. He hasn’t the wit to entertain faiths other than his own, which is only in himself. He was duped, most likely.”

“Go, damn it!” said Mazael, pushing Timothy. “We can debate later. Run!”

Mazael dashed into the castle’s courtyard. Two of his watchmen lay dead on the cold ground, faces locked in terrible grins, fang wounds on their necks. Mazael spat a furious oath and ran to the great hall. The night guard lay dead, and the doors hung ajar. He kicked them open and raced for the stairs, his heart hammering with rage and alarm.

A hideous vision of Rachel lying dead on the floor, her face twisted in that agonized grin, played through his mind.

“Wake, you fools!” shouted Lucan to the knights sleeping on the floor. “Wake! We are attacked! San-keth changelings! Arm yourselves!”

Rachel’s chambers lay in the keep’s western tower. Mazael sprinted up the steps. If they lived through this, he would move her into the rooms besides his…

A pair of changelings stood guard at the top of the steps, and attacked him in one smooth motion. Mazael threw himself aside and the changelings crashed into each other. He rolled to one knee and hamstrung the nearest man, Lion’s blade shearing through skin and muscle. The changeling toppled with an agonized scream. Mazael punched out, and Lion’s pommel smashed the second changeling’s nose. The snake-eyed man stumbled back, poison bubbling from his fangs. Lion ripped through the changeling’s neck, and Mazael’s boot crushed the first changeling’s throat.

A woman’s faint scream rang out, fanning Mazael’s alarmed fury to new heights. He kicked free of the dead changelings and ran down the corridor.

In the back of his mind he felt his Demonsouled rage stirring, threatening to break free and transform him into a whirlwind of death. Lion jolted in his hand, and Mazael felt a wave of warmth from the sword. The edges of the blade shimmered with azure light.

Dark magic was nearby.

He turned the corner and sprang into Rachel’s room, sword leading.

A dozen changelings crowded his sister’s bedchamber. Rachel knelt naked on the floor, held by a trio of changelings, her head pulled back, the cords bulging in her neck. Sir Roger Gravesend stood by the door, watching Rachel with a mixture of lust and glee.

A black-scaled San-keth cleric stood over Rachel, riding the usual undead human skeleton. An ancient bronze urn dangled from one bony hand.

Lion jolted in Mazael’s hand once more, almost eagerly. The enspelled weapon had been forged in the last days of Tristafel, created to destroy undead and San-keth and Demonsouled.

Sometimes Mazael wondered why the sword hadn’t destroyed him.

Lion burst into raging blue fires, drowning out the necromantic glow from the San-keth’s skeleton.

The San-keth’s head snapped around, fangs bared. “Him! Kill him now!”

“Oh, gods!” shouted Sir Roger.

“Mazael!” shrieked Rachel, sobbing, “run, run, go before they kill you too…”

“We are yours, holy Blackfang!” howled the changelings, flinging themselves at Mazael.

Mazael roared, took his blazing sword in both hands, and sprang to meet them. He beheaded one changeling, smashed another in the face with Lion’s pommel, lopped off the hand of a third. Sir Roger lunged at Mazael, stabbing with a longsword. Mazael blocked the blow and backhanded Sir Roger across the face with his free hand. The traitor knight went down, spitting blood. A changeling struck Mazael across the chest with a club, while another raked a dagger across his leg. He bellowed and beheaded the changeling holding Rachel’s legs. She scrambled free and backed towards Mazael, trying to cover herself with her arms.

“Run!” he roared, killing another changeling.

“They’ll kill you!” Rachel half-sobbed, half-screamed.

Sir Roger seized her ankle and yanked. Rachel toppled with a yell, landing hard on her stomach. Mazael pivoted and kicked Roger in the face, and the traitor rolled away with a yell of pain. A changeling took the opening to stab Mazael in the side, fangs brushing his ear. He howled, jerked free of the blade, and gutted the changeling.

The San-keth cleric called Blackfang laughed, backing towards the window. “The apostate and the enemy of our faith shall die together! Perhaps the bards of your wretched race shall make a song of it! Perish!” The skeletal fingers opened the urn and sprinkled a few flecks of charred bone across the floor. Blackfang’s hissing voice droned in a necromantic spell, green fire blazing to around his fingers.

A hooded, ghostly form materialized between Mazael and Blackfang. The San-keth pointed, and the skeletal wraith plunged at Mazael, wrapping itself about him. Mazael gagged, a hideous chill spreading through him, his head spinning with vertigo.

“This enslaved spirit shall drain away your life,” said Blackfang. “Perhaps I’ll raise your carcass to serve as my new carrier…”

Mazael snarled and took a staggering step towards Blackfang, but the changelings closed around him.

A rushing wind filled the chamber, and some unseen force seized Blackfang and slammed him against the far wall, bones clattering. The wraith holding Mazael vanished, and warmth flooded into him once more. He spun and killed another changeling.

Lucan stood in the doorway, hand raised.

“The Dragon’s Shadow,” spat Blackfang, coils slithering against the skeleton’s spine. “I fail to see why you are held in such dread.”

A changeling sprang at Mazael, jaws yawning, fangs glistening. Mazael rammed Lion into the changeling’s mouth. Black-slit eyes bulged, and the changeling fell back, its mouth a splintered ruin.

“Do you, now?” said Lucan, stepping into the chamber. “A failure of perception on your part.” He laughed, hard and mocking. “You were sent to contend with the likes of me?” He laughed again. “Your superiors must wish you to die, and to die horribly.”

Mazael took another changeling, trying to cut his way to Blackfang.

“Fool!” snarled Blackfang. “You shall see the wrath of mighty Sepharivaim.” The carrier skeleton thrust its hands at Lucan, the San-keth leaning forward.

Lucan was faster. His hand moved in a dark blur. Again the strange rushing sound filled the room, and Blackfang rammed into the stone wall. Blackfang regained his balance, hissing and snarling, skeletal hands blurring in a spell. Mazael whirled, ducked, and gutted another changeling. The floor grew slippery with spilled blood.

Lucan thrust out both his hands, and a thunderclap shook the walls. Blackfang tumbled backwards out the window, falling to the courtyard with an enraged snarl. Mazael killed the last changeling and stepped back, panting.

“Are you all right?” said Mazael. Rachel stood in the corner, arms wrapped over her chest.

“I’m…I’m fine,” she managed, shivering. “A bit cold…”

Mazael snatched a blanket from the bed and swirled it around her shoulders. Lucan shoved past him and glared out the window.

“He yet lives,” said Lucan. “Surprising. Perhaps his arcane art is more potent than I had thought.”

Mazael frowned. “Where’s Sir Roger?” In the fury of battle, he had forgotten about the traitor.

“I don’t know,” said Lucan.

“He slipped out, during the fight,” said Rachel, “and ran.”

The sound of fighting rose from the courtyard. A flare of green light illuminated the night, accompanied by the sizzling crackle of an arcane spell.

“Let’s go,” said Mazael. “Rachel, stay with us. Gods know what will happen if we leave you alone.”

Rachel gave him a tight nod, clutching the blanket close.

Mazael hurried back into the courtyard. Armed chaos greeted him. His knights and armsmen struggled against the San-keth changelings. Blood and bodies stained the ground. A changeling saw Rachel, shrieked in delight, and lunged for her. Mazael caught the changeling on Lion’s point, and kicked the corpse off his blade.

Gerald and Sir Nathan fought nearby, yelling commands to the armsmen. Mazael joined the fight, Lion rising and falling. Bit by bit they herded the changelings into a corner of the courtyard and cut them down without mercy. The changelings themselves fought with desperate courage, biting, stabbing, and grappling with their bare hands.

The last changeling fell dead. Mazael stepped back, breathing hard. The azure fires on Lion’s blade had not yet gone out. He looked about, trying to find either Sir Roger or Blackfang. Rachel stood on the steps to the keep, sobbing into Gerald’s shoulder.

“Perish!”

Blackfang stood atop the curtain wall, brandishing the bronze urn. Again the shadowy wraith sprang forth and plunged into the chest of one of Mazael’s knights. The man groaned and collapsed. The wraith burst from the fallen man and shrieked towards Rachel.

“No!” shouted Mazael, reaching for her.

Lucan whirled, cat-quick, fingers blurring. The wraith shuddered, moaned, and flew back to the urn.

“Faithless interloper!” screamed Blackfang, fangs snapping. “You have meddled with us for the last time.”

Lucan worked a spell in answer. A roar echoed through the courtyard and Blackfang reeled back, the witch-fires of his carrier flickering. No human expression crossed Blackfang’s reptilian face, but it seemed as if the great serpent reared back in fear.

The courtyard fell silent as all watched the confrontation between the San-keth cleric and the Dragon’s Shadow.

“Come, holy one!” called Lucan, his voice brimming with amusement. “Use your great arts! Strike me down! Surely a man of lesser race cannot stand against a servant of great Sepharivaim!”

Blackfang waved the urn in a complex pattern, green fires writhing in the metal. “Perish, dog!” The wraith burst from the urn and shrieked towards Lucan.

Lucan raised his hand, fingers crackling with magical force. The wraith struck his hand and vanished in a swirl of smoke. The urn exploded in Blackfang’s skeletal hand, knocking the San-keth back.

“Is that mightiest spell at your command?” said Lucan, grinning. “Have you nothing better?” He spread his arms, his laughter redoubling. “I stand right here, holy one. Why do you not strike me down?”

The knights and armsmen stared at him in terror.

“You might slay me,” said Blackfang, “but you can never prevail against the children of Sepharivaim!”

“Oh, no doubt,” said Lucan, flexing his fingers, “but I weary of your prattle.”

He thrust out his hand, his fingers blazing again.

Blackfang’s skeleton blasted apart in a spray of bone shards. The San-keth fell screeching into the courtyard and tried to slither away. Lucan strode towards the fallen cleric, black cloak swirling behind him. Blackfang whirled and reared up, fangs bared.

“Please,” said Lucan. “I cannot decide whether to be amused or contemptuous. You’ve no hands to wield weapons, nor legs to run. Your miserable people lost them long ago. You’re naught but an overlarge worm.”

Lucan lifted his hand. Blackfang floated into the air, writhing and snapping. Lucan laughed and waved his hand in a circle. Blackfang began to spin, slowly at first, but faster and faster, like some giant sling. The San-keth's curses of rage degenerated into one long shriek of terror, mingling with Lucan’s maddened laughter.

Lucan thrust out his hand one last time. Blackfang’s head crashed into the wall at incredible speed.

The sound of shattering bone was quite loud.

Blackfang’s limp coils collapsed to the ground.

“Fool,” said Lucan, still chuckling, his face twisted with glee. For a moment his face resembled that of an ancient, depraved old man. Then he shook himself and pulled his dark hood close.

Silence fell over the courtyard.

###

Sir Roger's mouth felt as if he had swallowed a coal.

Every few feet he stumbled, spitting out yet another tooth.

“Keep up!” snapped Calibah, glaring. “Mazael will send out horsemen once he’s realized you’ve escaped, and if they find you, it’ll be our heads.”

“If Blackfang doesn’t kill him first,” wheezed Roger, glancing back at Castle Cravenlock.

Calibah scoffed. “Do you seriously believe that? Blackfang has proven…unworthy.”

“This is your fault,” said Roger, staggering towards her. He fumbled for the stolen sword dangling from his belt. “You made me do this, it’s your…”

Calibah seized his tunic and pressed her mouth against his throat. Sir Roger went rigid, the tips of her fangs pricking against his skin.

“You should have died there,” she murmured, her lips moving up his neck to his ear. “Mazael would have killed you, if I hadn’t pulled you out of his sister’s bedchamber. Do you know why I didn’t let you die?”

Roger shook his head, barely.

“Because my master believes you may yet prove useful,” said Calibah.

“Blackfang’s dead by now, most likely,” said Sir Roger, sweat and blood dripping down his face. “You saw it. His spells couldn’t do anything against Lord Richard’s brat.” He remembered Lucan Mandragon’s cold laughter and shuddered. “At least, Blackfang probably wishes he was dead.”

“Blackfang was sent to die,” purred Calibah.

“What?” said Roger. She let him go.

Calibah smiled at him. “If Blackfang had succeeded, well and good. But my master had wearied of him. His death is no loss. And why did I save you? My master may yet have use for you.”

“Who,” said Sir Roger, licking his swollen lips, “who is your master?”

“I will show you.” She gave him a scornful look. “If you can keep up. My master thinks you might be useful. But if I leave you to die here, he will think it no great loss.”

“The village of Greenhaven lies a few miles east,” said Roger. “If we make for there, we can steal horses and cover more ground.”

Calibah smiled, cold eyes glinting. “That’s better.”

2

The Necromancer

Pyres burned below Castle Cravenlock’s walls.

The dead changelings had been thrown atop the pyres, doused with oil, and set afire. Five of Mazael’s knights and nineteen of his armsmen had been killed, either poisoned or cut down in the fighting. The bodies of the knights had been sent back to their heirs and lands, while the armsmen went to the town’s church for burial.

Mazael stood by the pyres with Master Cramton and Bethy, watching the changelings burn.

Or watching their bodies burn. Their heads sat on spears over Castle Cravenlock’s gate. Blackfang’s head rested among them, mouth open in his final scream.

A warning to the others.

“That’s the last of them,” said Master Cramton, mopping his brow. “Forty-nine, all told.” He shook his head in dismay. “Quite a lot of wood, too.”

”Winter’s almost over, anyway,” said Mazael.

“A bloody business, my lord,” said Bethy, hair blowing across her face. “The servants are terrified.”

“At least it wasn’t any of our people,” said Mazael. “Besides Sir Roger. By all the gods, he had best hope I never lay eyes on him again. But the changelings hid themselves among Toraine’s party, not my people.”

“Aye,” said Bethy, scowling. “It’s not my place to say so, my lord, but…”

“Say whatever you will,” said Mazael.

Her scowl deepened. “It’s all Lord Toraine’s fault, I say. He kissed the snake, I’ll wager, and came here to kill you and Lady Rachel.”

“The changelings tried to kill him,” said Mazael. Six of them had burst in on Toraine, who had been lying with one of his whores. Fortunately, Toraine had held them off until Timothy had arrived with a half-dozen armsmen.

“Bah, it’s but a cover,” said Bethy. “They were just pretending to kill him, I say.”

Mazael smiled. Bethy’s fierce loyalty cheered him. She smiled back at him, and Mazael felt a wave of heat.

“Ah…Sir Gerald and Lord Toraine are coming,” said Cramton.

Gerald and Toraine strode down from the castle, Wesson stomping afterwards. Cramton and Bethy bowed and withdrew. Bethy avoided looking at Toraine, and Mazael hid another smile.

“How’s Rachel?” said Mazael.

“As well as can be expected,” said Gerald. “I think she’ll be better in a few days. She’s still upset.”

“You’d best go to her, I think.”

“But my duties…”

“Sir Nathan can handle them for the day,” said Mazael. “Go.”

Gerald bowed and walked away, leaving Mazael alone with Toraine.

Toraine scowled, his teeth grinding.

“Just get it over with,” said Mazael.

“I am sorry,” spat Toraine. “I did not realize the snake-kissers had hidden themselves among my party.”

“You ought to observe your camp followers carefully,” said Mazael. “Though I suppose even you can’t sleep with all the whores at once.”

Toraine growled.

“Some even think you swore to Sepharivaim and came here to kill me," said Mazael.

“Who says that?” said Toraine, eyes flashing. “I’ll kill anyone who says that!”

“Then I most definitely will not tell you,” snapped Mazael. “Is it true or not?”

Toraine almost looked shocked. “It is not! Do you question my word?”

“If not for Lucan, my sister and I both would have been killed,” said Mazael.

“Lucan!” spat Toraine. “Why not question him? The San-keth have tried to kill both my father and myself in the past. Maybe Lucan invited them. Have you thought of that?”

“I did.” Lucan’s display of raw power had alarmed Mazael. Timothy, fifteen years Lucan’s senior, had no such magic. Even Master Othar, Castle Cravenlock’s old court wizard, couldn’t have worked such spells. Yet Lucan was just twenty years old.

Where had he gained such power?

“But as it happens, I believe you,” said Mazael. “The Mandragons are foes of the San-keth, as are the Cravenlocks. Blackfang did his very best to kill us both, and failed miserably. We will speak of this no more.”

“Let us hope Tobias Roland arrives soon,” said Toraine. “I am eager to leave this place.”

With that, he stalked away.

Mazael sighed. He had mollified one of Lord Richard’s sons, if not made peace.

Now what to do about the other?

Mazael had not seen him since Blackfang’s grisly demise. He knew the truth about Mazael’s demon heritage. What had Lucan decided to do? Would he say nothing?

Or did he plan Mazael’s demise even now?

Mazael decided to settle this without delay. He walked back to the castle, hand drumming on Lion’s hilt.

Adalar awaited him at the gate. “My lord. Do you require anything?” He had a bandage around his forearm.

Mazael waved his hand. “No. I’m fine.” He paused. “You fought well last night, I hear.” Adalar had rallied the squires, helping to drive the maddened changelings into the courtyard.

Adalar gave one of his rare smiles. “My lord. Thank you.”

“Go,” said Mazael. “Just don’t train too hard. You’ll reopen that cut.”

Adalar bowed and jogged away. Mazael smiled after him. The boy had indeed done well. Mazael only wished he had dozen more like him. He looked up at the keep and his smile faded. Adalar’s valor could not help him against Lucan.

Mazael entered the keep, climbed the wizards’ tower, and knocked at Lucan’s door. No one answered. Mazael pushed the door, and it swung open. He stepped into the room and looked around.

It was little more than a monk’s cell, bare and cold. The window, little more than an arrow loop, looked down into the courtyard fifty feet below. It surprised Mazael that Lucan had been content with such humble lodgings. Toraine had demanded the finest chambers in the castle. At the very least, Mazael would have expected Lucan to require a workroom for his arcane efforts. He walked to the window, scowling at the courtyard.

But where had Lucan gone? Had he ridden for Swordgrim, intending to warn his father about the Demonsouled Lord of Castle Cravenlock?

“Lord Mazael?”

Mazael whirled, hand flying to his sword hilt. Lucan stood against the far wall, arms folded. There had been nowhere for Lucan to hide within the small chamber. Nor had Mazael heard him come through the door.

“Where the devil have you been?” said Mazael.

“Verifying a few matters,” said Lucan, unperturbed. “No changelings remain in the castle.”

“And how do you know that?” said Mazael.

“I have my methods.” Lucan glanced out the window. “You wished to speak, I suppose?”

“I did,” said Mazael. “We never finished our conversation last night.”

“Ah,” said Lucan. He closed the door. “That. I know you are Demonsouled. But I did not say, however, what I intend to do about it.”

“And what, then, will you do?” said Mazael, his hand curling around Lion’s hilt.

Lucan’s lips twitched. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Correct.” Lucan sat on his cot with a sigh. “You spoke to me of peace. I told you I thought it a noble goal, albeit unattainable.” He shrugged. “But with you, I believe, it has a better chance than with anyone else.”

“But I’m Demonsouled,” said Mazael, “spawn of the Old Demon.”

“True,” said Lucan, wrapping his cloak about him. “But it doesn’t seem to have driven you mad, as with most Demonsouled, or have corrupted your heart. Besides,” his lips twitched again, “there are advantages to working at Castle Cravenlock, advantages I might lose if you were killed. I have no wish to lose them.”

“A place away from your brother?” said Mazael.

Lucan shrugged again. “You may look at it that way, if you wish.”

“I don’t,” said Mazael.

Lucan blinked.

“That explanation is not good enough,” said Mazael.

Lucan arched an eyebrow. “An explanation for what? I am not the man with something to hide.”

“I think you are,” said Mazael.

Lucan said nothing.

“You crushed that San-keth cleric last night,” said Mazael.

Lucan laughed, eyes flickering. “The San-keth are not so formidable as rumor makes them.”

“Timothy could not have used the spells you worked,” said Mazael, “nor could old Master Othar.”

“What is your point?” said Lucan.

“You are but a score of years old,” said Mazael. “How did you gain such power?”

“Perhaps I’m simply talented.”

“Or perhaps not.”

A flicker of irritation passed over Lucan’s cold face. “I have no wish to discuss it.”

“Oh? You were so keen to drag out my secrets. Now I’m returning the favor. How did you gain such power? Master Othar wielded arcane arts for four decades, and I never saw him do anything like what you did last night.”

“You know nothing,” said Lucan, stepping towards the door.

Mazael blocked him. Lucan’s eyes flashed with rage, and perhaps something like fear. “You’re right. I know nothing, but I suspect. Toraine thought you consorted with the San-keth yourself.”

“The San-keth are of no use to me.”

“Then where did you gain your powers?” said Mazael. “I doubt you discovered them on your own. Someone taught you. Who, I wonder? The San-keth? The Old Demon?”

“Absurd,” said Lucan. “I thought the Old Demon a legend until last night.”

“Then where,” said Mazael, “did you gain such power?”

For a moment they glared at each other, standing not three feet apart. Lucan’s hands trembled, the fingers flexing. Mazael wondered if he could draw Lion before Lucan struck with some killing spell.

Then Lucan laughed and spun away. “Why not? I know your black secret, after all. Why should you not know mine? No one knows, at least no one living.” For a moment the bitterness fell from his face, and he looked young and weary.

Mazael waited. Lucan paced the tiny room, his face working.

“When I was a squire, just eleven,” said Lucan finally, “I began showing signs of magical talent. I tried to conceal it as first, for I feared to be burnt as a warlock. But my father discovered anyway, as he always discovers everything.” He smirked, the bitter sneer returning. “Most boys displaying magical potential are sent to the school of wizards at Alborg, usually, unless they are first burnt. Women are almost always burnt before Alborg can find them. But my wise father did not trust the wizards of Alborg, has never trusted them. He feared they might gain some hold over me,” his smirked hardened, “and therefore break his own hold over me. So after my first term of study at Alborg, he recalled me to the Grim Marches. He had decided to hire a tutor to finish my magical education, and settled upon a man named Marstan, a wizard from Travia. A wizard,” Lucan shook his head, “as I later learned, who had once been an apprentice of Simonian of Briault.”

“The Old Demon,” said Mazael.

“Not necessarily,” said Lucan. “Simonian of Briault was a real, and much feared, necromancer. The Old Demon, I suspect, simply masqueraded as him from time to time. Whether the real Simonian still lives I don’t know. He was, according to rumor, already three hundred years old when he disappeared. But that is unimportant. Marstan was a powerful necromancer, and none of us realized it at the time.”

“What happened?” said Mazael.

“Marstan taught me the basics of arcane sciences,” said Lucan. “His purpose was not to impart learning, but to…prepare me. Marstan was old. His body was failing. So he desired a new one.” He smirked. “Mine.”

“You mean…”

“His spell would have displaced my soul, and he would have claimed my body as his own,” said Lucan. “It was not the first time he had done it. He was a least a century and a half old when he came to Swordgrim.”

“He failed, then?” said Mazael.

“Not…entirely.”

Mazael’s hand twitched back toward his sword.

Lucan laughed without humor. “I’m not completely sure what went wrong. My father discovered Marstan’s crimes, and sent knights to kill him. So Marstan was in haste, and hasty men make mistakes. Plus he had trained me a bit too well. I was able to fend him off. And…I had something to fight for, at least back then. Marstan failed, and his spirit went to whatever torments awaited it. But…” His cold, bitter smirk returned. “But it almost worked. I have all his memories, Lord Mazael. All of his knowledge, his secret lore, his necromantic secrets. And most of his powers came to me as well.”

Mazael stared at him.

Lucan’s mouth twisted. “The wraith Blackfang conjured? It was but a minor spirit trapped within the ashes of a cremated body. I could create one with ease, if I chose. I know so many black secrets, necromantic incantations the archpriests of the San-keth would kill to learn.” He loosed his mirthless laugh again. “Like you, my secret could be my death. The Church, the Knights Dominiar and Justiciar, the Cirstarcian Order, the wizards of Alborg, all would try to kill me if they knew what spells echo inside my head.”

“Does Lord Richard know?”

“Have you not been listening? No one knew.” Lucan shook his head. “But my father suspected something. I had…changed. Marstan’s expressions, his mannerisms, his way of speaking…much of that came to me. My father thought I had become Marstan’s apprentice in truth, that I had willingly taken up black arts. It cost me everything.” Lucan’s voice cracked. He closed his eyes and kept talking. “I was betrothed. To a woman named Tymaen. I loved her more than anyone, more than anything. After...after, she was horrified by my change. She wished to break off the betrothal. My father agreed. She married Lord Robert Highgate instead. So you see, Lord Mazael, when you told me of Romaria, I did indeed understand. At least she did not renounce you.”

Lucan looked away, sunk in his black cloak. For a moment they said nothing.

“If it’s any consolation,” said Mazael, “I broke Robert Highgate’s leg when we were squires together.”

Lucan snorted. “Did you?”

“Sir Nathan kept telling him to watch his legs,” said Mazael. “Swordplay is as much footwork as anything else. I could have ridden a horse through the holes in his guard.” He shrugged. “Instead, I took a leaded practice sword and broke his leg.”

“I find that cheering,” said Lucan. “Utterly useless, but still cheering.” He leaned back against the wall, sighing. “I could have killed Robert, you know. In any number of ways. From afar, and no one would ever have known. It would have looked like a mishap. Or I could have simply blasted the flesh from his bones.” He stared into nothing. “Or, if I chose, I could have twisted Tymaen’s mind and forced her to come to me.”

“Why didn’t you?” said Mazael, chilled at the recitation.

“I don’t know,” murmured Lucan. “Marstan would have, I know.”

“And you are not Marstan,” said Mazael.

“Am I not? Perhaps I am, and only masquerade as Lucan Mandragon.”

“I think not,” said Mazael. “After all, if you were truly Marstan, you would have exterminated your brother and your father, and seized the lordship of the Grim Marches yourself.”

“And how do you know I’m not planning that as we speak?”

“Because then your father and brother would already be dead,” said Mazael. “Believe me, I know what it is to hate a brother. But I didn’t kill him.” He scowled, remembering the whispers. “Despite what people say.”

Lucan inclined his head.

“So,” said Mazael. “You don’t want to kill Sir Philip, and you don’t want to kill your family. Then what do you want?”

Lucan was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I want to find enough power…find a way to keep what happened to me from ever happening again. No one else will have their life ruined by black arts.”

Mazael thought of Skhath, of the hidden San-keth cultists, of the Old Demon. “Not likely, I fear.”

“Is peace any more likely?” said Lucan.

“No,” said Mazael. “But no less a noble goal, as you said.”

Lucan nodded again.

Neither man said anything for a while.

Lucan cleared his throat. “If you truly desire peace…the way might lie in an advantageous marriage.”

“No,” said Mazael.

“It might seem a betrayal of Romaria, I know,” said Lucan, “but it is likely your best hope for lasting peace. Lord Malden has unwed daughters.”

“Lord Malden’s not likely to wed one of his daughters to me,” said Mazael. “Most likely he wants me dead, for swearing to your father. But that’s still not the danger…”

“The Lord of Cadlyn has unwed daughters,” said Lucan, “as does the Lord of the Green Plain. Either would make a strong enough alliance to keep my father and Lord Malden from warring…”

“You don’t understand,” said Mazael. “I’m Demonsouled.”

“So?” said Lucan.

“So?” repeated Mazael. “I’m the son of the Old Demon. Any child of mine will be Demonsouled as well.”

“That’s not necessarily a problem,” said Lucan. “There are numerous barren, unwed noblewomen. No doubt they would be delighted to wed a Lord of Castle Cravenlock,” his cold smirk flickered, “assuming you can stomach bedding an old cow, of course.”

“I still dare not take that risk,” said Mazael. “Until a woman’s moon blood stops, can you say for certain if she is barren or not? Suppose I wed a woman and she became pregnant? The child...sooner or later the demon blood would manifest…”

“Then you will spend your life celibate?” said Lucan. “That is no way for a man to live. You’re no monk.”

“I dare not risk it,” said Mazael.

“You may not have to.” Lucan reached into his cloak and produced a tarnished brass ring. “Wear this.”

“What is it?”

“A ring,” said Lucan.

Mazael scowled. “I can see that.”

“It is enspelled. Wear it while you lie with a woman, and you cannot impregnate her.”

Mazael gave the ring a dubious look.

Lucan rolled his eyes. “On your hand, lord. I wrought several of them at my father’s request, for Toraine.” He sneered. “My father doesn’t wish a crop of little Mandragon bastards running about, upsetting his orderly domain.”

Mazael shrugged and took the ring. It felt quite warm. “I’ll consider it.”

“Of course you will,” said Lucan, the sardonic edge reentering his voice. “Now. You want peace, yes? Sir Tobias will arrive any day. Lord Malden probably wants to kill you. Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

“No,” said Mazael, turning towards the door.

“Toraine will probably try to ruin things.”

“I know.”

Lucan stood, adjusting his cloak. “I can…hinder him, if you wish.”

Mazael thought about it, almost said yes. “Best not.”

”If you wish.”

###

That night, Mazael paced his bedchamber, scowling at the candles. Lucan’s bronze ring rested on the third finger of his right hand. It still felt quite warm. Every now and again he rubbed it.

Bethy came into the room, the candlelight glinting off her hair.

“My lord,” she said, doing a deep curtsy. Mazael could never tell if she let him see down the front of her blouse on purpose or not. “You wished to speak with me?”

“I did,” said Mazael. “How are the servants?”

“Frightened, my lord, but better,” said Bethy, stepping closer. “You defeated the changelings, after all.”

“And you’re sure none of our people kissed the snake?”

“Positive.” Bethy smiled. “But you asked me that already. Did you want to talk about anything else, my lord?”

“I…”

She looked at him. “I’m cold, my lord. I’m sure you are too.” She pulled back the blankets on his bed, slipped out of her clothes, and lay down, candlelight shining off her white skin and auburn hair. “Why doesn’t my lord come and warm me?”

Mazael did.

She smiled her gap-toothed grin, and levered up on her elbows to meet him.

###

“You should have done this long ago,” murmured Bethy into his chest.

“Um?” said Mazael, opening one eye. He lay on his back, Bethy wrapped about him like a living blanket.

She pushed her hair out of her face and smiled. “You looked so cold and alone. No lord ought to be that way. No man either, for that matter.”

“It…” said Mazael, voice hoarse. What could he tell her? That he was Demonsouled, that he had only now found a way to keep from impregnating her with a demon-blooded child?

“It was Lady Romaria, wasn’t it?” said Bethy.

“I suppose so,” said Mazael, closing his eyes.

“It’s not a betrayal,” said Bethy, laying her head back on his chest. “Lady Romaria was fearless. We all wish she were still here, all of us in the kitchen.”

“So do I.” Mazael wanted that more than anything.

“But she’s gone,” said Bethy, “and you’re not. You can’t go on alone. Besides,” her voice took a playful tone again, “a lord ought to have a mistress. It’s only proper. A lord ought to have many mistresses.”

“Proper.” He laughed, coughed, and cleared his throat. “Not everyone would think so. I can only imagine what Sir Gerald would say.”

She laughed, her whole body shaking against him. “Oh, Sir Gerald’s a good man, but…well, a woman looks at him, and his tongue ties up in knots.”

“And these other mistresses?” said Mazael, opening his eyes. “Won’t you get jealous? Put poison in my wine? You do cook my food, after all.”

Bethy clucked her tongue. “Whatever for? I’m your mistress, not your wife. I can choose your other mistresses, though. Make certain they’re right for you.” She rose up on one elbow and gave him a level look. “Though speaking of a wife, when are you going to get married?”

Mazael coughed. “You’re lying in my bed, and you’re asking me to take a wife?”

She remained unperturbed. “Of course. You’re Lord of Castle Cravenlock! You’ll have to marry some silly-headed noble wench sooner or later. Someone with lands and knights, a big dowry. Doesn’t matter if she’s stupid or ugly or wishes she were a nun.” She wriggled against him, hooking her hands around the back of his neck. “You can get her with child and come back to us.”

“Us?” said Mazael.

“The other mistresses I will pick for you, of course,” said Bethy. Her eyes sparkled and she kissed him.

“Of course,” said Mazael, kissing her back.

###

Mazael awoke to sunlight streaming into his eyes.

He had slept late, since he hadn’t gotten very much sleep last night.

He had a vague memory of Bethy slipping away to start breakfast. Mazael yawned, rolled out of bed, and poured himself a goblet of wine. Sleeping with her would cause problems, he supposed. Still, almost every lord had mistresses.

And he felt better than he had in months.

Mazael drained his wine, dressed himself, and walked into the corridor.

Adalar waited outside his door, holding his cloak. He did not look happy. “My lord.”

Mazael took the cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“I suppose you were busy last night, after all.”

Mazael lifted an eyebrow. “And what the devil is that supposed to mean?”

Adalar said nothing, a jaw in his muscle working.

“Out with it, boy. I’ll not have you glaring daggers at my back all day.”

“A true knight sleeps only with his wife,” said Adalar.

Mazael burst out laughing. A“Is that it? I don’t even have a wife.”

“A true knight is faithful only to his wife,” said Adalar.

“Aye, but I’ve no wife,” said Mazael, “and a chaste life is fine for monks and priests, but I’m neither a monk nor a priest.”

Adalar’s scowl did not abate.

“She was willing, as was I,” said Mazael, “so what harm in it?”

Adalar still said nothing.

“I’m your lord,” said Mazael, irritated, “and I’ve no need to defend myself to you.” He set off for the stairs, Adalar trailing. “If you want a life of chastity and arms, join the Justiciar Knights.” He shook his head. “Though your father would have a fit.”

Adalar scoffed and shook his head. “He never did approve of the Justiciars.”

“Because they tend towards the fanatic,” said Mazael, “and kill folk for drinking overmuch and looking crosswise at a woman. I’d rather have a wise libertine for a lord than a pious fool.” He shook his head. “Though perhaps I’m a foolish libertine, at that. I’ll hear no more of this, Adalar. Understand?”

Adalar scowled, but nodded. “My lord.”

###

“I hear you had a busy night,” said Rachel, shaking her head.

Mazael speared a bit of meat on his dagger and glanced at her. “Not you, too.”

“It is impious,” said Rachel.

Mazael took a bite. “I’m sure the gods have other things on their minds.”

“Suppose you father a bastard?” said Rachel. “We could have another rebellion in twenty years.”

Mazael rubbed the bronze ring on his left hand. “I’ve taken precautions.”

“What man and woman do when they lie together is wrong,” said Rachel, “and is only sanctified when a child is born.”

“You would have become a nun,” said Mazael, “if not for Gerald, so don’t lecture me on the matter.”

Next time he vowed to bring Bethy to his rooms in secret, if only for the sake of peace and quiet.

3

Embassy

The next day, twenty horsemen flying the banner of the Rolands rode for Castle Cravenlock’s gates. At their head galloped a knight in his thirties who looked like a shorter, more muscular version of Sir Gerald.

“Here they come,” muttered Mazael, striding across the courtyard. He wore his finest tunic, boots, and cloak, and Lion rode in a scabbard of polished wood and leather. His whole court had gathered in the yard, Gerald and Rachel, Timothy and Sir Nathan and Master Cramton and the others.

Even Lucan stood in the courtyard, his black cloak stark against the finery of the knights and minor lords, though Mazael doubted the others could see him.

“Is not Sir Tobias your friend?” said Adalar.

“He is. Or at least he was,” said Mazael.

Mazael squared his shoulders as the horsemen clattered through the gate. In the next five minutes he would learn if Lord Malden had become an enemy or not. In the next five minutes Mazael would learn if his lands would know peace or the ravages of war.

Sir Aulus cleared his throat and began to declaim. “Sir Tobias Roland, son of Lord Malden of Knightcastle!”

Mazael walked to the lead rider. The stocky knight sprang out of the saddle with ease. He carried a long, crescent-bladed axe over his shoulder in lieu of a sword.

“Sir Tobias,” said Mazael. “Welcome to Castle Cravenlock.”

“Mazael, you dog!” roared Sir Tobias, grinning. “Lord of Castle Cravenlock! Ha! I never thought you’d do half as well.” He seized Mazael in a rough embrace. “Always though you’d wind up in a shallow grave!”

“And you’d be dead with a pox caught from some whore,” said Mazael.

Sir Tobias laughed again. He had a broad, ruddy face suited for both laughter and rage. “Not yet, but I’m working on it.” He turned, his grin widening. “Gerald, boy!”

“Tobias!” Gerald stepped forward, Rachel trailing behind him, and caught Tobias in a hug. “You’re looking well.”

“And you, brother,” said Tobias. Rachel caught his eye. “So this is the fair and noble lady who has captured my brother’s heart, eh?” He took her hand and kissed it, sweeping his blue cloak in a flourishing bow.

“My lord,” said Rachel, a touching of color entering her cheeks. “Gerald has always spoken most highly of you.”

“He has, has he?” said Tobias, snickering. “And I’m not lord of anything yet. Though I’m working on that. Sooner or later Father will let me carve a domain of my own out of the Dominiar lands, like old Mandor almost did.”

Lucan snorted. No one noticed. Mazael glanced at him, and Lucan gave a slow nod. None of Sir Tobias’s party were San-keth changelings.

Tobias began to regale Rachel with a tale of Mazael’s exploits during the Dominiar war. He said nothing of Gerald’s marriage or Lord Malden’s will. Mazael wondered why Lord Malden had sent Tobias to negotiate a marriage. Tobias was bold and fearless, but not particularly subtle.

“Aye, it was a sight,” said Tobias, gesturing. “We charged them outside the gates of Tumblestone. Sir Mazael…”

“Lord Mazael,” said Rachel and Gerald in unison.

“Lord Mazael in the front, and the Dominiar footmen broke and ran, and we rode into Tumblestone without trouble,” said Tobias. “We ought to have kept going, drove them into the sea. I could be lord of Castle Dominus even now.”

“Or you could be dead,” said a weary voice. “Our strength was spent, as you might recall.”

A man in a brown robe rode through the gate, his thinning brown hair shot with gray, his face lined and tired. Mazael felt an enormous wave of relief. Great difficulties and bitter negotiations might lie ahead.

But Lord Malden would not oppose the marriage.

“Brother Trocend,” said Mazael, inclining his head.

Trocend slid from the saddle with pained precision and bowed. “Lord Mazael.”

Trocend Castleson, known to the world as Brother Trocend, served as Lord Malden’s seneschal, right-hand man, advisor, and master of spies. Not many men knew that Trocend had once been an Amatavian monk, but had later left the order for reasons Mazael never learned. And very few people knew that Trocend was a wizard of considerable skill. Mazael suspected if it had something to do with the man’s departure from the Amatavian Order.

Or perhaps it was the utter ruthlessness Trocend displayed on occasion.

“Are you well?” said Mazael.

Trocend had a kindly smile, the sort of smile that inspired trust. “As well as can be expected. Old joints do not travel well.”

“And Lord Malden,” said Mazael, “how is he?”

Trocend’s smile turned crooked. “That is what I have come to discuss.” He glanced up at the walls. “Let us walk together. We have much to talk about, I think.”

“As do I,” said Mazael. “Sir Gerald!”

“My lord?” said Gerald.

“See to it that Sir Tobias is entertained.” He caught Gerald by the arm and lowered his voice. “And keep him away from Toraine.”

Gerald bowed, Rachel on his arm, and led Tobias away.

“Shall we?” said Trocend.

“Of course,” said Mazael.

Yet to Mazael’s surprise, Trocend walked away from the walls, his pale eyes on Lucan. Lucan stared back, then after a moment, walked towards them.

“So,” said Lucan, “my father always suspected Lord Malden kept a wizard, despite his law against magic. Disguised as a monk? Clever.”

Trocend gave him a thin smile. “And you are Lucan Mandragon, the Dragon’s Shadow? I thought you’d be older.”

The two wizards watched each other.

“If you’re going to unleash battle-magic on each other, do it outside my walls,” said Mazael.

“Direct, as ever, Lord Mazael,” said Trocend. “No, I am in fact quite glad to see Lucan. I wished to speak with one of Lord Richard’s emissaries.”

“The Lord Heir,” said Lucan, “has condescended to visit us. Why not speak with him?”

“All men agree that Toraine Mandragon is bold and fierce,” said Trocend, “but lacks in…subtlety, perhaps.”

Lucan smirked. “I find myself liking you already.”

“How splendid,” said Trocend. “My old joints feel in need of a walk. Shall we?”

They climbed the ramparts and walked along the curtain wall. A brisk wind blew over the Grim Marches, driving steel-gray clouds across the pale sky. The wind ruffled Trocend’s hair, tugged at his robe.

“A fine view from these walls,” said Trocend at last. “Not quite so fine as the view from the parapets of Knightcastle, of course, nor from the heights of Swordgrim, but grand nonetheless.” He laughed to himself. “Yet it seems that neither Lord Malden nor Lord Richard can see what you will do next.”

“Spare me the rhetoric,” said Mazael. “This isn’t the court of Knightcastle. There’s no need to hide your meaning in flowery phrases.”

Trocend’s laugh remained dry. “Are all you Marcher folk so direct?”

Lucan lifted an eyebrow. “And are all the folk of Lord Malden’s court so duplicitous?”

“Come, come,” said Trocend. “No one here is a stranger to duplicity, I am sure.” Mazael said nothing. “But this is the Grim Marches, after all, and I will follow the custom of the country. So, Lord Mazael. You want your sister to wed Sir Gerald?”

“I do.”

Trocend came to a stop. “Why?”

“Because I have a tie to Lord Richard,” said Mazael, “since I have become his liegeman. Yet I was a knight in Lord Malden’s court for years, and he and Lord Richard are mortal enemies. I therefore want a tie to Lord Malden as well. If I am between them, they will not go to war.”

“Or so you think,” added Lucan.

“You want peace,” said Trocend. “How peculiar. I have never known a lord to refuse war. War is the way of lordship, after all. For with war comes spoils, lands, wealth, and glory. Everything the heart of a knight desires.”

“And war also brings misery and suffering and plague,” said Mazael. “Will I slaughter thousands to slake my pride? The lords make war and the common folk suffer for it.”

Trocend shrugged. “What of that? That is as it always has been. It is what the common folk are there for, after all.”

“No,” said Mazael, with some heat. “No. A lord’s purpose is to be a guardian to his people, not to drive them to the slaughter, nor to hide in his castle as they suffer.”

“A novel sentiment,” said Trocend.

“I will not have war between Lord Richard and Lord Malden,” said Mazael.

Lucan and Trocend laughed in unison.

“Do you really believe you can stop them?” said Trocend.

Mazael said nothing.

Trocend shrugged. “But, as it happens, Lord Malden agrees with you.”

Mazael frowned in surprise. “He does? I cannot see him ever forgiving Lord Richard for Sir Belifane’s death.”

“Has your master come to unexpected reason, then?” said Lucan.

Trocend’s thin smile returned. “Lord Malden remains determined to avenge valiant Sir Belifane’s cruel death. But…he feels that the time is not yet right.” He turned from his contemplation of the countryside. “Besides, other urgent matters occupy his attention.”

“Other matters?” said Mazael.

Trocend nodded. “Lord Malden contemplates war against the Dominiar Knights.”

It took a few moments for Mazael to grasp this.

“But that’s madness,” he said. “We defeated the Dominiars once before, but barely. And that was four years ago. They must have rebuilt their strength by now.”

“The Old Kingdoms revolted against the Dominiar Order after you defeated them at Tumblestone,” said Trocend. “Grand Master Malleus no doubt has his hands full with rebellion.”

“What of that?” said Mazael. “That was four years ago. Malleus has either crushed the Old Kingdoms by now, or abandoned them and rebuilt his armies. The Dominiars will be strong again. Why does Lord Malden even want to fight them?”

“Because they want Tumblestone back,” said Trocend.

“Why?” said Mazael.

“The Dominiars never quite accepted that you took Tumblestone,” said Trocend. “It was, after all, their key harbor.” His mask-like smile returned. “For all the Dominiars’ devotion to the ideals of piety and crusading zeal, most of Mastaria’s foreign trade went through that one city.”

“Crusading armies do not pay for themselves, after all,” said Lucan.

“Quite right,” said Trocend. “For that matter, it is hard to send crusading armies to ravage heathen lands without a port.”

“Lord Malden wishes to defend his lands, then,” said Mazael.

“Not quite,” said Trocend. “Lord Malden desires more land.” He craned his neck. “Where, pray, are the Justiciar Knights?”

“They aren’t here,” said Mazael. “Lord Richard expelled them from the Grim Marches for siding with Mitor.”

“Whereupon they all returned to Swordor,” said Trocend.

“The stronghold of the Justiciar Knights, the Dominiars’ sworn enemies,” said Lucan, “and Lord Malden’s closest allies.”

Trocend inclined his head. “And the Justiciars are most desirous of war against the Dominiars. They are in dire need of land. Those expelled knights need supporting, after all.”

“So both the Dominiars and Lord Malden are eager for war,” said Lucan, glancing sidelong at Mazael. “Difficult to avert, if a man desires peace.”

“And why are you telling me this?” said Mazael.

Trocend smiled. “Lord Malden is eager for Gerald to wed. And your sister seems an appropriate match for Sir Gerald, fair and pious and courteous, despite her somewhat questionable past. But…well,” he smiled, “if your sister marries a Roland, then you must be a friend to the house of Roland, no? Lord Richard is your liege lord, and Lord Malden would not ask you to become an oathbreaker for his sake…”

“But if Rachel is to marry Gerald,” said Mazael, “then Lord Malden may ask for my help against the Dominiars.”

Trocend studied him. “Exactly.”

Mazael sighed and stared over the battlements. He did want to go to war with anyone. Yet Lucan was right. War would come, sooner and later. And if it did, would it not be better to fight in a distant land, to spare his people from its horrors?

But how would the Old Demon use such a war? The thought made Mazael’s gut clench. Yet it seemed he had no other choice.

He shivered. And it had seemed he had no other choice, too, when Mitor rose against Lord Richard, no choice at all until the Old Demon offered to make him king of the world…

Trocend and Lucan stood in silence, watching him. “I would have to speak to Lord Malden before I make any decision.”

“Of course,” said Trocend. “You can speak with Lord Malden when you come to Knightcastle.”

Mazael frowned. “Come to Knightcastle?”

“Lord Malden wishes the wedding to take place at Knightcastle, in the Hall of Triumphs,” said Trocend. “After all, Lord Malden cannot come to the Grim Marches himself.”

Lucan smirked. “Wise of him.”

“Lord Malden will offer several manors in southeastern Knightrealm to Gerald as a wedding gift,” said Trocend. “Fine estates. Superb for grapes. Of course, Lord Malden also expects Sir Gerald to have…appropriate means of support within the Grim Marches.”

“I have numerous manors without a lord,” said Mazael. “Bloody Ridge, for instance.” He thought of Roger Gravesend and ground his teeth. “I had planned to combine several manors and make Gerald a lesser lord anyway.”

“Good, good,” said Trocend. “Now, as to the lesser details…”

Mazael nodded. He had, no doubt, several days of polite dickering in his future. But the heart of the matter had settled. Rachel would marry Gerald, and Lord Malden would not go to war against Lord Richard.

But Mazael thought of war against the Dominiars, of the Old Demon, and wondered what this might cost.

###

The next week went quickly.

During the day Mazael discussed details with Trocend, about wines, taxes, tolls, vassals, and wedding costs. It made his head ache. That Trocend found such subjects endlessly fascinating only made it worse. Trocend could lecture on tolls and taxes for hours without end.

Every day Gerald took Sir Tobias out hunting. Sir Nathan took it on himself to keep Toraine entertained, to Mazael’s boundless relief and gratitude. Everyone agreed that keeping hot-headed Sir Tobias and brutal Toraine apart was a good idea, and neither man seemed eager to meet the other.

And at night Bethy came to his rooms, and they lay together with enthusiasm. Two nights Bethany had to prepare food for the guests, so in her place she sent one of the new servants, a girl named Anne. Anne was about twenty, had blue hair, brown eyes, freckles in unusual places, and remarkable vigor.

One night both Bethy and Anne came to his chamber.  During the next day’s negotiations, Trocend commented on Mazael’s unusually languid manner.

Adalar’s scowls got ever wider. Mazael, preoccupied with affairs of state, did not notice.

He and Trocend concluded their negotiations. Mazael would take Rachel and Gerald to Knightcastle himself, accompanied by thirty of his knights, with Sir Tobias and his knights acting as a guard of honor. Mazael planned to bring Timothy, and Sir Aulus Hirdan, who would no doubt appreciate escaping from his wife for a few more months.

He appointed Sir Nathan to act as castellan in his absence. Sir Nathan refused. Mazael refused the refusal, and Sir Nathan acquiesced, though with little pleasure.

That left one man to convince.

###

Mazael pushed open the door to Lucan’s chamber. The room looked bare and empty, and a thin layer of dust covered the ragged cot. Mazael stared at in some confusion. Where did Lucan sleep, if not here?

“Lord Mazael.”

Lucan had appeared from nowhere, again.

“How the devil do you do that?” said Mazael.

“Do what?” said Lucan, running his hand against the wall.

“Disappear like that,” said Mazael.

Lucan lifted his eyebrow. “Do I? Perhaps I walk quietly.”

“No doubt,” said Mazael.

Lucan smirked. “How can I be of service?”

“Trocend Castleson saw through your mindclouding spell,” said Mazael.

“He did.”

“Will he always be able to see you?”

Lucan laughed. “Trocend is quite skilled, but not nearly as clever as he believes. There is more than one way to work a mindclouding. I could stand before his face and he would never notice me.”

“Are you sure?”

“I stood over his shoulder and watched him write a secret letter to Lord Malden,” said Lucan.

“And?”

Lucan turned, stepped to the narrow window. “It seems he doesn’t believe that you truly wish peace. Trocend believes that you will play Lord Malden and Lord Richard against each other, and plan to ally with whomever offers you greater rewards.”

“But I told him I want peace!” said Mazael.

“That’s right, you did. And lying lords are so rare.”

Mazael sighed through gritted teeth. In the end, it didn’t matter what Trocend believed. Mazael had to convince Lord Malden, not his lackeys. “All right. I am leaving for Knightcastle tomorrow, and will likely not return until autumn.”

“I know.”

“I want you to come with me,” said Mazael.

Lucan frowned. “No.”

“Why not?” said Mazael.

“Because I’m not a fool,” said Lucan. “I can conceal myself, but Trocend might discover me, and Lord Malden could have other wizards lurking about Knightcastle. If Lord Malden finds me he will do his utmost to kill me. A son for a son, after all.”

“You didn’t seem the sort to fear death,” said Mazael.

“Don’t be trite,” said Lucan. “If Lord Malden tries to kill me, I might be forced to kill several important people, possibly Lord Malden’s surviving sons, or even the old man himself.” His lip curled. “You’d then find peace rather unattainable, I expect.”

“I expect,” said Mazael. He sighed again, wishing he had room to pace. He hated standing still. “I need your help.”

Lucan said nothing.

“You were right,” said Mazael. “The San-keth will not stop at anything to kill Rachel. I don’t…I couldn’t have stopped Blackfang myself. I can’t protect Rachel by myself. Not against black magic.”

“And what is your sister’s life to me?” said Lucan.

Mazael glared in a sudden flash of rage. How dare he say such a thing? Mazael throttled back his fury and forced himself to speak.

“Because,” he grated, “don’t you want to defend others against the dark powers that took you? This is your chance. You heard what Trocend said about the Dominiars. War is coming, I fear.”

“I told you as much,” said Lucan.

“This is the sort of war the Old Demon will manipulate,” said Mazael. “Or the San-keth. You saw it yourself, when Mitor rose against your father. He was a puppet on the Old Demon’s strings.” He hesitated. “So was I.”

“Men often make war, with or without demonic prompting,” said Lucan. “Demons walk the earth, but that does not mean they lurk in every shadow.”

“Yet suppose they lurk in the shadows of this war,” said Mazael, staring at Lucan, “and you could have stopped them, but you did not.”

Lucan drew in a deep breath, folded his arms, and lowered his head. For a long moment he stared at the ground. Mazael watched him. A distant part of his mind realized that Lucan was but five years older than Adalar, and yet his face looked so old, so grim.

“Why not?” said Lucan. “It would startle my lord father. That alone would make the journey worth it.” He did a mocking little bow.  “I will travel with you, Lord Mazael.”

“Good,” said Mazael, thinking of what it might mean if Lord Malden discovered a son of Lord Richard Mandragon in his court. This, like the marriage, might too have its price. “Very good.”

###

They left Castle Cravenlock the next day, in a spring morning that still had winter’s bite.

A line of a hundred riders wound its down from the castle. Sir Aulus rode in the front, carrying the Cravenlock banner with its three crossed swords on the black background. Mazael rode behind him, glancing to the north. He saw another band of horsemen riding in that direction, the Mandragon banner flapping in the wind. Toraine had departed for Swordgrim, no doubt to deliver a lengthy report to his lord father.

Toraine’s departure filled Mazael with vast relief. The gods alone only knew what kind of havoc the man could have wreaked during Mazael’s absence.

He took his horse, a sturdy gray palfrey named Mantle, and rode down the line. Gerald and Tobias were towards the front, Tobias bellowing a dirty ballad, and laughing every time Gerald scowled. Adalar and Wesson rode behind them, Adalar leading Chariot. The big horse suffered himself to be led, albeit grudgingly.

Rachel was in the middle of the column, surrounded by her maids and the wives of various knights and lords. Mazael beckoned to her, and she steered her mare to his side.

She rode better than Mazael would have thought.

“You look nervous,” said Mazael. In fact, she looked haunted, a look that had not left since Blackfang’s attempt on her life.

She gave him a wan smile. “I am well, I suppose.” She looked at the broad plains and shuddered. “It’s just…”

“The San-keth?” said Mazael.

“That?” said Rachel, frowning. “I haven’t thought about it much. If I do…I’ll get upset. You understand.” Mazael nodded. “I’ve…never left the Grim Marches before, Mazael.” She waved her hand at the sky. “I’ve never been farther west than that inn at the Northwater.”

“You’re pointing southeast,” said Mazael, following her hand.

Her expression turned arch. “And which way is west, lord brother?”

Mazael smiled and pointed.

Rachel pointed west. “Then I’ve never been further west than the inn.” She dropped her hand, staring. “I’ve always wondered what other lands are like.”

Mazael smiled again. “Then I will be glad to show you.”

Rachel smiled back, and they rode to the front of the line.

Chapter 3

1

Dustfoot

They crossed over the Northwater and rode west.

The western reaches of the Grim Marches bordered on the northeastern corner of Knightrealm and the eastern edge of the High Plain. Most travelers to Knightrealm took the road through the High Plain, and then south to Knightcastle itself, or chartered a river barge to take them up the Riversteel, one of Knightrealm’s two great rivers.

Mazael did neither, instead leading his party southwest into Knightrealm. The Lord of the High Plain was not on friendly terms with Lord Richard. And the road southwest was not well-traveled. Mazael wished to avoid chance meetings.

Who knew when they might encounter more San-keth changelings, disguised as normal men?

The road wound southwest, through the wild lands between the Great Southern Forest and Knightrealm’s low mountains. Rachel stared at everything with wondering eyes. Mazael realized that she had never seen mountains before. She even seemed enchanted by the mud of the road.

Timothy rode at the rear, clutching small crystal wrapped with copper wire. Every now and again the crystal flashed. With luck, Timothy’s divinatory magic could sense any enemies before they attacked.

Besides Timothy rode a slight figure wrapped in a black cloak.

No one had noticed Lucan. That still raised the hairs on the back of Mazael’s neck. Even Trocend had failed to notice Lucan, or, at least, pretended not to.

###

Four days later, Mazael decided to talk with Gerald.

On their left loomed the silent, towering trunks of the Great Southern Forest, filled with shadows. No one dared lumber within the forest, fearing the predations of the wood devils. Mazael had met the Elderborn of the wood, and had found them no devils, though ruthless in defending their homes.

To the right rose the worn, green-mantled slopes of Knightrealm’s mountains. A few rose high enough to have crowns of snow, but most had jagged peaks of bare stone and tree-cloaked flanks. The mountains looked stately, but often held many bandits. Every few years the local lords sent armsmen and knights to sweep out the bandits. Mazael himself had done so at Lord Malden’s bidding, years past.

He shook aside stray memories and came to Gerald’s side. Gerald rode with his brother, and together they told Rachel stories from Knightrealm’s past. Every damned rock in Knightrealm, it seemed, had legends attached to it. At this village a knight had made a valiant last stand. Or beneath that tree two lords had fought each other to the death over the love of a fair lady, slaying each other, while the lady killed herself in grief. Mazael wondered how much was true, and how much puffed-up twaddle.

“It’s said that King Lancefar Roland, the fourth of his name, took this road eight hundred years past to wage war against the kings of the High Plain and Dracaryl,” said Gerald. “Along the road he met and killed the bandit-king Black Ricard in single combat.”

“Did he?” said Rachel. Rachel ate it up. She had always loved songs and tales. Maybe, Mazael mused, that was how the San-keth had ensnared her. Perhaps they had told her a better tale.

“Aye,” said Tobias, grinning. “And then as he rode back from war, though yon hills,” he waved his hand at the worn mountains, “he came upon a meadow where seven lonely shepherdesses dwelt, yearning for a manly embrace to ease…”

“Tobias!” said Gerald. “That is hardly an appropriate tale for a lady’s ear.”

“What isn’t?” said Mazael. “There’s not a jongleur’s song in the world that doesn’t have some fool beheaded ere it’s done, or some maiden lass who’s no longer maiden by the end. Gerald! I need to speak with you. If you can trust Tobias alone with your betrothed, of course.”

“My lord!” said Gerald. “He is my brother.”

Tobias guffawed. “Fear not. You seem the sort of man to be most jealous of his sister’s honor.”

“Keep that well in mind,” said Mazael.

He and Gerald rode to the back of the line. Lucan lifted a dark eyebrow as they passed, and Gerald failed to notice him. Mazael suppressed a shudder. Despite Lucan’s pledge, his powers still made Mazael uneasy.

“What’s amiss?” said Gerald.

“A question. From here,” said Mazael, “if a man wished to go to Knightcastle, what road would he take?”

Gerald blinked. “Well…we’d take the road through Krago Town, cross the Black River, then head north to Knightcastle. A bit out of the way, to be sure, but most folk traveling from the Grim Marches to Knightcastle go through the High Plain.”

“We’re not going through Krago,” said Mazael. “We’ll head west through Stillwater, instead, take the road to Knightcastle from there.”

“Stillwater?” said Gerald, frowning. He glanced at his squire. “I suppose Wesson would be glad to see his father.” Wesson’s father, Lord Tancred, was Lord of Stillwater. His prodigious capacity for ale had earned him the nickname Tancred the Tankard. “But that would be farther out of our way. We’ll have to cross both the Black River and the Riversteel, then approach Knightcastle from the north.”

“We will,” said Mazael. “But I’m not riding through Krago Town.”

“Why not?” said Gerald. “The place has an unpleasant reputation, but I’ve never been there.” He shrugged. “Though I did meet Krago’s lord once. Rather uncouth  fellow, really. Krago Town’s ill name may just rise from him.”

“Or it may not,” said Mazael. He closed his eyes, letting his horse follow the road. “Skhath. The San-keth priest, when he still masqueraded as a man. Where did he claim to have been born?”

Gerald nodded. “Krago Town.”

“And Skhath told me he had come from Karag Tormeth in truth,” said Mazael.

“The San-keth high temple,” said Gerald. “The heart of their cult.”

“Nobody knows where it is,” said Mazael, “but I’d wager it’s not far from Krago Town.”

“In Knightrealm?” Gerald shook his head. “I can’t believe that such a place would remain hidden for so long. And Skhath most likely just lied. Mayhap he picked Krago Town for its obscurity, knowing that no one from Castle Cravenlock had ever been there.”

“And maybe not,” said Mazael. “But it’s possible there’s a hidden snake-cult at Krago Town, as there was at Castle Cravenlock.” He looked at Rachel, laughing at Tobias’s stories. “But if there is…then it’s not someplace we should take Rachel.”

“Agreed,” said Gerald, face grim. “Stillwater it is, then.”

They rode in amiable silence for a moment.

“At least,” said Gerald, “if we do encounter a San-keth cleric, you’ve got that magic sword of yours.”

“I wonder about that,” said Mazael.

“About Lion?” Gerald’s eyes flicked to the longsword dangling from Mazael’s belt. “Of course it is enspelled. I’ve seen it with my own eyes, and you have too.”

“We have,” said Mazael. “But where did it come from?”

Gerald frowned. “Don’t you remember? Sir Commander Aeternis of the Dominiars gave it to you in surrender, after we took Tumblestone.”

“And where did Aeternis get it from?” said Mazael. Gerald shrugged. “This thing is a relic of old Tristafel.” He patted Lionel’s pommel. “It’s at least three thousand years old. I wonder where Aeternis found it.”

“Maybe you’ll have the chance to ask…”

“Lord Mazael!” Timothy’s shout cut off Gerald’s conversation.

Mazael booted Mantle to a trot and hastened to Timothy’s side. “What is it?”

Timothy’s eyelids fluttered, his hand tightening around the crystal. “There’s…ah, people. Ahead. Over the next hill.” He jerked his chin at a craggy hill. The road wound its way around the base. “About four or five dozen. And…I think one group’s trying to kill the other group.”

“Gerald,” said Mazael, “get the knights ready. This isn’t our concern, but fights have a way of pulling in bystanders. And for gods’ sake, have some men stay with the women.” Gerald nodded and galloped ahead, giving orders, and took his shield from Wesson.

“Lord Mazael!” said Trocend, steering his horse towards Mazael. “Is something amiss?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Mazael. “Ready yourself, just in case. Sir Tobias!” Tobias looked up from telling another bawdy story. “There might be bandits ahead.” Or, of course, a battle between minor lordlings. “Get your men ready!”

Tobias grinned. “Ha!” He pulled his long axe free. The crescent blade looked scarred and very sharp. “A boring journey, so far. A little excitement would be welcome!”

Mazael rode to Adalar and dismounted Mantle. Adalar took Mantle’s reins, and Mazael climbed up into Chariot’s saddle. The big horse snorted and tossed his head as Mazael took the reins, pawing at the ground.

“You’re as eager as Tobias,” muttered Mazael. His destrier looked ready for blood and mayhem, which was the horse’s usual mood. Mazael wondered if horses could become Demonsouled, shook aside the ridiculous thought, and rode to the head of the column. Sir Tobias and Gerald settled on either side of him.

They rode around the rocky hill, into a broad valley between two of the low mountains. A small river, little more than a creek, ran down the center of the valley. A dozen heavy wagons stood on the road running alongside the creek, the oxen snorting in fright.

Close to seventy ragged men ran in circles around the wagons, shouting and brandishing crude weapons. A dozen men in studded leather jerkins stood atop the wagons, wielding short swords, fighting for their lives. Even as Mazael as watched, one of the men fell with a scream, pierced with a javelin, and fell into the creek.

“Bandits,” muttered Mazael. He yanked Lion free and stood up in his stirrups. “Charge! At them, at them!”

Tobias whirled his axe over his head and whooped.

Mazael kicked Chariot to a gallop. The horse sprang forward with an eager whinny, hooves tearing at the turf. Behind him the knights shouted and surged forward. Mazael wished there had been time to don his armor, and then he had no thought for anything but sword play.

The bandits did not even have time to turn around. Chariot crashed into a ragged man, running him down, even as Mazael struck the head from another. The knights thundered into the bandits, blades flashing, hooves stamping. Mazael galloped through the bandits, his arm rising and falling, leaving dead men in his wake. He caught a glimpse of a tall, lean man in a dusty brown cloak atop the lead wagon, staring at him beneath bushy gray eyebrows.

The knights tore past the wagons, wheeling their mounts around. Most of the bandits lay dead, their blood staining the brown grass. About a dozen survivors fled in all directions, throwing down their weapons. The knights broke into small bands and set after the fleeing bandits. Mazael cursed and wheeled Chariot around. Trying to keep his knights in disciplined formation after a charge had proven almost impossible.

He rode to the lead wagon. “Which of you is the master of this caravan?”

“That would be me, sir knight,” said the man in the dusty cloak, his voice polite and smooth. He set his short sword on the wagon’s seat and sprang down. Everything about the man looked dusty. His boots were dusty. Even his bushy gray eyebrows and gray hair looked like they had been colored with dust. He gripped the edge of his cloak and did grand bow. “Harune Dustfoot, a humble merchant of Tumblestone, at your service.”

Mazael snorted. “Dustfoot? Appropriate enough.”

“Well, I do quite a lot of traveling, after all,” said Harune. “There’s very little profit in standing still.” He cocked his head to the side. “I presume I have the honor of speaking with Lord Mazael of Castle Cravenlock?”

“You do,” said Mazael, frowning. “How the devil did you know that?” Sir Aulus rode past, sword in one hand and Cravenlock banner in the other. “Of course, the banner.”

“Actually,” said Harune, “my youngest brother was long a merchant in Knightport, before he left for distant shores to pursue his fortune. He told me of a formidable, though landless, knight named Sir Mazael Cravenlock who used to guard his caravans.”

“That was years ago,” said Mazael. “I’ve come up a bit in the world since then.” He missed those days. He had had no responsibilities, no bonds, and the freedom to go wherever he chose.

And he had known nothing of his Demonsouled blood.

“I thank my lord for saving my humble caravan,” said Harune, bowing again. “Bandits are always thick in the mountains after the winter, though I have never seen quite so large a band.”

“Where are you bound?” said Mazael.

“Knightcastle,” said Harune, “as I am carrying cheeses from Cadlyn and sausages from Farsifel. Lord Malden’s youngest son is getting married, rumor says, and rumor claims that he’ll throw a grand feast for the folk of Castle Town.” Harune shrugged. “He’ll need to buy food.”

“You mean,” said Sir Tobias, who had ridden up to Mazael’s side, “those bandits tried to kill you over a cartload of damned cheeses?”

Harune shrugged. “They’re fine cheeses.”

“As it happens, the rumors speak true,” said Mazael. “Sir Gerald is marrying Lady Rachel Cravenlock.” He waved his hand at them. “My sister. No doubt your brother told you that as well.”

“My second cousin passed along the rumor, actually,” said Harune.

“We’re heading for Knightcastle ourselves,” said Mazael, “since we have the bride and groom with us, and it would be hard to hold the wedding without them.”

“Or without fine cheeses,” agreed Harune.

Mazael snorted. “Undoubtedly. So, ride with us. We’ll take no reward.”

“But…” said Tobias.

“He can’t pay your lord father’s tax if he can’t get to Castle Town in one piece,” said Mazael.

Tobias sighed. “True enough.”

“Gerald!” said Mazael. The younger man rode over, Wesson trailing behind, wiping down Gerald’s sword. “Dispose of the corpses, and get our men in line. Have them stay around Harune’s wagons…we wouldn’t want you to get married without cheese, after all.”

Gerald gave him an odd look, but rode off, shouting commands.

Mazael watched his knights and Tobias’s for a moment, then rode past them. Lucan sat on his horse, wrapped in his dark cloak, ignored and unnoticed.

“Well?” said Mazael.

“No changelings,” murmured Lucan, shaking his head. “Common bandits, nothing more.” He frowned. “Though there is something odd about this Harune fellow…”

“What?” said Mazael. “A changeling?”

“No,” said Lucan, shaking his head. “I…think he has some sort of enspelled bauble on his person.”

“Dangerous?”

Lucan shook his head again. “Hardly. You have one, after all.” He pointed at the bronze ring on Mazael’s hand. “And you use it quite frequently, as I understand. Best get back to your men, before they wonder why you’re sitting here talking to yourself.”

“Keep an eye on Harune,” said Mazael, “just in case.”

“Your whim is ever my command, lord,” said Lucan, doing a mocking little bow.

Mazael sighed and rode back to the line.

A few hours later they rode away, leaving behind a massive, crackling pyre, the bandits' heads mounted atop spears as a warning to others.

2

Straganis

Another week took them to the Black River and the ford of Tristgard.

Lord Tancred had not been at Stillwater, having already left for Knightcastle. They stayed one night at Stillwater Keep, wined and dined by Lord Tancred’s seneschal, a dour man with neither humor nor wit. Mazael had left the next day, with some relief, and pushed on to the Black River and Tristgard.

It seemed that village of Tristgard, like every other castle, village, and ruin in Knightrealm, had its legends.

“It was at this ford that King Tristifane stood against the Malrag hordes,” Gerald told Rachel, warming to the tale, “with only eight hundred loyal knights, against a hundred thousand.”

“The numbers inflated with every retelling, no doubt,” said Mazael. “It was most likely twelve knights and sixty Malrags.”

Both Gerald and Tobias gave him reproachful looks. Mazael rolled his eyes and fell silent.

“Old King Tristifane won against the horde,” said Tobias, “though he fell in the battle, and two-thirds of his loyal knights perished. His son raised this statue to commemorate the battle.” Tobias pointed. “You can see it up ahead, here. It’s worn down a bit, over the centuries.”

A massive monolith sat at the base of a hill, crusted with generations of lichen. It might have once been a statue, though it looked more like a random boulder fallen from the hill.

“It’s also said that if enemies ever cross the Black River, old King Tristifane’s ghost will rise up to drive them out,” said Gerald.

“And here’s the Black River,” said Mazael. “Perhaps we’ll see if Lord Malden think us enemies or not, eh?”

The Black River stretched before them, winding its way through the craggy hills. Its name came from the chunks of black stone that littered the riverbed, lending the water a dark color. Tristgard held the only safe ford through the river. There were bridges over the river to the north and south, but both charged higher tolls.

The village stood on the far side of the river, built of weatherworn gray stone and red shingles. Wisps of smoke curled from the chimneys. A cluster of tents and wagons stood outside the village’s walls. Because of its location, Tristifane played host to a near-perpetual merchants’ fair.

Yet the tents looked deserted, and the wagons empty.

Gerald frowned. “It’s usually more crowded than this.”

“Merchants, bravos for hire,” said Tobias. “Whores.” He looked disappointed.

“Harune!” said Mazael. The merchant’s wagon rolled up. “Have you passed through Tristgard recently?”

“I did, my lord,” said Harune, staring at the village with fixed intensity. “On my way to Cadlyn. Though that was a year past.”

“My knights and I rode through two months ago,” said Tobias, “and the village seemed more normal then.”

“Timothy?” said Mazael.

Timothy joined them, clutching his quartz crystal, his eyelids fluttering. “There are…people in the village. Nine hundred or so.” He frowned. “Nobody in the merchants’ tents, though. Peculiar.”

“Perhaps the villagers have plague,” said Rachel, frowning.

“There’s no plague marks on the gate,” said Timothy.

Trocend gazed at the wall with his cool eyes. “They may have been too stricken to make the effort.”

Something about Tristgard did not sit right with Mazael. He had passed through the village several times over the last fifteen years, and the place had always seemed boisterous. Never before had it seemed to quiet.

Lucan rode up, ignored by the others. Mazael risked a glance at him. Lucan shrugged.

“Then let’s go see what’s wrong with Tristgard,” said Mazael.

He urged Mantle into the ford.

###

Calibah, Roger Gravesend discovered, had stripes of pale scales on her thighs and breasts.

She had more or less ordered him into bed once they had taken control of Tristgard. Roger had obeyed, mostly out of terror. The minute Calibah no longer found him useful, she would give him a kiss with her fangs, and he would die in agony. Besides, she was shapely enough, if a man disregarded her more serpentine attributes.

After they finished, she walked naked across their room on the top floor of Tristgard’s inn, and glared out the window.

“Get dressed,” she ordered.

“Eh?” said Roger, lifting his sweaty head from the pillow.

Calibah glared at him, baring her fangs. “I said to get dressed!”

Roger all but fell from the bed in his haste. He cursed the way his hands shook as he buckled his belt and laced his boots. A few months ago he had lived in comfort in his own hall, master over his peasants. Now he was little more than a slave to this half-mad, half-human woman. How had he ever come to this?

“Bring me my clothes,” said Calibah.

Roger scooped up her skirt and blouse and boots, his face burning with anger and shame, and walked to her side. The sunlight glistened off her skin and pale scales. She took the clothes from his arms and dressed.

As she bent over to pull on her boots, Roger contemplated plunging his sword into her back. One quick thrust and he could be free of her. But could he get out of Tristgard alive? All the other calibah, the changelings, held her in awe. She seemed to be their chief. The other changelings all had names, but she was only Calibah.

Calibah pulled on her blouse, smiling, and something her cold eyes made Roger very glad he had not drawn his sword.

“What’s happening?” said Roger.

“They’re here,” said Calibah.

“Lord Mazael?” said Roger, his hands tightening into fists. This was all Mazael Cravenlock’s fault. If not for him, Roger would never have been reduced to his current misery.

“He is,” said Calibah. “And Rachel Cravenlock and two of Lord Malden’s three surviving sons…and, ah, the Dragon’s Shadow as well. My master is pleased.”

Sir Roger licked dry lips. “The Dragon’s Shadow slaughtered Blackfang. Your master should be wary.”

“Blackfang was a child,” murmured Calibah. “Skhath was a child. Both were fools who displeased my master. He is one of the great holy ones, an archpriest of Karag Tormeth. You thought Blackfang wielded the power of great Sepharivaim? Now you will see true power.” She titled her head to the side. “Ah. My master wishes to meet you. Come.” She beckoned, moving to the door. “He awaits us in the common room.”

Roger swallowed and followed Calibah through the inn’s hallways. None of the rooms were empty. Most held terrified villagers, lying bound and gagged on the floor. A few held the corpses of villagers who had proven troublesome.

Calibah swept into the common room,  Roger at her heels. A dozen changelings stood in a cluster near the door, around a hunched figure wrapped in a filthy black cloak. Roger gagged as the stench from the cloaked shape struck him. The changelings stepped back, fear on their faces. The hunched shape turned towards Sir Roger.

“Master,” said Calibah, falling on her face before the cloaked figure.

“Sir Roger Gravesend.” The voice was slow, creaking, and quite hideous. “So we meet at last.”

Roger saw the creature beneath the cloak, and stifled a scream.

###

“Have the women stay by the riverbank,” said Mazael. “Behind Harune’s wagons, if possible. They’ll make for cover.” Harune nodded and shouted instructions to his drivers. “Adalar. Get Chariot.”

Gerald frowned. “You really expect trouble? We’re not a week from Knightcastle!”

“I don’t know,” said Mazael, scowling. Adalar took Mantle’s reins, and Mazael climbed off the palfrey’s back and swung into Chariot’s saddle. He did know that he felt better equipped to face trouble atop his black-tempered warhorse. “Timothy, Sir Aulus, Sir Gerald, Sir Tobias, Brother Trocend; with me.” He cast a quick glance at Lucan, who nodded and rode up.

The seven of them rode over the ford, through the abandoned caravansary, and to the open gates of Tristgard. Within Mazael saw a cobblestone street, well-tended stone houses, and a fountain bubbling within a market square.

Yet he saw no people.

“Damned strange,” he muttered. “Sir Aulus.”

Sir Aulus nodded and stood up in his stirrups, the black Cravenlock banner flapping over his head. “Folk of Tristgard!” His voice boomed over the stone walls. “Lord Mazael Cravenlock wishes to purchase provisions of you, and means you no harm! He bids you to send out an emissary for parley!”

Nothing moved within the silent village.

“Timothy?” said Mazael.

Timothy’s fingers clenched over the quartz crystal. “It’s…I’m sure there’s hundreds of people within, my lord. But… only a few of them are moving. And I’m sure some of them are watching us.”

“Plague, then,” said Trocend. “That’s the only reason so many would lie abed this time of day. We must make all haste to Knightcastle and warn Lord Malden.”

“No,” said Mazael. “Plague…no, that’s not right. Something else is wrong…”

The door to the village’s inn burst open.

###

“They’re not coming into the village,” whispered Roger, staring at Lord Mazael and his band through the inn’s window. They sat unmoving on their horses a few yards from the gate. “They know something’s wrong.” He wiped sweating palms on his cloak.

Calibah glared at him. “Do you question the master?”

“No,” said Roger, “it’s just…I…”

“Come,” croaked the cloaked, stinking shape. “Let us go and meet our guests.” A hissing approximation of laughter came from the black cowl. “We do not want to be discourteous, no? Calibah, Gravesend. Follow.”

“But he’ll kill me,” said Roger.

“Your presence will drive him to rage,” said the cloaked form, “overruling his reason, and then I shall exterminate him.”

Roger, as usual, had no choice but to follow.

###

A hunched shape in a ragged black cloak stumbled from the village’s inn.

Mazael watched in growing alarm. The figure moved with a strange lurching, almost skittering gait, filthy cloak dragging against the cobbles. Had a plague indeed taken Tristgard? Mazael’s Demonsouled blood could resist plague, but what of those around him?

Then he saw the man and the woman behind the cloaked form, and Mazael’s fists closed in sudden fury.

The lean, pretty woman, in the rough dress of a serving girl, was a changeling. The man was Sir Roger Gravesend.

“You traitor dog,” said Mazael, yanking Lion free. “You should have run to the ends of the earth if you wanted to live.”

The cloaked figure stopped, and a pair of enormous, fish-pale hands reached up and opened the filthy cloak.

Trocend jerked back in the saddle, his cool mask shattering. “By all the gods!”

Mazael’s breath hissed through clenched teeth.

A San-keth cleric stood beneath the cloak. Most San-keth clerics, Skhath and Blackfang included, used undead human skeletons to carry their limbless bodies.

This one seemed to have preferred a living body. Of sorts.

A vaguely human-like torso, knotted with muscle, squatted atop an armored carapace and eight spider-like legs, each one hard and sharp. A scorpion’s stinger reared over one shoulder, shimmering with greenish slime. By some black sorcery the San-keth’s serpentine body had been grafted into the pale flesh of the torso. Mazael saw knots of muscles and nerves interwoven with the faded red scales. The San-keth’s eyes were ancient and cloudy with centuries of cruelty.

The entire freakish assemblage of mismatched meat stank like carrion.

“Gods,” said Trocend, still shaken. “What sort of black alchemy is this?”

“Gods?” croaked the San-keth cleric. “Your cursed gods stripped us of our limbs, for they feared our great might.” It spread its human arms. “The lesser servants of great Sepharivaim use the undead corpses of the inferior races for their carriers. We greater servants may manufacture our own limbs.”

“Greater?” said Mazael.

Lucan cursed, very softly.

“I am Straganis, archpriest of Karag Tormeth, master of the seventh circle,” hissed the San-keth. “You are Lord Mazael Cravenlock, who murdered Skhath, servant of great Sepharivaim. You are sister to Rachel Cravenlock, apostate and betrayer. You both shall perish for your crimes.” His hands began working patterns, fingers crackling with green flames.

Mazael hefted Lion. The sword began to shimmer with an azure glow. “I think not.”

Straganis cackled, hands thrusting out. Emerald flame blazed, and a black shadow flew at Mazael. A chill stabbed into his chest, and he tried to raise his crackling sword to block the shadow…

Lucan sprang from the saddle and threw out his hand. The shadows scattered in a snarl. Straganis whirled, hissing. Lucan surged towards the San-keth archpriest, a spell glowing around his fingertips.

“So!” laughed Straganis. “The troublesome dilettante. I’ll slay you myself. Kill them all!” Straganis made a twisting motion with his hands.

Mist swirled, and both he and Lucan vanished.

Mazael blinked in astonishment, and looked up to see dozen crossbow-armed changelings standing atop the village's walls.

“Get back!” he yelled, waving Lion. “Back, damn you, back!”

The others turned their horses.

Mazael just had time to curse himself for not donning his armor.

A crossbow quarrel slammed into Mazael’s left shoulder, another into his leg, still another into his gut.

He thought he heard Rachel scream his name.

He reeled, trying to keep his saddle and his sword, as Sir Roger and a swarm of changelings charged at him.

###

Lucan caught his balance and looked around.

He stood in a mist-choked forest of gnarled, twisted trees. The fog swirled around his boots and cloak. Hulking shapes lumbered through the trunks, menacing and shadowy.

Before him he saw the translucent, ghostly walls of Tristgard, watched a horde of wraith-like changelings charge a shimmering Mazael.

“Do you know where you are, foolish boy?”

Straganis emerged from the misty trees, spider legs tearing up the mossy ground, tongue flicking at the air.

“The spirit realm, of course,” said Lucan, circling the San-keth. “The parallel world to the realm of mortals.” He flicked a hand at the ghostly, transparent walls of Tristgard. “Material objects cast their shadows to his realm.” He paused, watching Straganis’s forked tongue flick at the air. “An impressive trick, bringing me here, but a futile gesture. Did you think to impress me with your power?”

“The thoughts of the lesser races mean nothing to me, Dragon’s Shadow,” said Straganis. “You have long been an irritant to the servants of great Sepharivaim. You have crossed our paths, and meddled in our business, for the final time. My power is strengthened here.” Straganis’s knotted, pale hands rose, and worked a summoning spell.

A dozen shimmering, hazy tigers loped from gloom, eyes glowing, claws leaving gashes in the damp earth. They were creatures of the spirit world, similar to the ones Lucan could summon in the material world.

Here, of course, they were much stronger.

But Lucan had resources of his own.

His fingers flew through the arcane gestures, his lips mouthing the spell. The mist swirled, and a dozen horse-sized, glowing wolves burst from the gloomy trees. They streaked forward and crashed into the tigers, snarling and snapping, sparks of fire bursting from their claws. Lucan gritted his teeth, trying to keep his balance. Creatures of the spirit realm were stronger here, and took that much more effort to control. If his grip wavered, they would turn on him in a heartbeat…

Straganis began another spell, his words echoing with arcane force. Lucan felt a moment’s astonishment. Straganis had strength to spare for another spell?

Lucan began a spell of his own to meet Straganis’s attack, even as he tried to keep his will focused on the wraith-wolves.

###

Timothy saved Mazael’s life.

Mazael slumped in the saddle, blood flowing from his wounds. The quarrels’ steel heads grated against the bones of his shoulder and leg, Lion dangling from his pain-wracked hand. He had to lift his arm, had to defend himself against the charging changelings, but he could not move…

Timothy dropped to one knee before Chariot, hand pawing inside his coat. He yanked free a slender copper tube, about a foot long, capped on one end with a cork. Timothy yanked the cork free, held the tube out before him, and began shouting a spell,.

Even through his pain, Mazael felt a surge of alarm. He had seen Timothy use that spell before.

One of the changelings raised an axe, his face a few feet from the copper tube, when Timothy finished the spell.

A blast of flame exploded from the tube and howled into the lines of the changelings. The heat struck Mazael like a burning blanket. A dozen changelings fell dead, charred beyond recognition. Another dozen fell, screaming, flames chewing into their flesh. The rest skidded to a halt, gaping. Mazael caught a glimpse of Roger Gravesend, jaw hanging open.

Timothy coughed, sweat sheeting down his face, and fell to one knee, panting. The surviving changelings charged forward, eager for blood.

But Mazael had gotten his breath back.

He roared and spurred Chariot forward, brandishing Lion. Chariot, less dazed than his master, leapt into motion. The big horse galloped past Timothy and trampled a changeling. Mazael screamed and brought Lion crashing down again and again, changeling blood splashing against him and mingling with his own. Their weapons raked at his legs and chest, but Mazael ignored the wounds.

The pain failed to penetrate the wall of his rage.

“To Mazael!” Gerald sounded half-panicked. “For the gods’ sake, after him!” Mazael glimpsed Gerald crashing into the lines of the changelings, his gleaming sword rising. Tobias and Sir Aulus and the rest of the knights thundered after him. Mazael even saw Harune Dustfoot fighting with a sturdy short sword.

Mazael had just enough time to wonder where the devil Lucan had gotten to, and then battle rage drowned all thought.

###

The misty air snarled with arcane energies.

Straganis summoned more spirit-creatures, nightmarish shapes that looked like the bastard offspring of a spider and a rabid rat. Lucan countered with another calling spell, conjuring more of the spirit-creatures he had bound to his service. Things like winged jackals dropped from the sky, falling upon Straganis’s minions.

Lucan’s lips peeled back from his teeth. Power thrummed through his limbs, his head aching with the strain. Every spark of his magical strength strained, yet he still needed more.

Straganis’s power was greater than his. For the first time in a long while, perhaps for the first time ever, Lucan found himself overmatched.

Straganis hissed yet another spell, tongue slithering past his yellowed fangs, and raised a hand. The earth trembled.

One of the trees uprooted itself, rising into the air, roots dangling like filthy hair. It hovered for a moment, then Straganis pointed.

The hovering tree hurtled at Lucan.

Lucan thrust out his own will, straining his power to the utmost. The trunk shattered in the middle, shards of wood spraying in all directions. The effort of the spell sent agony through Lucan’s forehead, and for a moment it felt like his brain had begun to flow out his ears and nose.

“Is that the limit of your power?” said Straganis, laughing. “Can you do no better? You cannot stop me from crushing your life.”

“Gloat as you will,” snarled Lucan, trying not to gasp. “I am still unbeaten.”

But he while had the strength to stop Straganis’s spells, he did not have enough power left to strike back. Sooner or later, Straganis would wear down his defenses and cast a killing spell…

Straganis threw out both of his hands, the full force of his will hammering into Lucan.

Lucan flew backwards, smashed into a tree, and slumped to the ground, his concentration scattered.

###

Chariot thundered through Tristgard’s gate. The rage in Mazael’s blood filled him, making him stronger, faster, tougher. A changeling lunged at him with a spear, and Mazael blocked it, his blade beating aside the iron blade. Another changeling sprang at him with a long dagger. Mazael yanked the crossbow quarrel from his shoulder and rammed it into the changeling’s eye.

It hurt, but that didn’t concern Mazael just then.

The changelings broke and ran. The charge of the knights had forced them back through the village’s gate. Sir Tobias and Sir Aulus galloped onto the ramparts, cutting down the crossbowmen. The surviving changelings threw down their weapons and ran. Mazael grinned, wiping sweat and blood from his eyes. These changelings were deadly enough when they struck from the shadows with poisoned fang and blade.

But they could not stand in a fair fight.

“Kill them!” yelled Mazael, standing up in his stirrups, sweeping Lion over his head. “Cut them all down. No mercy!”

The knights rode down the street and into the square, where the changelings had gathered for a last stand. It was over quickly.

###

Calibah snarled in the hissing San-keth tongue. “It is time to go.”

Roger didn’t answer. They stood on the roof of the inn, watching the slaughter. Sir Roger had seen Mazael fight before, of course, had even seen the man angry.

But Roger had never seen Lord Mazael Cravenlock in such a furious rage. He looked more like a devil than man. And the way he grinned! It chilled Roger to his toes. To think that he once though to go blade to blade with that madman!

Calibah grabbed his shoulder. “We must go, fool.”

Roger found the courage to scowl at her. “It seems your great master has failed.”

Poisoned fangs snapped an inch before his nose. Roger managed not to scream, but only just. “We cannot serve Sepharivaim if we are dead. Unless you’d prefer your skeleton to be raised as a cleric’s carrier?”

“I’d rather not,” said Roger.

A chorus of screams rose from the square as the knights cut down the last changelings.

“Then we run,” said Calibah. She shrugged. “I know not why great Straganis chose this attack. Our kind strikes best from the shadows. But we shall kill Lord Mazael and apostate sister yet. Now run!”

She sprinted for the stairs. For an instant Roger considered hiding out, going on his own, escaping from the grasp of the San-keth and Calibah.

He saw Lord Mazael’s horse trampling the dead changelings.

Sir Roger sprinted after Calibah as fast as his legs could carry him.

###

Lucan staggered back to his feet, spitting out blood. Straganis’s creatures had driven Lucan’s creatures back. Some fled in all directions, their pain and fear breaking through the bonds of Lucan’s control.

Straganis hissed, his will striking out again. Lucan just had the strength to turn the spell aside. A nearby tree exploded in a spray of splinters and shredded leaves. Lucan’s few surviving spirit-creatures fell back, overwhelmed. He didn’t have the strength left to summon any more.

“It is finished, human,” said Straganis, creaking forward on his spider-legs. “Lie down and die.”

“No,” said Lucan. Strewn about the ground lay the ghostly images of slain changelings, dozens of them. “I’ve heard such empty threats before, old snake.” But this threat didn’t seem very empty.

He looked again at the flickering images of the dead changelings.

Unless…

He began another spell, a summoning spell in reverse, and chopped his hands.

The air snarled about him, and the bodies of the changelings became substantial, pulled into the spirit-world by his spell.

Lucan reached into his dark half, the part filled with old Marstan’s shadowed memories, and began muttering a spell. Green fire blazed to life around his fingertips, throwing back the gloom of the spirit-realm.

“You use the arts of great Sepharivaim against me?” laughed Straganis. “Foolish boy.”

Lucan ignored the taunts and sent his will ramming into the corpses. The green fire sprang from his fingers, stabbed into their staring, dead eyes.

The corpses moved.

Lucan raised his hands, gritting his teeth. The corpses shambled up, their movements limp and wooden. Straganis hissed a command in the San-keth tongue and pointed. Three creatures, crab-like things with dozens of eyes, lunged at Lucan, claws clacking.

Lucan focused his strained mind and sent a command to the animated corpses.

The undead shambled into the path of the spirit-creatures, ignored their slashing claws, and tore Straganis’s creatures apart. Straganis made a lifting gesture. A tree rose from the earth with a groaning roar and flew at Lucan. One of the animated corpses stepped into the flying tree’s path. The blow reduced the corpse of bloody pulp, but the tree fell to the ground.

Straganis struck back. His first spell ripped a corpse to shreds. The second sent an undead hurtling through the air. But the remaining corpses continued their grim, plodding advance. Lucan kept working spells, pulling more corpses into the spirit-realm,. The power of the necromancy thrummed through him, filling his flesh with an icy cold, drowning his pain with numbness. No wonder Marstan had practiced this art for so long!

Death conquered all, but Lucan’s arts made him master of the dead.

Dozens of animated corpses shambled towards Straganis. The San-keth cleric backed away, tongue flicking, head waving back and forth.

“Are not the great arts of Sepharivaim enough to stop me?” said Lucan.

“The fool!” snarled Straganis. “I told him this would fail!” His alien eyes met Lucan’s. “We will meet again, Dragon’s Shadow, in the last moment of your life.”

Mist swirled around him, and the San-keth cleric vanished. His last few spirit-creatures turned and fled.

The intact corpses, some two dozen, stopped.

Lucan commanded them to watch over him, and then promptly passed out.

###

The last changeling died screaming, slashing with a short sword. Mazael’s blade swooped past the changeling’s guard and crashed through its neck.

An exhausted silence fell over the village of Tristgard.

Mazael wheeled Chariot around, the rage hammering through his veins. He had not yet had his fill of killing. He wanted to ride through his knights, striking right and left, leaving a fresh layer of blood on his sword.

Then he remembered Romaria lying on the floor, dead.

The rage drained away, leaving only a sick weariness.

And quite a bit of pain. He had torn out all the crossbow quarrels in his frenzy, but the wounds still gaped, along with a half-dozen cuts taken during the battle.

If he were a normal man, he would have died by now.

“Mazael!” Gerald galloped to his side, trailed by Sir Aulus and Adalar and Wesson, “Mazael, gods, you’re hurt…”

“I’m fine,” lied Mazael, trying to keep his voice steady. Wounded or not, he was still lord, and had men to lead. “How many men wounded?”

“Five were killed,” said Gerald. “Perhaps a dozen wounded, I think.”

“Timothy!” Timothy hastened over on wobbling legs, still wiping sweat from his brow. “Check the wounds of the men; make sure none were bitten or poisoned. And I thank you. If not for your timely intervention I might be in a dire state.”

“But… you are in a dire state!” said Timothy. “I saw those crossbow bolts plunge into you. I was sure you were dying, or already dead. By all the gods, I amazed that you can speak, let alone still keep your saddle.”

“The bolt but grazed me,” said Mazael, looking at himself. He did look awful, his clothes soaked with drying blood, his hands bloody and soot-stained. “Much blood, but little hurt.”

Timothy shook his head in befuddlement. “I would have sworn on the names of Amatheon, Amater, and Joraviar that I saw a bolt buried in your gut.” He managed a feeble smile. “It is a miracle, a blessed miracle.”

“No doubt,” said Mazael. Timothy, he suspected, would find the truth unpleasant. Mazael did, after all. “Get going. We have men that need tending.”

Timothy dashed away.

“Sir Aulus.” Mazael looked over the stone houses and the bloodstained street, a grim thought coming to him. “Take some men and search the village. See if you can find what became of the village folk.” Ghastly images of cellars and wells stuffed with corpses played through his head. “I doubt the entire village was peopled with San-keth changelings.”

“Lord.” Aulus turned, bellowing commands in his sonorous voice.

Mazael tried to wipe the sweat from his forehead. His hand came away bloody. “Gerald. Did you see what happened to…” He almost asked what had become of Lucan and caught himself. “Did you see what happened to that devil Straganis? He flung that spell at me, and vanished.”

“I don’t know,” said Gerald. “I couldn’t see clearly. It…something like a black shadow appeared before him. I don’t know what it was…but it hurt to look at it. Straganis yelled something and disappeared.” Gerald shrugged. “Mayhap his own foul magic turned back upon him.”

“Let us hope,” said Mazael. What the devil had happened to Lucan? Had he and Straganis destroyed each other?

“My lord,” said Adalar, edging his horse past Gerald. “You must see to your wounds at once, lest they fester. I was sure you had been killed.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Mazael. Neither Gerald nor Adalar appeared to believe him. Mazael certainly couldn’t tell them the truth. “All right. Just a moment. I’ll…”

“Lord Mazael!” Trocend waved at him. “We have found someone.”

Mazael kicked Chariot to a trot and hastened down the street. Sir Aulus and a half-dozen other knights helped a group of women and children from a house.

“We found them bound and gagged in a cellar,” said Sir Aulus.

“Search the rest of the village,” said Mazael. He glanced at Adalar. “I’ll have Timothy look at my wounds momentarily.”

Adalar scowled, but nodded.

But already the burning pain had begun to lessen, replaced by itching and tingling as his torn flesh knitted itself together of its own accord.

###

The men, it appeared, had been held prisoner in the village’s inn. A brief search discovered the elderly Sir Lindon Tristgard, lord of the village. He did not seem well.

“They came yesterday,” he croaked, leaning on his daughter’s arm. “Out of the hills. They claimed to be fleeing a flood in the high passes. So I gave them sanctuary and refuge…and…” His daughter offered him a cup of wine, which the old man drained. “They were monsters, San-keth devils. I had always thought the San-keth monsters, nightmares, peasants’ prattle. I never thought them real…”

“They came for me,” said Mazael. “I am sorry I brought this misfortune upon you.” He cursed under his breath. How had Straganis followed his movements? Had he used some sort of far-seeing magic?

“You saved us,” said the old knight, clutching at Mazael’s knee. “I heard them speak. Once they killed you…they were going to kill us. Sacrifice us all to their foul snake-god.” He offered a quavering smile. “But you were stronger! You are our deliverer. Please, just ask, and I will give you whatever you desire.”

“A flagon of wine, to begin,” said Mazael, “and a quiet place where I can be undisturbed for a short time.” Adalar gave him an odd look. “I wish to pray to the gods, to offer thanksgiving for our victory, for it was a very close thing.”

“Of course,” said Sir Lindon. “The church.” The church stood on one side of the village’s square, facing the inn. “No one will disturb you there.”

Mazael nodded and slid from Chariot’s saddle. It hurt, but not as much as he expected. One of the villagers pressed a wooden goblet of wine into his aching fingers. He drained it away, walking to the church with as steadily as possible.

“My lord,” said Adalar, trailing after him, “you’re hurt, you need assistance.”

“I’ll be fine,” Mazael snapped, “I told you.” He thought a moment. “Go and see if Lady Rachel needs any assistance.” He thought of going to Rachel himself, and discarded the notion. The sight of his bloody clothing would likely throw her into hysterics. “I need to pray alone. I’ll rejoin you and the others shortly.”

“But…”

“Go!” said Mazael, growling. “I told you, go.”

Adalar bowed and departed.

Mazael opened the church’s heavy door and slid inside, pulling it shut behind him. Beams of dusty light sliced through the church’s windows, illuminating ancient pews and a high altar adorned with the images of Amatheon and the other gods. Mazael stripped off his blood-wet tunic, tossed it aside, and collapsed onto one of the pews. It felt quite uncomfortable, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to lie down for a moment.

His chest, leg, and arm began tingled, the itch digging deep into his skin.

He turned his head and looked at the wound on his shoulder. The torn muscle and shredded flesh began to tie itself together again, the ripped skin closing. The gods only knew what Trocend and Gerald would make of that, if they happened to see it.

His Demonsouled blood continued its work, healing him.

Mazael sighed and lay back. A few more minutes and he could face his men without them noticing anything amiss.

He dozed off.

###

Adalar picked his way through the chaos in the village square, carrying a bundle of clean clothing.

“Go and see to him at once!” Lady Rachel had told him. “I care not what he says, he’s hurt! Give him some clean clothes, and make him have Timothy see to his wounds.”

“But, lady,” Adalar had said, “he doesn’t…”

Lady Rachel gave him a look. Most of the time she seemed mild, even timid. Yet in some matters, her will was just as formidable as her lord brother’s.

So Adalar pushed open the church’s door and slipped inside. The place was quiet, save for the sound of heavy breathing. Adalar did a quick genuflection in the high altar’s direction and walked through the pews, seeking for Lord Mazael.

Adalar found him lying on the pew, sleeping. His tunic was gone. Adalar winced at the sight of the garish wounds on Mazael’s stomach and shoulder. Gods, they looked bad. If Timothy did not see to that gut wound at once …

Still, the wounds looked better than Adalar remembered. Maybe he hadn’t seen right. What kind of man could take three crossbow bolts and live, let alone ride and fight?

And even as Adalar watched, Lord Mazael’s wounds began to vanish.

He blinked, his mind unable to trust his eyes. Bit by bit, the wound on Mazael’s shoulder shrank. The torn hole in his stomach contracted. His ragged, heavy breathing became lighter and easier.

Adalar stood rooted with horror, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. What sort of diabolical power had done this? Had Lord Mazael sold himself to some black force?

Adalar turned and fled from the church.

###

Mazael blinked his eyes open.

He must not have been dozing long; the sunlight streaming through the church’s windows had not changed. He stood, grunting at the stiff ache in his back and shoulders.

But despite that, he felt fine.

His wounds had vanished, leaving unmarked skin in their place. He pulled on his tunic and strode to the church’s door. He hadn’t wanted to rest with it on; otherwise the skin might heal over the cloth, and it would hurt like the devil to pull if off.

The door stood just slightly ajar.

Mazael frowned. He had closed it, or so he had thought. Then again, he had been hurt and dazed at the time. He shrugged and stepped back into the village’s square.

The gods knew he had far bigger problems to deal with, after all.

3

Knightcastle

The next morning they began the final leg of the journey to Knightcastle, leaving the wounded knights to recover in Sir Lindon’s manor house. Old Sir Lindon himself insisted on coming, to praise their valor before Lord Malden. Sturdy Harune Dustfoot and his ox-drawn carts rumbled on behind them.

“You did well, merchant,” Mazael had said. “I would not have expected such valor from you.”

Harune shrugged. “Well, my lord…if they had defeated you, after all, my fate would have been grim indeed.”

“True,” said Mazael, “but valor is valor. Come to Castle Cravenlock someday and I will see that you are properly rewarded.”

Harune bowed. “I look forward to that.”

In fresh tunic, trousers, and cloak, Mazael rode on Mantle. He had seen no sign of Lucan, nor had anyone discovered his body. What had happened to him? Had he and Straganis destroyed each other? Certainly Straganis would have struck again, if he yet lived.

And if Lucan was dead…gods only knew if Lord Richard would be angry or relieved.

###

They crossed the Riversteel, and made their way south.

Traffic thronged the roads. Merchants hauling their carts, pilgrims, landless knights, wandering scholars, and vagrants filled the roads of Knightrealm. Mazael had no qualms about forcing people off the road.

Lordly rank had its privileges, after all.

They passed dozen villages in a day, every inch of land cultivated. Spring had come, and the peasants labored in the fields, preparing for the sowing. Vineyards clung to the rocky slopes, and orchards stood beneath the hill. The lands looked pleasant, peaceful, prosperous.

Mazael wanted the Grim Marches to look that way, one day.

Though he could have done without the Justiciar Knights.

They were everywhere, riding on their horses, scowling at the peasants, their blue cloaks with the silver star flapping. They scowled at the Cravenlock banner, but did not dare make trouble, not with two of Lord Malden’s sons.

Every now and again they passed the remnants of a pyre. A sign proclaimed that here a woman had been burned for witchcraft, or a man for being a warlock, under the authority of the Justiciar Knights. Mazael doubted there were more than a half-dozen wizards in all of Knightrealm, and most of them were in Lord Malden’s court.

Perhaps it was just as well Lucan had disappeared. Some Justiciar Knights might have come to miserable deaths, otherwise.

They did not have any difficulty finding lodgings. The local lords fell over each other offering room and board to two of Lord Malden’s sons. Mazael had not eaten so well since leaving Castle Cravenlock and Bethy’s well-ordered kitchens. The spirits of the others rose. Gerald and Tobias ruminated at vast length about the history and lore of Knightcastle to Rachel.

Even Trocend smiled, every now and again.

Still, Mazael brooded over what had happened to Lucan, and what lay ahead. Even if Straganis had been killed, the San-keth would not give up. Without the help of a powerful wizard, Mazael might not be able to protect Rachel. And he dared not confide the secret of his true nature to either Trocend or Timothy.

Adalar seemed troubled, almost shaken. Mazael supposed the boy had been horrified by Straganis. Gods knew the creature had been horrific enough.

###

“We’re almost there,” said Gerald.

Mazael rode with Trocend, Gerald, Tobias and Rachel. Adalar rode at his side, watching him from the corner of his eye. The boy's vigilance amused Mazael. No doubt Adalar still thought Mazael bore some dire wound.

Their party, now nearly one hundred and sixty strong, traveled along the banks of the Riversteel. The river looked like a ribbon of cold steel, flowing through the green earth. Barges and rafts navigated the river, the boatmen bawling curses. Knightrealm’s low mountains rose sharp and rocky against the sky, while the valley bloomed with new greenery. Villages and vineyards and small castles dotted the banks and the hills.

“You’ve never been to Knightcastle, my lady?” said Trocend, in his dry, lecturing tone.

“No,” said Rachel. “I’ve never even been out of the Grim Marches, ere now.”

Tobias laughed. “And what a trip, eh? Bandits and snake-kissers. Another week of this and she’ll never want to leave the Grim Marches again.”

“Around the next bend in the road,” said Gerald, “and you’ll see Castle Town, and then Knightcastle itself.” He smiled. “It’s…quite a sight.”

They rode around the next hill, and Knightcastle rose before them like a cloud of stone.

The valley stretched away to the south, following the line of the Riversteel until it came to Mastaria, the land of the Dominiar Knights. On the western bank of the Riversteel sat Castle Town, a prosperous city of ten thousand, stone steeples and steep roofs stark against the sky. A maze of tents and wagons surrounded Castle Town, no doubt drawn by the news of the impending wedding. Away to the northeast went the canal to Knightport, a project that had taken generations of Roland lords to build.

Behind Castle Town, on the sheer hills, stood Knightcastle.

“By the gods,” whispered Rachel, her mare slowing to a stop, “it’s so huge.”

“Best hope she says that on your wedding night, eh?” said Tobias. Gerald gave him a look just short of murderous.

Rachel didn’t notice, her eyes fixed on Knightcastle.

The castle was enormous, far bigger than Castle Cravenlock, larger even than Lord Richard’s seat of Swordgrim. It had been started three thousand years ago, when the first Rolands built a refuge in the foothills, fleeing the ruin of Tristafel. Every Roland king and lord since had expanded the castle, raised new towers, reared new walls.

Now Knightcastle was the size of a small city, a fantastic jumble of towers and walls and keeps atop a series of high foothills. It had three concentric curtain walls, each higher than the other, encircling rings of towers and bastions. Dozens of banners flew in the breeze coming down from the mountains, one each from the lords under Lord Malden’s rule. A Roland banner the size of a small house flew from the Old Keep, the highest tower in the castle, the keep the first King Roland had built, long ago.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Rachel. Tobias snickered.

“Let’s not stand about staring,” said Mazael. “Lord Malden is waiting, no doubt.”

The horsemen spurred forward, starting towards the great pile of Knightcastle. Mazael turned and rode back down the line, until he came to Harune Dustfoot.

“We part ways here, master merchant,” said Mazael. “You’re for Castle Town, no doubt.”

A wide grin spread across Harune’s face. He still looked dusty. “That I am, Lord Mazael. Maybe we’ll meet again at Lady Rachel’s wedding, I think?”

“Maybe,” said Mazael. “Bring some of those cheeses.”

Harune laughed, bowed from his seat, and steered his wagons towards Castle Town.

Mazael trotted back to Gerald and Tobias, and they rode up the hills towards Knightcastle’s mighty barbican. Gerald and Tobias vied with each other telling tales to Rachel, how the first King Roland had turned back a Malrag horde on this road, how the fifth King Roland had defeated his brothers here to claim the throne of Knightcastle, how Knightcastle had been besieged many times, once for nine years, yet had never fallen to an enemy.

They rode through an arched gate large enough to swallow a house, and reined up in a barbican larger than the market squares in many cities. Armsmen in the colors of the Rolands bowed and stepped aside. From the far gate came a dozen armsmen, escorting a red-faced man in noble finery.

“Welcome, my lords,” said the man in finery, “to Knightcastle.”

He was in his mid-forties, and looked a lot like both Gerald and Tobias, but was short and plump where Gerald was tall and lean. He smiled and bowed from the waist.

Mazael slid from the saddle, boots thumping against the stone paving, and bowed back. “Sir Garain.”

“Sir Mazael,” said Sir Garain, Lord Malden’s oldest son, the heir to Knightcastle. He smiled again. “Lord Mazael, rather. You went out a knight of my father’s household, and came back a lord.”

“It wasn’t my choice,” said Mazael.

“I suspected not,” said Sir Garain. “You, your highest ambition was always to drink and whore, as I recall.”

“Things change,” said Mazael.

“Yes…they rather do, don’t they?” said Garain, titling his head. Mazael met his pale blue eyes without flinching. “You’ve…been through a lot, haven’t you, since you left? And most of it not good.”

“I have,” said Mazael.

Tobias might be the strongest of Lord Malden’s surviving sons, and Gerald the most pious.

But Garain was the smartest by far.

“We can speak at length later,” said Garain. “Father is waiting for you.”

“Eagerly, I hope,” said Mazael.

Garain sighed. “Not really. He’s…ah, in one of his moods.”

Mazael shook his head. “You mean he’s enraged and wants to kill someone.”

“Father does have his moods,” said Garain.

Mazael opened his mouth to answer, then Gerald and Tobias barreled past.

“Garain!” bellowed Tobias, catching up the smaller man in a bear hug. Garain coughed and pounded his brother on the back.

“Ah, Brother Trocend!” said Garain. Trocend slid from the saddle with age-stiffened joints. “Good to see you again. I’m glad you got Lord Mazael and kin here safely.”

“It was not easy,” said Trocend, moving with stiff steps. “Not at all.”

“We’ve much to discuss,” said Garain. His tone became formal. “Lord Mazael! My lord father awaits you in the Hall of Triumphs, and bids you, your lady sister, and Sir Gerald to make your way there with all haste.”

“We will,” said Mazael. Garain moved off with Trocend, both men speaking in low tones. Mazael wished he could overhear them. Trocend was Lord Malden’s seneschal, and secret court wizard, and Garain was his chancellor. Both men knew more of Lord Malden’s mind than anyone else.

And conducted most of Knightrealm’s governance. Lord Malden was getting old, after all.

Rachel squinted up at the Old Keep, the banner of the Rolands flapping seven hundred feet over their heads. “Is it a long walk to the Hall of Triumphs?”

“Walk?” said Mazael, swinging back up into Mantle’s saddle.

“But won’t we take our horses to the stable?” said Rachel.

“My lady.” Gerald took her hand and kissed it. “Let me show you Knightcastle.”

Mazael grinned, and they galloped through the lowest courtyard and up the ramp to the second curtain wall. They rode past the Garden of Lady Gwendolyn, where Gwendolyn Roland had wed Lord Randerly, adding Knightport to the Rolands’ holdings. Then they rode through the Court of Victors, a vast square filled with hundreds of statues, each of a long-dead Roland. Here, Gerald explained, stood statues of the Rolands that had conquered, yet fallen in battle.

Stone images of two of Lord Malden’s sons stood there. Sir Mandor, who had died at the Battle of Deep Creek, slain by the Dominiars. Mazael had taken command of his army and taken Tumblestone. Next to Mandor’s statue stood the statue of Sir Belifane, who had died sixteen years ago fighting against Lord Richard.

Lord Malden had not forgiven that when Mazael had left. Mazael doubted the last year had changed his mind.

They climbed to the last barbican and curtain wall, and reined up the High Court. The Old Keep, grim and ancient and scarred, stood over them. On the opposite side stood a hall the size of a small cathedral, towering over the Court. Guards in gleaming mail and Roland tabards stood at the center of the court, around a bronze statue of the first King Roland on horseback.

Mazael took a deep breath. He had come to Knightcastle.

Now he just had to keep Lord Malden from killing him.

Chapter 4

1

Lord Malden

An army of squires arrived to take their horses. Knights and lords vied with each other for the honor of sending their sons to Lord Malden’s court, and Lord Malden had more squires than most lords had knights. Mazael slid from the saddle and handed Mantle to one of the fresh-faced squires, and warned another about Chariot’s foul temper.

“Keep an eye on them, Adalar,” said Mazael. “Keep Chariot from biting.”

Adalar gave him a distracted nod.

Four men walked from the Hall of Triumph, wearing mail and the Roland colors. The lead man carried a herald’s staff and wore a velvet cap with an ornate silver badge. The herald stopped, thumped his staff against the stones, and bowed.

“Lord Mazael. Lord Malden bids you to come before his seat at once, with the Lady Rachel and Sir Gerald. Lodgings have been prepared for your knights and followers.”

“Timothy,” said Mazael, “Sir Aulus. See to things.”

The wizard and the knight went about their tasks. A few Justiciar knights, standing near the wall, cast cold looks at Timothy, but even the Justiciars would not kill a man in Lord Malden’s own castle. Or so Mazael hoped.

“Come,” said the herald, beckoning.

Mazael looked at Rachel. She gave him a feeble smiled and hooked her arm through Gerald’s.

“I’m sure Lord Malden is most eager to see me,” said Mazael.

The herald’s expression twitched.

They walked in silence across the High Court’s stone expanse. The guardsmen threw open the massive double doors, and Mazael, his sister, and his closest friend strode into the Hall of Triumphs.

Slender pillars supported a vaulted roof and a triforium balcony that encircled the hall. The pale marble floor gleamed, so polished that Mazael saw his reflection shimmering beneath him. Sunlight streamed through massive crystal windows behind the dais, revealing a magnificent view of Castle Town and the Riversteel valley. From the ceiling hung dozens of faded banners, dented shields, and ancient weapons. The Lords of Knightcastle had long hung the banners of their vanquished foes in the Hall of Triumphs, trophies to proclaim their might and intimidate their enemies.

An ancient Mandragon banner, no doubt from old King Lancefar's march, hung near the dais.

Hundreds of lords and knights and ladies stood in the hall. The murmur of conversation fell silent as Mazael approached. The lords and knights wore berets adorned with bronze and silver badges, long cloaks, and silk doublets. The ladies wore brocade gowns and hats with proud feathers. Mazael’s travel-dusty clothes looked crude by comparison. He didn’t much care.

It didn’t surprise him to see a large group of Justiciar Knights near Lord Malden’s dais, resplendent in their silvered armor and blue cloaks. He was surprised to see a group of black-armored Dominiar Knights not far from the dais. Some of the knights glared at the Justiciars, who glared right back. A few dared to glare at Lord Malden.

And with the Dominiar Knights stood a solid, stocky man, Sir Commander Aeternis, who had surrendered Lion to Mazael after the Battle of Tumblestone. Sir Commander Aeternis gave Mazael a solemn nod, which Mazael returned. Behind Aeternis stood a pale young Dominiar officer in ornate black armor, glaring at Mazael with black eyes. At his side stood a tall woman all in mourning black, her hair the color of blood, a dark veil drawn over her features.

Something about the veiled woman, whether the way the gown covered her hips and bodice, or the sheen of her hair, or the glint of gray eyes beneath the veil, made Mazael’s blood stir in a way it had not for a long time. He wrenched his eyes away from the dark woman, promising himself that he would learn more of her later.

Assuming he survived the next few minutes, of course.

The herald moved with a slow, deliberate pace, rapping his staff against the floor with each step. Mazael sighed in annoyance and shoved past the herald, ignoring the gasps. Lord Malden’s obsession with ceremony and courtly codes of behavior had always irritated Mazael.

If Lord Malden was going to kill him, best to get it over with right away.

Mazael strode up the long aisle between the crowds of lordly folk, ignoring their hostile stares. He stopped at the foot of the dais and bowed from the waist. “My lord Malden.”

Lord Malden Roland, Lord of Knightcastle, liege lord of Knightrealm, scoffed.

He was a lean, thin-faced man of sixty, iron-gray hair just visible beneath his ornate beret with its golden badge. His fine tunic and boots and cloak must have cost a fortune, and his rings and brooch glistened with gemstones. At his side stood a small army of pages, ready to attend to his every whim.

“My lord?” said Lord Malden, voice mocking. “My lord? Yes, Lord Mazael, I was your lord. Did I not take you in when you were landless and friendless? Did I not offer you the comfort of my home and the shield of my protection? Was I not generous to you? And all I asked in return was loyalty.” His eyes, bloodshot and blue, narrowed. “And you have cast that away in contempt.”

“I have done nothing of the sort,” said Mazael.

A surprised rustle went through the court. No one contradicted Lord Malden.

“You have sworn to become the vassal of my worst enemy,” said Lord Malden, “a vile usurper, a man who murdered my own beloved son. And then you have the gall, the insouciance, to suggest that your sister marry my youngest son! You have trampled upon my generosity and shown contempt for my good lordship.”

“I have not,” said Mazael.

Lord Malden’s lip curled.

“My brother died without issue, and I became the new Lord of Castle Cravenlock,” said Mazael. “Where is the disloyalty in that? If I had been sitting in comfort at your table when Mitor died, I would have still become the new Lord of Castle Cravenlock. Would you accuse me of disloyalty then, my lord?”

Lord Malden leaned forward, eyes flashing. “I accuse you for disloyalty because you have sworn an oath to Richard Mandragon! Such folly is beyond my understanding! That man deposed your father Lord Adalon, made him die a broken man! That accursed Richard Mandragon killed my son.”

“He did not,” said Mazael.

A muscle in Lord Malden’s face twitched. “Do you call me a liar?”

“The archers shot Belifane on the battlefield,” said Mazael, “when he was foolish enough to charge Lord Richard’s line. Will you find each and every one of those archers and put them to death?”

“The common folk are but tools of their lord’s will,” said Lord Malden, “and their lord was Richard Mandragon, may the gods blast his name.” He leaned back into his throne, glaring. “So Lord Mitor died, as you said, and then you became Lord of Castle Cravenlock. Do you know what you should have done?”

“Enlighten me, my lord,” said Mazael. Gerald and Rachel stepped to his side, gazing at him in alarm.

“You should have called for me at once,” said Lord Malden. “Together, we could have defeated Richard Mandragon, and annihilated the Mandragons forever. You could have been liege lord of the Grim Marches, as your father was before you. Instead,” he waved a hand in disgust, “instead you are nothing more than Richard’s lackey.”

“No,” said Mazael. “A war between you and Lord Richard would have led to nothing but ruination. Both your lands ravaged, your common folk slaughtered. You’ve already lost two sons to war. Will you lose the other three for Lord Richard’s two? You and Lord Richard could both rule over the dead, if you wish.”

“Bah!” said Lord Malden. “You concern yourself with Richard Mandragon’s spawn? From what I have heard, the older is a murderous madman, and the younger is a black wizard in thrall to dark powers. The earth would be well rid of them.”

Lord Malden’s description was not far from the mark, but Mazael said, “Blood for blood only leads to more blood.” He had a brief vision of the Old Demon standing on the chapel’s altar and laughing. “Only ruin.”

A rustle of amusement went through the hall.

“Mazael,” said Lord Malden. “Come to your senses. I offer you the liege lordship of the Grim Marches. You have only to follow me against a man who ruined your father, a man whose sons will probably plunge the Grim Marches into a bloody civil war one day.” He held out his hand. “You were one of my most trusted knights, once. You could have been the Lord Marshal of Knightrealm. Come. Will you not help me?”

“No,” said Mazael. “I will not go to war with you against Lord Richard, nor will I go to war with Lord Richard against you.”

A vein throbbed in Lord Malden’s temple, his breath hissing through his nostrils.

“Lord Mazael and I will walk alone for a moment,” said Lord Malden, standing.

The pages surged forward. One replaced Lord Malden’s blue cloak with a green walking-cape. Another set a new beret on his head. Still a third pressed a silver-headed walking-stick into his hand.

“Come,” said Lord Malden, glaring at Mazael.

He strode from the dais, not bothering to look back. Mazael followed him. After a moment the pages trailed afterwards, along with the rest of the court.

Mazael sighed. This was not going well.

###

A short walk took them from the Hall of Triumphs, across the High Court, and to the Arcade of Sorrows. Its marble columns ran along the top of the innermost wall in lieu of battlements and turrets, since enemies had little chance of ever reaching it. The name came from yet another obscure detail of Knightcastle’s history. Four hundred years past the Lady Audea had thrown herself from the wall after hearing a false report that her lover had fallen in battle. He returned, however, found that Audea had killed herself, and flung himself from the Arcade of Sorrows after her. Mazael had always found the story foolish.

But after losing Romaria, he understood it a little better.

Lord Malden strolled along, walking stick tapping against the flagstones. Through the Arcade’s arches Mazael had a grand view of the valley, the midday sun glinting off the Riversteel like firelight on a sword blade.

Behind them, it seemed the entire court of Knightcastle stood in the High Court, watching them.

“We’re walking alone?” said Mazael.

“After a fashion,” said Lord Malden, his voice still angry. “It is a ritual, of sorts. I am Lord of Knightcastle, and they must wait on my will,” he waved his hand at the courtiers, “rather than the other way around. A lesson you would do well to learn. So. We are alone…”

“After a fashion.”

Lord Malden inclined his head. “Then let us speak candidly. I want your aid, Lord Mazael. I want vengeance on Lord Richard, and you will help me take it.”

“No,” said Mazael.

The vein in Lord Malden’s temple throbbed. “Were you not listening? Did I not tell you that it was better to wait upon my will, rather than to force yours upon me? Richard Mandragon deposed my loyal friend Lord Adalon. He murdered my son…”

“I told you,” said Mazael, “Belifane fell in battle. If you hadn’t sent him to the Grim Marches, he wouldn’t have died. If you wish to blame anyone, perhaps you should start with yourself.”

Lord Malden’s breath hissed like a drawn sword. “You overstep grievously.”

“And so do you,” said Mazael, refusing to back down, “by asking me to subject my lands and my people to slaughter, famine, pestilence, and all the other horrors of war, simply so that you can slake your gods-damned pride.”

Lord Malden thumped his stick against the ground so hard it almost cracked. “Pride? Is it pride to avenge my son’s death?”

“You’ve lusted for revenge since I’ve known you,” said Mazael, “and that’s been ten years. What about Sir Mandor? He fell in Mastaria at the hands of the Dominiars, and you’re not screaming for their heads.”

“Because the Dominiars already paid,” said Lord Malden. “You took Tumblestone from them.” His eyes glinted. “You helped me with my revenge against the Dominiars. Why do you blanch now?”

“Because,” said Mazael, memories of the grim Mastarian campaign shuffling across his mind. Mandor had been killed by his own incompetence, and his blundering had nearly destroyed his army. Since Gerald had been barely eighteen, it had been up to Mazael to take command. “Because we had no other choice. If we hadn’t taken Tumblestone, we would have died in Mastaria, and Malleus would have defeated you and your army. You could lie dead now, or live out your days as a hostage in Castle Dominus.” Some long-forgotten anger flared to life. “And you sent us on that fool’s quest because of a slight the Dominiars gave to your damned precious Justiciars.”

“The Justiciars are my true friends,” said Lord Malden, “unlike some.” He fixed Mazael with a baleful glare. “Any slight against them is a slight against me. And let us speak of slights against the Justiciars, Lord Mazael, shall we? Richard Mandragon expelled them from the Grim Marches, stealing their lands and usurping their castles.”

“He had cause,” said Mazael. “They did vow to kill him.”

“They vowed to kill a lawless, faithless, murderous usurper,” said Lord Malden. “A faithless usurper you saw fit to make your proper liege lord.” His voice grated with anger. “Was not my generosity enough for you? You were the best of my knights. You would have received land in my service, eventually, perhaps even marriage to one of my bastard daughters.”

“Mitor died,” said Mazael. “I didn’t have any other choice.”

Lord Malden scoffed. “You killed him and took his lands, you mean.”

“I did not kill Mitor!” said Mazael, the edges of his temper giving way. “The San-keth cleric murdered him, stabbed him in the back.”

“A San-keth, of course!” said Lord Malden. “A convenient excuse. Yes, I’m sure your brother was murdered by a child’s tale.”

“The San-keth are real enough,” said Mazael. “Ask Gerald. He saw Skhath with his own eyes. Ask Tobias. Ask Trocend. Even ask old Sir Lindon Tristgard. They all saw the San-keth cleric at Tristgard.”

“I’m sure,” said Lord Malden, sneering. “Snake-men skulking about my lands? Perhaps you had Lucan Mandragon conjure up some illusions. No, Lord Mazael, I think you are a black-hearted villain.” Mazael’s temper frayed a bit more. “You murdered your brother and betrayed me by swearing to Richard Mandragon. Now you throw honeyed words of peace in my face, while plotting with the usurper to kill me and seize my lands. And then, no doubt, once you have no further need of him, you’ll kill Richard Mandragon and make yourself lord over the Grim Marches as well. High King Mazael Cravenlock? That is your real goal, I deem…”

“You old fool!” snarled Mazael, his anger exploding all at once. A shocked gasp escaped from the trailing courtiers, and Lord Malden’s face went rigid. “Fine! Take your lands to war! You’ve lost two sons already. Why not lose the other three? Sir Mandor was a fool, and his death was mostly his fault, but you sent him into Mastaria to die. And Sir Belifane’s death was your own damned fault! Yours, lord, and no one else’s! And what will you do when all your sons are dead, no one left to carry on your name, your lands ravaged, your people put to the sword? You’ll sit in this pile of a castle until you die, brooding over the ruin of your realm, and you will have no one to blame but yourself.”

The two men glared at each other for a long moment. Mazael knew he had pushed Lord Malden too hard, too far, but was too angry to care. His hand twitched towards Lion’s hilt, wondering if Lord Malden would order him cut down then and there…

Lord Malden began to shudder, his breath rasping. Mazael took an alarmed step towards him, wondering if the old lord’s heart had burst from rage.

Then Lord Malden threw back his head and roared with laughter.

Mazael blinked.

“By the gods,” wheezed Lord Malden, between burst of laughter, “by the gods. How I’ve missed that rough speech of yours!”

“Lord?” said Mazael, puzzled.

Still chuckling, Lord Malden waved his hand at the hovering courtiers. “You were the only one who ever had the courage to tell me the truth. The only one! Not a one of those fawning leeches ever has the nerve to disagree with me, even to speak a cross word to my face. Bah!” He thumped his stick against the ground. “I could tell them that flying pigs soar across the full moon, and they’d stand there and nod, and even suggest that winged pork would make a splendid meal.”

“But,” said Mazael, trying to find his tongue, “but surely Sir Garain and Trocend tell you the truth?”

“Certainly,” said Lord Malden. “They’d regret it sorely if they did not. But it’s always cloaked in so many fair words, ‘if you please, my lord’, and ‘by your leave, noble lord’. And they’d never dare argue with me. But you!” Lord Malden grinned. “you actually have the courage to disagree with me!” He sighed. “I haven’t had a proper argument in months. Maybe even since you left for the Grim Marches. My mistresses try, of course, when I command them, but they can never really work up the proper nerve.”

“I…am pleased to be of service, my lord,” said Mazael.

“You’re not,” said Lord Malden, smiling. “And you’re still wrong, by the way. Richard Mandragon is a murderer and a usurper, and I will see justice done upon him on day.”

“You’ve mentioned that,” said Mazael.

“But,” said Lord Malden, “I can see how, in light of certain ill-starred events, becoming the Lord of Castle Cravenlock and swearing to Mandragon might have been, under the circumstances, an…acceptable course of action.”

“How terribly gracious of you,” said Mazael.

“I know,” said Lord Malden with a smug little smile. He raised his voice. “My throat grows parched from all this shouting. Wine!”

Three pages raced forward, bearing a pewter tray with a pair of silver goblets and a pitcher of wine. Lord Malden held out his hand and a page pressed a goblet into his hand. Mazael took the other from the tray.

“Let us resume our walk,” said Lord Malden. He took a drink, held out the goblet, and the page carried it for him. “I agree with you on one point. Now is not the time for Knightcastle to wage war against Swordgrim. Lord Richard, damn his name, can match my strength. A war between us would bleed us both dry, leave us vulnerable to the other great lords.”

“I’m pleased you see reason,” said Mazael. Lord Malden snickered.

The Arcade of Sorrows ended in a large parapet jutting from the corner of Knightcastle’s highest wall. A small garden filled most of the parapet. The grass had begun to green, buds showing on the branches of two small trees. Audea’s garden, this place was called, where Lady Audea had awaited word of her lover’s fate.

Lord Malden moved to one of the marble benches. The pages hastened forward, two lifting the skirts of his cloak while another held his walking stick. Mazael sat on the bench opposite him.

“And as it happens,” said Lord Malden, “the strength of Knightcastle must be preserved for a closer, a more…pressing threat.”

“The Dominiar Knights,” said Mazael.

Lord Malden nodded. “Trocend made my wishes clear, I see.”

“The Dominiar Knights were broken after Tumblestone,” said Mazael. “I can’t believe that Grand Master Malleus would be fool enough to attack Knightrealm.”

“Tumblestone was five years ago,” said Lord Malden. “Malleus has hardly been idle. He has new commanders, young men vigorous and hungry for glory. They have done a fair job of rebuilding the Dominiar Order's strength.” Lord Malden favored him with a mirthless smile. “And now they want the city of Tumblestone back. Peacefully, if possible, but by force, if necessary.”

“The Dominiar Knights in your court,” said Mazael, “that’s why they’re here, aren’t they? A deputation from Malleus, demanding Tumblestone back.”

Lord Malden lifted iron eyebrows. “Oh, they’re hardly demanding. They are far too courteous for that. They make lofty statements about the brotherhood of all men, and the ancient claims of the Dominiar Order on Tumblestone. The demands will come soon. And then come the swords.”

“War may not be necessary,” said Mazael.

“It is.” Lord Malden’s voice was hard. “Tumblestone is mine. My son Mandor died to take it. It has been purchased by Roland blood, and I will not give it up. Now, Lord Mazael, let us come to the point of all this argument, delightful though it has been. You want your lady sister to marry Gerald to tie yourself to me, as you are tied to Lord Richard. With you between us, I cannot strike at Lord Richard, nor he at me.”

Mazael gave a slow nod.

“I am prepared to grant you that,” said Lord Malden. “Rachel may marry Gerald, and I will not make war against Lord Richard. But in return, my lord Mazael, in return, you will help me against the Dominiars.”

Mazael took a swallow of the wine. It tasted very fine. “And if I do not?”

“Why, Mazael,” said Lord Malden, smiling like an old fox. “You are in my castle, surrounded by hundreds of my knights. Not that I would dream of threatening you, of course.” He took a sip of wine, sloshed it around his mouth, swallowed. “But, still. Your poor sister would remain unwed, possibly even for the rest of her days. And, well…there would be nothing to stop me from waging war against the Mandragons. Nothing at all.”

Mazael stared hard at the old lord, his mind a thousand miles away. If he refused, Lord Malden would bring fire and sword to the Grim Marches. Yet if he agreed, if he wound up fighting with Lord Malden against the Dominiars…what would happen then? Wars always had dire consequences no one foresaw. How would the Old Demon manipulate such a war? Or the San-keth, for that matter? Even if Lucan had killed Straganis, Mazael doubted that the misshapen creature was the only San-keth archpriest.

Still, Mazael had no other choice. If he refused Lord Malden, war would come to the Grim Marches. But if he offered his help, he might yet have a chance to keep the peace.

“If it comes to war with the Dominiars,” said Mazael, “then I will help you.”

“Good!” said Lord Malden. “Very good. I knew you would see some degree of reason, if not as much as I might hope.” He rose, brushing some dust from the hem of his cape. “Now let us speak of happier matters. My son is getting wed, after all.”

Mazael stood. He drained the rest of his wine. “And my sister.”

“Tonight, we shall have a great feast,” said Lord Malden, “to celebrate the union of our two families.” He walked to the edge of the parapet, beckoning Mazael to follow. “And a grand tournament in a week’s time, I think.” He waved his hand at the ring of tents encircling Castle Town. “A prize of ten thousand crowns for the victor at the knights’ tourney. Five thousand for the swordsmen’s tourney, and another five thousand for the victor of the squires’ melee.”

Mazael squinted at the tents. He saw the banners of many lesser noble houses, as well as the ragged leather tents of landless knights and even mercenaries. “You’ve had this planned well in advance, haven’t you?” He looked at the older man. “Did you know I would say yes?”

Lord Malden gave him a sly grin. “And in…a month’s time, yes. In a month’s time we shall have the ceremony in the Hall of Triumphs, conducted by the Archbishop of Knightrealm himself. We can’t have the ceremony at Castle Cravenlock, after all.”

There was no archbishop, or even any bishops, in the Grim Marches. Lord Richard was a man to brook any challenges to his authority.

“A month?” said Mazael. “Why not now?”

“Why, we must give the guests time to arrive,” said Lord Malden. “Brother Trocend will send messages at once with his, ah, special contacts. But if we want sufficient guests for this joyous occasion, we must give them time.”

“As you wish,” said Mazael. He wondered if Lord Malden meant to war against the Dominiars immediately after the wedding.

“And now,” said Lord Malden, striding back onto the Arcade of Sorrows, “let us meet my son’s bride, she who is to be my daughter.”

They walked back into the High Court. Gerald and Rachel stood by the great bronze statue of old King Roland, speaking to Tobias and Garain. They fell silent as Lord Malden and Mazael approached.

Gerald bowed from the waist. “My lord father. I am glad to be at home once more.”

“And I am glad that you have returned, my son,” said Lord Malden, his eyes on Rachel. “So this is the lady who thinks herself worthy to marry a scion of the great King Roland?”

“My lord,” said Rachel, dipping into a deep curtsy, the hem of her riding gown sweeping the floor, “it is a great honor to be here.”

“Do you think so?” said Lord Malden, tapping his stick against the stones. “I have heard some most dire stories about you, my lady Rachel. Rumors that would positively chill your blood.”

“Lord Mazael saved me from all of that,” said Rachel. “And it is an honor to be here, truly. I have heard so much of Knightcastle all my life, in songs, in tales…and now that I have seen it, I think it grander than any song. I have never been away from the Grim Marches before. If… nothing else, my lord, if you send us away, I will still be glad I had the chance to see Knightcastle.”

“Well,” said Lord Malden, his haughty face softening. “Well spoken indeed, my daughter.”

Mazael stifled a laugh. Rachel had said exactly the right thing. Lord Malden was proud, arrogant, and often hard and ruthless.

Yet he loved his home, and his sons.

Rachel did another curtsy again, flushing. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Come,” said Lord Malden, taking her arm. “If you are to wed into the house of the Rolands, then it is only fitting that you know the history of our home. Let us take a walk together, shall we?”

“I would be honored, my lord,” said Rachel. They walked off together, Gerald and most of the court trailing behind.

Mazael shook his head and went to find Timothy and Sir Aulus.

###

Bit by bit, Lucan’s mind crawled towards awareness.

He dreamed of killing his father and brother, and striding over their bodies to seize the lordship of the Grim Marches, setting a crown of dragon teeth on his head, proclaiming himself king of the restored kingdom of Dracaryl…

Lucan awoke, coughing and laughing.

Marstan’s memories were always strongest when he lay sleeping.

Lucan lay on damp ground, a foul stench filling his nostrils. He groaned and sat up, working moisture into his dry mouth.

Two dozen rotting corpses stood in a ring around him. A dark, misty forest rose around them, pale shafts of light shining through the mist. The memory of Straganis, Tristgard, and the changelings came back to Lucan in a rush.

“Damnation” murmured Lucan. It seemed he had won the duel. He groaned and stood up.

But he had no idea how to return to the material world.

He looked around, rubbing his cold hands. For the matter, he had no idea how Straganis had brought him here in the first place. Lucan hadn’t though it possible for a material body to physically enter the spiritual plane. Clearly, it was possible to pull a material object to the spiritual realm from within – the presence of the changelings’ corpses proved that – but Lucan didn’t know how to reverse the process.

He looked at the animated corpses. They stared back at him with rotting eyes. “Guard me.”

The corpses shuffled around him as he moved.

Lucan stared at the flickering, shadowy images of Tristgard and its wall, and glimpsed the villagers going about their business. It seemed Mazael had won the day, despite his wounds. Lucan wasn’t terribly surprised, and pushed the matter from his mind. More immediate problems demanded his attention.

He watched flickers of light drifting through the forest, red and green and white. He glimpsed the outlines of men and women and children, some smiling and joyful, others writhing with torment. The souls of the dead passed through this place before moving to their final destination, whether heaven or hell or rebirth. And, of course, the spiritual realm was home to many immortal creatures, some benign, some dangerous, and some downright malevolent.

He considered that for a moment, then began muttering a summoning spell. While such a spell usually pulled a spiritual creature to the material world, it ought to work here. Lucan spoke the name of a spiritual creature, one he had learned from Marstan, and finished the spell. He waited.

Then something stirred in the forest. A short, wizened figure strode out, a shriveled dwarf-shape with an enormous gray beard. It stopped a short distance away, staring at Lucan.

“So,” said Lucan, “you have come?”

“Come at thy call, have I” said the creature in a rasping voice, “and a service to thee I will perform, should the price offered be…”

“Spare me,” said Lucan. “I know the doggerel.”

The dwarf-creature shimmered and disappeared. In its place stood a tow-headed boy of about nine, clad in ragged garments, identical to any orphaned urchin in the great cities.

“But, squire!” said the boy, “I right enjoy the speech, so I do!”

“I’m sure,” said Lucan, “but my patience is short. Who are you?”

The boy shimmered and vanished. In his place stood a girl of about seven years, clad in noble garments, and clutching a ridiculous parasol. “Sir!” she said, blue eyes wide, doing a fumbling little curtsy, “but, sir, you called me, unless I am ever so mistaken.”

“Your name,” repeated Lucan. Best to establish some sort of authority right away.

The creature changed shape again, taking the form of the boy-thief. “Mocker-Of-Hope they call me around here, squire, so they do.” He winked at Lucan. “It’s cuz I mock their hope, I do, before I eat their souls.”

“How fascinating,” said Lucan. “I require a service…”

“Nope,” said the boy.

Lucan raised an eyebrow. “You refuse me?”

“You look like a bright gent, squire,” said Mocker-Of-Hope. “Thought you’d know how this would work. You see, if you call me to the mortal world, why, I have to perform a service for you. But, here…you’re in my haunt, squire.” The boy’s eyes flickered. Something entirely inhuman twitched across his face. “I’d really like to eat your soul.”

Lucan lifted his hand. “You could try.”

Mocker-Of-Hope again took the girl’s form. “But, sir! You wouldn’t strike a helpless girl, would you? One who had never done anything in the world to you?”

“So we bargain, then,” said Lucan.

Mocker-Of-Hope again became the boy-thief. “Now you’ve got it, squire.” He cleaned his fingernails on his tunic. “I provide all sorts of useful services for the gent in need of…discretion, eh?”

“You will conduct me to a place called Knightcastle, in the mortal realm,” said Lucan.

“I will, will I?” said Mocker-Of-Hope. “Why, that’s news to me, so it is! Course, I have to be compensated for my efforts.”

“Price?” said Lucan.

“Your soul.”

Lucan rolled his eyes. “Please.”

“Fine, fine,” said Mocker-Of-Hope, “I admit maybe that was a little…eh, extravagant? A part of your soul, then. Maybe a third?” He snickered. “Why, your soul’s so black, I’d be doing you a favor, taking a part of it off your hands.”

“How terribly generous,” said Lucan, his eyes wandering over the mist-choked woods. One of the reddish flickers caught his gaze. “Perhaps an entire damned soul, then? Would that prove sufficient payment?”

Mocker-Of-Hope again took the little girl’s shape. “But, sir, that’s ever so rude. Unless I am terribly mistaken, you refused to part with your soul.” She giggled. “Even though it could use a good cleaning.”

Lucan pulled a ring from inside his tunic, a golden circle set with a single clear gem, the band marked with a dozen arcane glyphs. He slipped it on his finger, focused on one of the flickering red outlines, and began an incantation. Mocker-Of-Hope watched him, head titled to one side, golden curls sliding. Lucan’s necromancy could not touch the souls on their way to paradise, no spells could, and he could not claim one of the souls on their way to rebirth without consent.

But the damned souls…

Lucan finished the spell, gathered his will, and made a clawing motion. One of the reddish outlines flickered, shuddering. Lucan heard a keening scream in the depths of his mind. He closed his fist, and the outline vanished.

The stone on the ring flared with red light, pulsing with the rage and terror of the trapped soul.

“Perhaps,” said Lucan, sliding the ring off his finger and laying it on his palm, “this might prove a worthy price?”

An ugly lust came over the girl’s face. The edges of her form blurred and shimmered. She reached for the ring with her mouth. Lucan pulled back his hand, and the girl’s teeth, suddenly sharp, closed on air.

“Give that to me,” said Mocker-Of-Hope, the human veneer of its voice thinning. “Give that to me now.”

“Why?” said Lucan. “Will you guide me to Knightcastle?”

“I will, I will,” said Mocker-Of-Hope. “Now give it to me!”

“Swear it,” said Lucan. The spirit-creature’s eyes remained fixated on the ring.  “Swear by your name that you will guide me, safe from all forms of harm, to Knightcastle.”

“I do,” said Mocker-Of-Hope, lips peeling back from jagged teeth.

The creature’s slow transformation was unnerving, yet Lucan held his ground. “Swear, I said!”

“Fine!” spat Mocker-Of-Hope. “I, Mocker-Of-Hope, swear by my name that I will take you to Knightcastle without harm. Now give me that!”

“As you wish,” said Lucan, flipping the ring away.

Mocker-Of-Hope caught it in midair, a terrible expression of glee on a face no longer human. For an instant Lucan glimpsed a creature of nightmare, a thing hideous and near-blasphemous. Then it vanished, and the street urchin returned, an expression of deep satisfaction on his face.

The ring rolled across the ground, its gem clear once more. Lucan scooped it up and tucked it away.

“Right tasty, that was,” said the boy, belching. “Right tasty.”

“I share your joy,” said Lucan. “Now. No further dithering. To Knightcastle.”

Mocker-Of-Hope became the noble girl. “So impatient, sir, so terribly impatient. Why, impatience is so dreadfully rude.” She gazed off into the distance, brow furrowing with intense concentration.

The mists stirred, writhing in sudden agitation. All at once they parted into two walls, towering up into oblivion, a narrow lane between them.

Mocker-Of-Hope shimmered, the girl disappearing. In her place appeared a large raven. The bird flapped its wings, and settled on Lucan’s right shoulder, claws digging into his cloak.

“Forward,” croaked the bird, jutting its beak into the lane. “To Knightcastle.”

“Very good,” said Lucan, striding into the misty lane. “You realize, of course, that if you lead me astray, you will dearly regret it?”

Mocker-Of-Hope cawed with rusty laughter.

Lucan kept walking.

2

Fires in the Blood

Lord Malden held the grand feast in the Court of Challengers.

The Court sat on Knightcastle’s second tier, ringed on one side by Oliver’s Keep, on the other by Marelle’s Chapel. Here, legend held, the Roland kings of old had sat one day a year, and anyone of noble birth could challenge them to single combat.

Now the porters raised long tables and rows of benches. Torches and bonfires blazed, throwing back the dusk. Armies of servants hastened from the kitchens, bearing platters of food and casks of wine. The Court already held Lord Malden’s armsmen and household knights as they drank and laughed. From Castle Town below came the distant echoes of revelry as the townsfolk feasted on Lord Malden’s largesse.

The lords would later in stately procession, each escorting a noble lady.

This meant Mazael had to wait to eat, which annoyed him to no end. His courtly clothes further aggravated his mood. His fine linen tunic itched damnably, his gleaming boots gripped his feet uncomfortably, and his great black cloak, adorned with the three crossed swords of the Cravenlocks, was too warm.

The lords and ladies milled behind Marelle’s chapel, waiting for the heralds to call their names.

“Lord Tancred and Lady Chrisiana, Lord and Lady of Stillwater!”

Wesson's father, who did indeed resemble a tankard, stomped around the chapel, his much younger wife on his arm.

“Damn this,” said Mazael, scowling.

Gerald laughed. “Patience, Mazael, patience. You know how my lord father loves his pomp.”

“I’ve nothing against pomp,” said Mazael.” Unless it keeps me from eating.”

Rachel laughed and hooked her arm around Gerald’s. “And you will have to wait longer, I fear. We are Lord Malden’s honored guests, so the heralds will call us at the very end.”

Rachel and Gerald wandered off to speak with Tobias and Garain. Mazael leaned against the stone wall and watched the milling lords and ladies. He saw many blue Justiciar cloaks, but no black Dominiar ones. Lord Malden had seated the Dominiar knights with the armsmen and landless knights, though the officers could sit with the lords. No doubt Lord Malden intended it as an insult. Mazael sighed and rubbed his temples. Lord Malden wanted war with the Dominiars, the Justiciars wanted war with the Dominiars, and Mazael could think of nothing…

“Lord Mazael.”

Mazael turned his head and saw a Justiciar knight with a crooked nose. The Justiciar’s dark hair had streaks of premature gray, and his eyes looked haunted.

“Sir Commander Galan,” said Mazael.

Galan Hawking had once been Lord of Hawk’s Reach in the Grim Marches. He had fought against Lord Richard, been stripped of his lands and titles, and sent into the Justiciar Order. Years later he had led the Justiciars of the Grim Marches to war against Lord Richard. For that, the Justiciars had been expelled from the Grim Marches. And Galan himself had been betrayed by Mitor and the San-keth. Mazael had rescued Galan from the San-keth temple under Castle Cravenlock, but the experience had left Galan Hawking a broken man.

“A joyous occasion, this,” said Galan, folding his arms. “The union of Cravenlock and Roland.”

“And perhaps the beginning of a new war,” said Mazael.

“Yes,” said Galan, shaking his head. “I am tired, of war, of battle. I have seen far too much. The San-keth…I never though them real.”

“Your point?” said Mazael.

“My hopes have long been dashed,” said Galan. “Yet it was my folly that led to the Justiciars’ expulsion from the Grim Marches. The Justiciar Order has become my home, and I would see that damage undone.”

“So war with the Dominiars,” said Mazael. “Take their lands to replace your order’s lost ones.”

“Hardly,” said Galan. “The Dominiars can match our strength, and they are just as eager for war. We would have been content to launch a crusade overseas, seize some pagan desert for our own. But the Dominiars want Tumblestone back, and are willing to use force when words fail.”

“Why?” said Mazael. “I thought Malleus had accepted his defeat.”

“He did,” said Galan, “and was occupied with revolt in the Old Kingdoms. But that was before Amalric Galbraith rose to prominence within the Dominiar Order.”

“I’ve never heard of him,” said Mazael.

“Not surprising,” said Galan. “He’s a young man, but six and twenty years old. And he has spent almost all of his service in the Old Kingdoms. After you won at Tumblestone, Malleus made Amalric Galbraith a commander in the Old Kingdoms. Since then he has crushed every revolt, usually by slaughtering all the druids of the old faith, for they often lead the rebellions. During the siege of a rebel city, he impaled five hundred druids and mounted their corpses on stakes around the walls. Once the city surrendered without a fight, he did the same to every tenth citizen, whether man, woman, or child.”

“Gods,” said Mazael. Both the Justiciars and Dominiars had reputations for brutality, especially to pagans, but that was unusually cruel.

Galan shrugged. “It worked. The Dominiars’ subject kingdoms are little more than slave states now, and dare not rebel.”

“And this Sir Commander Amalric,” said Mazael, “he’s the one encouraging Malleus to reclaim Tumblestone.”

“Aye,” said Galan. “Amalric is now Grand Master Malleus’s strong right hand. Malleus would have been content to leave Tumblestone to Lord Malden. But Sir Commander Amalric thinks differently.” Galan blew out a long sigh. “This war…this war will be bloody.”

“It might not be so bloody,” said Mazael. “Tumblestone is well-fortified, well-provisioned. Lord Malden made Rainier Agravain lord of Tumblestone, didn't he? Rainier was never the sort of man to surrender anything. If the Dominiars lay siege to the place, Lord Malden can sweep them away.”

“Lord Malden laid siege to Tumblestone,” said Galan, “and Malleus defeated him.”

“Aye,” said Mazael, “but who has Tumblestone now?”

A tired smile spread over Galan’s face. “Lord Malden, of course. But that was your doing, not his. If you had not been there, I think a Dominiar banner would fly over Knightcastle now.” The herald called Galan’s name. The Justiciar knight sighed again. “And you are here again. Maybe things will turn out well for Lord Malden. Perhaps I’ll see you at the feast.”

Mazael nodded and Galan marched off, blue cloak swirling behind him.

The heralds called more and more of the lords and ladies. The small court behind the chapel emptied. Mazael brooded, for lack of anything better to do. His mind turned over Lucan, Straganis, Lord Malden, and wondered what dire things lay ahead. Did the Old Demon’s hand drive this war?

Or maybe Mazael worried too much. Maybe it would all come to nothing in the end.

Gerald and Rachel left, arm in arm, the herald’s voice echoing their names over the Court of Challengers. Mazael was the last one left in the little courtyard. Had he missed his name, lost in thought?

“Well, my friend, do you intend to scowl at the wall all night?”

Lord Malden entered, his army of pages and squires trooping behind. On Lord Malden’s arm rested his wife Lady Rhea, a lean woman in her mid-fifties, long brown hair streaked with gray. Lady Rhea’s expression looked just as haughty as Lord Malden’s.

“Perhaps,” said Mazael, doing a brief bow. “I presume you intend to eat sooner or later, my lord? Or did you wish to go hungry while keeping your vassals waiting for your august presence?”

Lady Rhea laughed, eyes flashing. “Candid as ever, my lord Mazael. Refreshing to hear frank speech, I daresay.”

“Believe me, it soon grows wearisome,” said Lord Malden. “But what better way to show our newfound amity and the joining of our two houses? My son and your sister enter together.” He shook his head. “A pity you have no wife of your own. I have several suitable candidates in mind, but we can discuss that at a later date.”

“Yes,” said Mazael, thinking of Romaria. All at once he felt tired and cold. “A pity.”

“Lord Mazael!” thundered the herald, “Lord of Castle Cravenlock, and Lord Malden’s close friend! Now, all hail the wise and noble Lord of Knightcastle, Malden Roland, and his gracious lady wife, Rhea Roland!”

Lord Malden and Lady Rhea strolled with a slow, lordly gait into the Court of Challengers, Mazael following after. All the guests stood, bowing to the Lord and Lady of Knightcastle. Mazael took his place at the high table, among the Rolands and the Justiciar officers. Lord Malden and Lady Rhea sat, and everyone began to eat.

Mazael ate with some relief, washing down the food with ample quantities of wine. Adalar waited by his chair, ready to serve. Mazael’s eyes wandered over the packed Court of Challengers. Jongleurs and dancers moved among the trestle tables, singing and cavorting, jugglers flinging daggers and torches into the air. Against the far-wall stood a table of black-cloaked and black-armored forms, the Dominiar knights.

At their head sat a tall young man with dark hair and eyes, the the same man who had scowled at Mazael in the Hall of Triumphs. All the other Dominiars seemed to wait on his words, nodding when he spoke. Mazael supposed this was Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith, Grand Master Malleus’s right-hand man, the conqueror of the Old Kingdoms. Romaria had often spoken of the Old Kingdoms, had admired their people and druids.

She would have loathed Amalric Galbraith, and for that reason, Mazael found himself disliking the man.

At Amalric’s side sat the blood-haired woman in the black gown. She had pulled back her mourning veil to eat, revealing a pale, cold face, just as haughty as Lady Rhea’s, and though she talked, she never seemed to speak to Amalric. In fact, Mazael thought that she hated Amalric, and he hated her. Was she his sister? Or his wife?

“My lord?” said Adalar.

Mazael blinked. “Adalar?”

“Is something amiss?” said Adalar.

“No,” said Mazael. “I’m well.”

“You looked wroth,” said Adalar.

“Just distracted,” said Mazael, glancing at the Dominiars.

“My father spoke highly of the Dominiars,” said Adalar.

Mazael frowned. “He did?”

Adalar nodded. “Well, at least compared to the Justiciars. He said both Orders were corrupt, hypocritical, greedy, and more concerned with power and wealth than doing the gods’ work. But, he said, at least the Dominiars can speak to a woman without burning her.”

Mazael laughed. “True enough, I suppose. Of course, the Justiciars call the Dominiars corrupt for that. It’s one the reasons why there is a Justiciar Order. They thought the Dominiar commanders had grown too corrupt and split away.”

“I know the history,” said Adalar.

“Are you all right?” said Mazael. “You’ve seemed distracted since Tristgard.”

“It…” Some of the blood drained from Adalar’s face. “It…well, I saw some terrible things there.”

“We all did,” said Mazael, staring into his wine. “I thought it horrible what the common San-keth clerics did, riding on an undead skeleton. But Straganis…gods, a body built out of stolen limbs and a giant spider? If he wasn’t mad before, he certainly is now, I’d wager.”

Adalar looked about to say something else, but fell silent.

“Go,” said Mazael, waving his hand at the squires gathered in the corner of the Court. “Go and enjoy yourself.”

“My place is to serve you,” said Adalar.

“I’ll be fine,” said Mazael. He snorted. “I wish I could go. The high lords are hardly enjoyable company.”

Adalar still looked dubious, but bowed again. “My lord.”

Mazael drank some more and watched the high lords scheme. Lord Malden sat with his favorite mistress, a minor noblewoman named Claretta, and fed her bits of meat off the tip of his dagger. Gerald glared at his father. He had never approved of Lord Malden’s many affairs. Lady Rhea appeared not to mind, though, and spent most of her time speaking with a crowd of Lord Malden’s young knights. No one ever dared accused of Lady Rhea of infidelity; those who did soon found themselves swinging from the gallows in Castle Town.

The feast ended, the servants pushed the tables to the walls, the jongleurs struck up sprightly tunes, and people began to dance. The armsmen and landless knights joined with the servant girls in a dance that involved much stomping and laughing. The lords and ladies moved in slower, revolving dances. Mazael wished to slip away, but didn’t, for fear of further irritating Lord Malden. The old lord loved to dance. Even the Dominiars danced.

The Justiciars did not approve of dancing, or music, but slipped away without protest, lest they offend Lord Malden.

The song ended, and Mazael found himself face to face with Lady Rhea. He had no choice but to bow to her. She bowed back, and he took her hand and hip and led her in the next dance.

“It is so good to see you again, Mazael,” she said. “You were always Malden’s favorite.”

“I am pleased to have his lordship’s confidence,” said Mazael.

Rhea laughed, and pressed her hand tighter against his neck. “So formal, now that you’re a lord? Why don’t you come to my rooms after we’re done, and see if you can be formal then?” Her other hand came down and brushed Lion’s pommel. “You can show me that fine sword at your belt.”

Mazael felt himself gape at her.

She laughed again, a wicked smile at her lips. “You never were so hesitant before, or so I hear.”

“Things are different now,” said Mazael. She was shapely enough, despite her age, and for just a moment Mazael was tempted. “Lord Malden’s already annoyed with me. I doubt sleeping with his wife will help.” And, gods, what would Gerald say?

“My lord husband and I haven’t lain together for years,” said Rhea, “not since I had my change, and could no longer bear him sons. He amuses himself with his pretty young ladies, and, well…I can seek out my own entertainments.”

“Thank you,” said Mazael, “I am honored, but…”

“Ah, well,” she said. The dance ended, to Mazael’s immense relief. They bowed to each other, and Rhea said, “Still, if you ever change your mind…” She winked and swirled back into the dance with stout Lord Tancred.

“Gods save me,” muttered Mazael. He started walking towards Oliver’s Keep, determined to escape before he started a war, and stopped.

Sir Commander Aeternis of the Dominiar Order leaned against the Court wall, watching. Aeternis had offered up Lion in surrender after the Dominiar defeat at Tumblestone. Lion was a weapon of magical power, and Mazael had often wondered how a Dominiar Knight had acquired it.

And perhaps Aeternis might be willing to tell him about Amalric Galbraith.

Aeternis straightened as Mazael approached. A stocky, powerful man, he had a close-cropped black beard and numerous faded battle scars.

“We meet again,” said Aeternis, his voice gravelly.

“So we do,” said Mazael.

“A lord now, I hear,” said Aeternis. “I always thought you’d be dead by now, on some fool errand for Lord Malden.”

“And I always thought you’d be dead, too, from Grand Master Malleus’s orders,” said Mazael.

Aeternis scoffed. “It came close, a few times.” He grinned. “I might get another chance at killing you.”

“You came close, the last time,” said Mazael.

“Hardly,” said Aeternis. “You had us. It was only your mercy that kept Lord Malden’s men from slaughtering us all.”

“Perhaps you’d like to repay that mercy,” said Mazael.

Suspicion touched Aeternis’s face. “How?”

Mazael turned, showing the scabbard dangling from his left hip. “Remember this?”

“All too well,” said Aeternis. “Best sword I ever had. It looks like a showpiece, I know, but by holy Joraviar, I never had a sword so sharp, or so sturdy.”

“Where did you find it?” said Mazael.

“Does it matter?” said Aeternis. “Do you want another one?” He laughed. “If I could find another, I would take it for myself.”

“Idle curiosity, nothing more,” said Mazael.

“Curiosity is never idle for a lord,” said Aeternis. He shrugged. “But why not? I bought it from a wandering merchant…oh, five, six years ago. Right before your Lord Malden tried to seize Tumblestone. It was in Cateron, I think, in the Old Kingdoms.”

“Do you remember the merchant’s name?” said Mazael.

Aeternis thought for a moment. “Tall fellow, polite as a scared maid.” He snapped his fingers. “Ah! Harune Dustfoot, that was it.”

Mazael felt a chill. “Harune Dustfoot?”

“You know him?” said Aeternis.

“I rescued his caravan from bandits in eastern Knightrealm,” said Mazael.

“Did you?” said Aeternis. “Small world. Not surprising. All the trade’s dried up in the Old Kingdoms, now that Amalric has killed most of the folk living there.”

“You don’t approve?” said Mazael.

Aeternis shrugged. “It’s not my place to approve or disapprove. I fight who the Grand Master tells me to fight, and that’s that.” He rubbed his scarred temple. “But when I served in the Old Kingdoms, we tried to leave a peace, or at least a truce, with the folk of the Old Kingdoms. It worked, too, for a while.” He shook his head again. “Then Amalric came…and that was the end of any peace.”

“What do you think of him?” said Mazael.

“Scouting the enemy, eh?”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing here?”

Aeternis laughed. “It is, after all.” He shrugged. “All right. Amalric has no fear, is deadly with a sword, and can command an army better than almost any other man. And he’s as haughty as a lion, hates the other commanders, and only listens to the Grand Master.” Aeternis shrugged again. “He’ll either become Grand Master of the Dominiars, or he’ll get himself killed. But he’s old Malleus’s favorite these days, and what I think doesn’t matter.”

“His wife seems to hate him,” said Mazael.

Aeternis snorted. “His wife? You mean the woman in widow’s black? That’s his sister. The lady Morebeth Galbraith.  Though you’re right that she hates him. Her husband served under Amalric’s command in the Old Kingdoms, got killed fighting in the front line. Lady Morebeth never forgave Amalric for that.”

Mazael said nothing.

“You were always a worthy foe. It was good speaking to you again,” said Aeternis. He held out his hand. “Perhaps we won’t have to fight after all.”

“Let us hope not,” said Mazael. They shook hands, and Aeternis wandered away, black Dominiar cloak swaying behind him.

The music began again, slow and high, a ballad about some long-dead Roland’s lost love. The song reminded Mazael of Romaria, made him melancholy. He decided to find Rachel, dance with her, and then go to bed.

A warm hand brushed his arm.

Mazael stopped, something like lightning surging through his blood.

Morebeth Galbraith stood besides him, hair shimmering like flame beneath her hat. She stood only a few inches shorter than him, her gray eyes glinting like sword blades.

Yet Mazael saw something of the fire he felt reflected in her cold eyes.

“Lord Mazael Cravenlock?” she said, voice precise and cold. “Forgive my presumption, but I had heard much of you, and wished to meet you.” She stepped back, releasing his arm, and did a deep curtsy. “I am Morebeth Galbraith, of Mastaria.”

“My lady,” said Mazael. He took her hand, kissed it, and stared back at her. She was not as beautiful as Romaria had been. No woman could ever be, yet she was a close second.

He had not felt such powerful desire in a long time.

“You are famous in Mastaria, among the Dominiars,” Morebeth said.

“Infamous, more likely,” said Mazael. Something about her voice made his heart race, his blood pulse.

“They are often one and the same,” said Morebeth. A smile, like a flower of frost, touched her pale face. “Would my lord consent to dance with a poor widow?”

“He would,” said Mazael, taking her hand. “Nothing would please him more.”

Mazael glimpsed Sir Commander Amalric glaring at him from across the Court, but did not care. He and Morebeth danced in silence for a long moment, circling around the Court of Challengers. The hems of her black skirts whispered against the stone-paved ground, brushed against his boots. His heart beat ever faster, and he felt the pulse in her wrist quicken.

“My lord dances well.”

“As do you.”

“I wonder how you learned, with no lady wife on your arm,” said Morebeth.

“I have no lady wife.”

“Nor I a lord husband.” Her voice remained calm, but the muscles near her gray eyes twitched.

“I am sorry,” said Mazael. “I…heard what had happened to your husband.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She hesitated. “I loved him. It does not often happen between nobles, but I loved him.”

“I understand,” said Mazael. She looked at him sharply. “I…I, too, lost someone…very dear to me. She was not my wife. We never had the chance. But I loved her no less.”

“My lord.” Morebeth’s gloved fingers stroked the back of his neck. “I am sorry. I did not know.”

They moved closer together. Mazael felt her heat through his clothes. His hands tightened about her fingers and hip. He watched her gray eyes watching him.

“Come with me,” she whispered.

“I dare not,” said Mazael. The heat vanished, her cold mask returning. Mazael groped for an excuse, something that could convince her, that could convince him. “If…you become pregnant, then…”

Morebeth leaned against him, her lips brushing his ear. “My shame. My great shame. I cannot bear children.” She stepped back from him, her mouth twitching. “What man would have me?”

“I am sorry,” said Mazael.

She titled her chin. “Then comfort me.”

Mazael kissed her, long and hard, the fire in his blood burning out of all control.

###

They wound up in Mazael’s chambers in the Tower of Guard, together in his bed. Mazael supposed that half the court must have seen them, that Knightcastle would crawl with gossip tomorrow, but he did not care, did not care about anything but Morebeth Galbraith’s eyes and lips and body.

###

Adalar saw them leave.

He could not put the memory of Mazael’s wounds closing out of his mind, could not stop thinking about what that might mean.

3

Shadows in Knightcastle

Afterwards Mazael fell asleep and dreamed:

He stood atop the Old Keep, the highest tower of Knightcastle, gazing down on the Riversteel’s valley.

But now the valley was dead, a desolation of blighted ashes, withered trees clawing at the sky. The burned rubble of Castle Town squatted by the riverbank like an open sore. The Riversteel itself had turned the color of blood, corpses floating in the thick waters. Knightcastle was empty and silent, drained of life and energy, a monumental tomb clinging to the hillside like a dying fungus.

The red sun glared down at Mazael from the sooty sky.

Mazael stared in stupefied horror. What catastrophe had befallen Lord Malden’s lands?

And then in a surge of rage and terror he remembered the dreams of blood and death that had tormented him before…

“This is a dream!” shouted Mazael at the sky. “I know this is a dream! Show yourself, you damned coward! Show yourself!”

No one answered. His voice echoed off the stony mountains.

And then:

“Such a shame to see a man lose his faith.”

Mazael whirled, snarling.

A man walked towards him, a man draped in a simple black robe. He wore the hawk-nosed, gray-eyed face of a wandering jongleur named Mattias Comorian. But the face meant nothing. In dreams he had masqueraded as Lord Adalon Cravenlock. In the waking world he had disguised himself as Simonian of Briault, necromancer and Lord Mitor’s advisor.

He was Mazael’s father.

He was the Old Demon.

“My prodigal son returns,” said the Old Demon, his voice dry. The faintest glimmer of red touched his eyes. “And you have done just as I said. You murdered Mitor, you became Lord of Castle Cravenlock, and now you stand ready to become lord of all the earth.”

For the briefest instant Mazael remembered murdering Mitor, remembered striding past his brother’s corpse to claim Castle Cravenlock. But that was a lie, a phantasm of the Old Demon’s magic. Skhath had killed Mitor, not Mazael. And this monster, this ancient horror, had killed Romaria.

“Skhath killed Mitor, not I,” spat Mazael. “And you murdered Romaria, you bastard, you-“

“It was your fault,” said the Old Demon, smiling. “A son ought to submit himself to his father. If you had but obeyed me, she would be at your side still…”

“You killed her!” screamed Mazael, stepping towards him.

The red glaze in the Old Demon’s eyes darkened. “You’ve grown stronger, I see.”

Mazael said nothing, his fists clenched.

“You’ve become strong enough to work your will here,” said the Old Demon, waving his hand, “at this place which is no place.” His lips pulled back, revealing jagged, filthy teeth. “But you still have yet to learn that I am the stronger!”

The Old Demon thrust out his hand, and the world spun around them.

Mazael found himself in the Hall of Triumphs. The great crystal windows had shattered into razor-edged shards. From the arched ceilings hung the gutted corpses of Lord Malden, Lady Rhea, and their children. Rachel dangled naked from a gibbet, turning slowly.

The Old Demon lounged in Lord Malden’s throne, black robes like shadow.

“Do you like it?” he said, flicking a finger at the dead. “Your future. And your choices will bring it about.”

“You are a liar,” said Mazael, “and always have been.” He stalked towards the throne. “You murdered Romaria, and I swear that one day I will kill you.”

The Old Demon laughed. “Do you know how often I have heard that, my son? How many men and women have sworn vengeance, sworn my destruction? I sit on a throne of their skulls!” His laughter faded into an amused titter. “You thought Lucan Mandragon strong? You think Straganis powerful? Lift your hand against me and I will show you arcane arts that could shatter their minds.”

“Theirs, perhaps,” said Mazael, “but maybe not mine.”

“Fool, fool,” said the Old Demon. He rose from the throne and strode towards Mazael, the red haze in his eyes brightening. “You’re mine, my son. Deny me as you will, but you are still mine. To think I would have made you king of the world.”

“You would have devoured my soul and added my power to yours,” said Mazael.

“Then try to strike me down,” said the Old Demon. He glanced at the ceiling. “And this is how it will end for those you love, for you.”

A bit of Gerald’s blood splashed against the floor.

“You will die screaming,” said the Old Demon, “and there is nothing you can do to stop it.”

“You lie,” said Mazael, "as always."

“Your own choices will destroy you,” said the Old Demon. “You’ve dared to rebel against me, and you shall pay for it. You chose your mewling sister over my power? You shall see her die…”

“No,” said Mazael.

“You repeat yourself,” said the Old Demon. “How tedious. It is not a threat, my son. It is not even a promise. It is a certainty.”

Mazael growled, his hand going to his hip. He had no sword belt, no weapons. He lifted his hand and wished for a sword. The Hall of Triumphs shimmered about him. He stared at his hand, willed for Lion, and it appeared in his grasp.

The sword shone with a clear white flame, hot and pure, illuminating the shadowed hall.

The Old Demon stepped back.

“I told you,” said Mazael, "to shut up!"

“Then die!” snarled the Old Demon, his eyes blazing. His human aspect fell away like a shredded mask, and he sprang at Mazael, hooked claws leading.

Mazael raised his shining sword and set himself.

The world crumpled around him like a rotten shell…

Mazael awoke with a shuddering gasp, sweat dripping down his face. For a dreadful moment, he could not remember where he was or what had happened to him. Memory flooded back, and Mazael remembered Knightcastle, Lord Malden’s ire, and the grand dance…

Morebeth.

He looked over to find her gone. Mazael vaguely remembered that she had left before the sun had risen. He closed his eyes and lay back with a tired groan.

He did not even want to think about what the nightmare meant.

Mazael stared at the ceiling, his mind swirling and twisting. It was past sunrise, and beams of sunlight slashed across the ancient gray stone. Mazael wondered why Adalar hadn’t awakened him. No doubt the boy had been too embarrassed.

Mazael sighed, sat up, and blinked in surprise.

The biggest raven he had even seen sat on the windowsill, ruffling its feathers. Beady black eyes stared it him, dark and glistening. Mazael could have sworn it grinned at him.

Someone coughed.

Mazael turned his head. A massive wooden chair stood against the far wall, and in that chair sat Lucan Mandragon.

“I was wondering,” said Lucan, “if you would ever notice me.”

“You’re alive,” said Mazael, stunned.

“Obviously,” said Lucan. He held a skin of wine in one hand and a joint of beef in the other, eating with apparent relish. “You’ll forgive me if I eat as we speak. I haven’t eaten anything for three days.”

“It’s been a week since you vanished,” said Mazael.

The raven cawed.

“Really?” said Lucan, around a mouthful. “I had always suspected that time ran at a different pace in the spirit world.”

“What the hell happened?” said Mazael. “Is Straganis dead?”

“Regrettably, no.” Lucan took a long drink of wine. “Straganis possesses greater power than I. His spell drew us both into the spiritual realm. He came quite close to killing me, in fact, but I,” his mouth twisted, “managed to outmaneuver him, and he fled. I spent some time in a stupor, later awoke, and found my way to Knightcastle.”

“That’s all?” said Mazael. The raven cawed again.

“That’s it,” agreed Lucan. He glanced at the empty spot in the bed. “I can see why you’re confused. You must be exhausted, after all.”

“How clever. You should become court jongleur,” said Mazael. He scowled. “Were you sitting there the entire time? Damned degenerate.”

Lucan laughed. “Hardly. No, I arrived just as your lady was leaving.”

“Did she notice you?” said Mazael.

“Of course not,” scoffed Lucan. “You scarcely noticed me. Not surprising, given how utterly spent you must be.”

“Another word and I’ll hand you over to your brother,” growled Mazael.

“Such a dire threat,” said Lucan. “But you ought to take pride. The lady looked very satisfied as she left, after all. Who is she, anyway?”

“Morebeth Galbraith,” said Mazael. He rolled out of bed. “Ah…do you see where my tunic is?”

Lucan pointed at the corner. “Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith’s sister?”

“Yes.” Mazael gathered his scattered clothes and began dressing. “How did you know his name?”

“In his infinite wisdom, my lord father keeps an eye on the Dominiars,” said Lucan, “lest it becomes necessary to use them against Lord Malden. I’m sure Sir Commander Amalric will be thrilled to learn that you bedded his widowed sister.” Mazael glared, and Lucan's smirk widened. “How did she leave, by the way?”

Mazael blinked. “What?”

“It was some manner of secret passage. She pressed a stone, part of the wall swung out, and she vanished.”

“Oh.” Mazael buckled on his sword belt. “The Trysting Ways.”

“The what?”

“The Trysting Ways,” said Mazael. “It’s what they call the secret passages in Knightcastle. Supposedly some old lord or another made them so he could tryst unobserved with his various mistresses.”

“Perhaps you should adapt it for Castle Cravenlock,” said Lucan.

“I told you, I’ve heard enough on…”

“So Knightcastle is riddled with secret passages?”

Mazael paused, a boot halfway on. “It is. Miles of them, I suppose. Crypts and catacombs into the hill, as well. Some of them have probably been forgotten for centuries.”

“Ah,” said Lucan. “That could pose a problem.”

“Why?”

“Because,” said Lucan, “I’m fairly sure Straganis is here.”

“What?”

“I’ve sensed his spells,” said Lucan, “but I can’t determine his precise location.”

“Why not?”

“I told you,” said Lucan. “He’s stronger than I am, and somewhat more skilled. I am strong enough to sense him, though,” he sighed, “not quite strong enough to find him.”

Mazael began to pace, Lion’s scabbard tapping against his leg. “What is he doing here?”

Lucan laughed. “That should be obvious. He vowed to kill you and your sister. And he will try to kill me just out of spite, I expect.”

“But how?” whispered Mazael, thinking of his dark dream. Was Straganis in league with the Old Demon? Or had the Old Demon manipulated Straganis, as he had manipulated Skhath? Had Mazael himself been tricked by the Old Demon, manipulated into his own destruction?

But he dared not think that way. His doubts and fears could paralyze him.

“You have a thought?” said Lucan, watching him.

“Straganis could disguise himself as anything,” said Mazael.

“Most certainly,” said Lucan.

“So he could be hiding among Lord Malden’s vassals, or the Justiciars, or the Dominiars?”

Lucan nodded.

“If you see him, will you recognize him?” said Mazael.

“Possibly,” said Lucan. “Or not. You, too, might be able to recognize him. The…ah, potent nature of your blood might give you strength to see past his illusions. Or it may not.” He shrugged. “Divinatory spells are not my strength.”

Something occurred to Mazael. “But they are Trocend’s.”

“Lord Malden’s pet wizard?” Lucan sneered. “Certainly he has vast skill at divination. I doubt that you can really trust him.”

“He would say the same of you,” said Mazael. “And his loyalty is to Lord Malden.”

“A fine thing,” said Lucan. “Yet I know the truth of you, and your black secret has remained a secret. And our Brother Trocend is very good at finding secrets. Suppose he learns your secret? What do you imagine he will do with it?”

“He would go to Lord Malden,” said Mazael, closing his eyes, “and then...yet if Trocend can find Straganis, I can endure the risk.”

“If he learns your true nature, you will have no choice but to kill him,” said Lucan.

“I…if that happens, I will decide what to do then,” said Mazael. “I will speak with him.”

Lucan shrugged. “It is your choice, though I think it a foolish one.”

“I can endure that,” said Mazael. He paused for a moment. “I am glad you survived.”

“Because you need my help?”

“Aye, that,” said Mazael, “and I’d wish no man dead at the hands of a San-keth cleric.” He remembered Skhath plunging a black dagger into Mitor’s back. “I’d wish that on no man.”

“How splendid. As it happens, I agree with you. I’m quite glad I survived.” Lucan’s hard eyes glittered. “I told you what I wish. If a dark power of any sort hides within Knightcastle, then I will work with you to crush it utterly.”

“Thank you,” said Mazael. He looked out the window, past the raven. “I’d best go. Lord Malden probably wants me at breakfast.”

“It’s late,” said Lucan. “You missed breakfast.” His smirk returned. “Though you may yet find the Lady Morebeth.”

“Straganis may not be the only one to kill you out of annoyance,” said Mazael, turning. Lion’s scabbard clattered against the stone wall. “Wait. There’s something else.”

Lucan finished the beef joint and tossed the bone to the raven. The bird cracked it open and began pecking at the marrow. “What is it?”

“I spoke with Sir Commander Aeternis,” said Mazael. “Where do you think he found Lion?”

Lucan shrugged. “Weapons of magical power are extraordinarily rare. I assume it was some heirloom from Tristafel, passed down from generation to generation without any understanding of its true worth.”

“He bought it,” said Mazael. Lucan’s eyebrows climbed higher. “From a merchant named Harune Dustfoot.”

“Did he?” said Lucan. “The same Harune Dustfoot you rescued?”

“The very same.”

Lucan leaned back in the chair. “An astonishing coincidence. In fact, I’d even say it’s far too unlikely for a coincidence. This Dustfoot fellow doesn’t seem the sort to traffic in weapons of arcane power.” He shook his head. “Maybe he simply found it, unaware of its true nature, and sold it for quick profit.”

“Yes, but where did he find it?” said Mazael. “Try to find him if at all possible. He ought to be in Castle Town, selling those cheeses of his.”

Lucan glanced at the raven, which cawed and flew away. “Then I had best get started, had I not? What will you be doing? Besides entertaining your lady, of course.”

Mazael closed his eyes. “I will try to keep Lord Malden from doing anything rash.” He thought of Straganis, of how Blackfang had come within a few heartbeats of killing Rachel. “And try to keep Rachel safe.”

“I wish you the best of luck,” said Lucan. “After all, we shall most certainly need it.”

Chapter 5

1

Lords’ Wood

Mazael spent the next two days alternating between boredom and extreme watchfulness. He argued with Lord Malden over trivial wedding details, the coming tournament, and the feasts, since no one else in Knightcastle had the courage to do so. In the evenings he ate dinner in whichever of Knightcastle’s halls happened to catch Lord Malden's fancy. In the mornings he practiced swordplay with the squires and Lord Malden’s household knights, many old friends from his days at Knightcastle.

Mazael tried to keep an eye on Rachel, fearing changeling assassins in every shadow. He stared at every servant, every lord, every knight, trying to determine if they were changelings, or even Straganis in disguise.

Mazael’s nights were much more pleasant.

Morebeth came to his room, slipping through the Trysting Ways, and left before dawn.

They neither spoke nor slept much.

And on the third day, Lord Malden decided to go hunting.

###

Of course, when Lord Malden went hunting, he took a small army.

His pages and squires rode with him, bearing his weapons. Lord Malden offered knights and lords the honor of hunting with him, and none refused. Mazael received an invitation, and accepted, if only to escape from the boredom.

Even some of the ladies of the court came, clad in riding gowns, bearing bows and hooded falcons. Lady Claretta was a steady hand with a bow, and rode at Lord Malden’s side, laughing at his jests.

Mazael suspected Lord Malden wanted a day alone with his mistress, without Gerald’s disapproving glares.

And to his surprised delight, Morebeth came as well.

She had asked Lord Malden at dinner the evening before.

“My Lord Malden,” she said, sweeping into a deep curtsy. “Is it true you hunt tomorrow?”

Lord Malden smiled and kissed her hand. “It is. Perhaps I’ll bring back a stag for the tournament feasts, eh?” He seemed entirely charmed by her presence. Mazael understood.

Morebeth glanced at Mazael, smiled, and turned back at Lord Malden. “Might I ride with you, my lord?”

A stunned silence went over the hall. Lord Malden extended invitations to hunt. No one ever dared ask him.

“Might you?” said Lord Malden, caught between affront and amusement.

A smile spread across Morebeth’s lips, and she answered in her cold voice. “Aye, I would, my lord. In Mastaria, we enjoyed hawking, my lord husband and I. He is gone now, and I have not hawked since.” She looked him square in the eye. “I would like to begin again, I think.”

“I would be honored to have you join us, lady,” said Lord Malden. He glanced across the hall, to where a scowling Amalric Galbraith stood, surrounded by his Dominiar Knights. “Assuming your brother doesn’t object, of course.”

Amalric’s scowl deepened, but he gave a sharp nod.

A tiny smirk crossed Morebeth’s lips.

An uninvited knight was bold enough to ask to accompany Lord Malden, and received only a frosty glare in answer.

###

A hundred horsemen stood at the edge of the Lords’ Wood.

The Lords’ Wood lay a half-day’s ride from Knightcastle. While almost all of Knightrealm had been cultivated and farmed for centuries, the Lords’ Wood remained still, a remnant of the ancient forests that had once covered the land. First the Kings and later the Lords of Knightcastle had hunted among the looming trees for generations.

Sometimes bandits set up their lairs among the trunks, and the Lords had fine sport driving them out.

Lord Malden and Claretta rode at the party's head, alongside a pack of Lord Malden’s prized hounds. Mazael rode in the back, alongside Morebeth. She sat upright in the saddle, her blood-red hair done in an ornate crown of braids, stark against her black gown. A heavy leather glove encased her left hand and forearm. A hooded hawk named Striker rested on the glove, claws digging into the leather.

“Does not your arm grow weary?” said Mazael.

“Not in the least,” said Morebeth. She raised her free hand and stroked the hawk’s neck. “I am stronger than I look.” She turned gray eyes towards him. “As you well know.”

They reined up at the edge of the trees.

“My hounds are eager!” called Lord Malden, reining up. “I will ride after them. Sir Tobias will lead those who wish to hunt with the bow.” Sir Tobias galloped to his father’s side, a short bow resting in his arms. “And Lady Morebeth wishes to hawk. My lord Mazael! I trust you will escort her?”

Someone snickered.

“It would be my honor,” said Mazael. Morebeth’s eyes glinted.

Lord Malden’s party rode off in one direction, as did Sir Tobias’s. Mazael sat on Mantle’s back, alone with Morebeth and her mare.

“They laugh at us, you know,” said Mazael.

“That troubles you? Let them,” said Morebeth, still stroking the hawk’s neck. “Let them. What are their snickers to us? You are Lord of Castle Cravenlock, and I am a noble lady of Mastaria. We are stronger than they.” She gave him one of her rare smiles, a smile with heat behind it. “We may do as we wish.”

“And you wish to go hawking?” said Mazael.

“Aye. Very much so.” A small, distant smile played over her lips. “Do you know much of falconry, my lord Mazael?”

“Little, I’m afraid,” said Mazael. “My lord father devoted most his attentions to my older brothers. And I spent fifteen years wandering as a landless knight. I had little time or wealth for falconry.”

“A pity.” Morebeth turned her cool eyes back to him. “It is an art, as much as sword work.”

“You enjoy it?”

“I do.” Morebeth nodded. “Falcons and hawks are solitary birds, you know. Isolated and selfish. They care nothing for others, and Striker here certainly cares nothing for me. Yet if they are trained properly, raised well from the beginning, they are the deadliest of hunters. The training of a hawk…it is something I take great pride in, something I enjoy very much.” She paused. “Would you like to see Striker at hunt?”

“Yes,” said Mazael. “I would.”

They rode into the Lords’ Wood. The trees had begun to bud, some even showing leaves. A quiet silence hung over the forest, broken only by the rustling leaves and the creaking branches.

“How will you follow the hawk?” said Mazael. “Won’t the leaves block your vision?”

“For a falcon, yes,” said Morebeth. “They usually prey on birds, sometimes chase them over long distances. But Striker is a goshawk, and goshawks usually take rabbits, turkeys, sometimes pheasants.” She shook her head, a red braid sliding across her black-clad back. “Amalric prefers falcons, but I favor hawks.”

“You hate him, don’t you?” said Mazael.

Morebeth said nothing.

“I understand it,” said Mazael. “My brother…well, he tried to have me killed several times.”

Morebeth looked at him. “Clearly he failed. But, yes, I hate Amalric.” She sighed. “It wasn’t always that way. I loved him once. But he has changed. Yes. I hate him. Your brother. How did you end your conflict?”

“He died,” said Mazael. “A San-keth cleric killed him.”

Morebeth stared at him.

“Most folk think I killed him,” said Mazael.

“I believe you,” said Morebeth.

“You do?”

Morebeth nodded. “I cannot see you raising your hand against kin.”

Mazael felt an absurd surge of gratitude. Most people believed he had murdered Mitor and seized Castle Cravenlock for himself. But to meet someone who believed him…

Morebeth raised her free hand. “Shh.” She pointed.

A small group of pheasants stood at the base of a massive oak, pecking at the ground. Morebeth smiled and undid Striker’s hood. The hawk lifted its head, its eyes like amber knives. Morebeth remained still, and Mazael followed suit. Striker did not move. Mazael wondered if the hawk had seen the pheasants. Or smelled them, if that was how hawks hunted…

Striker moved so fast Mazael scarce followed the movement. One moment the hawk sat on Morebeth’s gloved fist. The next it stooped over one of the pheasants, claws raking, beak rending. There was an agonized squawk, and the pheasant went still. The others fled in all directions.

“Gods,” said Mazael, “that thing is fast.”

“Nothing can match the speed of a goshawk over a short distance,” said Morebeth, “nothing at all. Come with me, but stay back.” She slid from the saddle, skirts rustling, and pulled some shredded meat from one of her saddlebags. Striker kept worrying at the dead pheasant with his beak. Morebeth moved towards the goshawk, then crouched besides the pheasant, black skirts pooling around her, and held out her fist. Striker hopped up onto the leather glove and began eating the meat.

“Why didn’t you just pick him up?” said Mazael.

Morebeth laughed. “It is never wise to separate a hunting bird from his food. He would probably have tried to kill me. But he has been trained to eat from my fist, and will abandon a kill for that. Can you take care of the pheasant?” She watched Striker eat. “It’s rather hard to do so with one hand.”

Mazael laughed. “I imagine.” He dressed the pheasant and lashed the bird’s legs to Mantle's harness. Striker finished the meat, and Morebeth hooded the bird again, settling him on a little wooden perch attached to her saddle.

“I wonder where Lord Malden and Sir Tobias are,” said Mazael.

Morebeth shook her head. “We won’t see them again until tonight. Is something amiss?”

“I dislike them being alone,” said Mazael.

“Ah,” said Morebeth. “The San-keth, I presume.”

Mazael frowned. “How did you know about that?”

“I was there when you told Lord Malden about them, remember?” said Morebeth. “They ought to be fine for a few hours.”

“We should find them,” said Mazael, turning towards Mantle.

“Really? You surprise me,” said Morebeth.

“What?” said Mazael.

“We are alone, and you are so eager to find the others?” said Morebeth. She took him in her arms. “Why?”

Mazael found himself speechless.

Morebeth kissed him and laughed into his mouth. “Unless you are afraid, of course?”

He wasn’t. It was cool out, the ground strewn with damp leaves, but they lay atop Mazael’s cloak and beneath Morebeth’s, and warmed each other.

Afterwards Mazael lay in a doze, Morebeth’s head resting on his shoulder. The worries and dark thoughts had fled his mind. He felt no particular urge to rise. Morebeth’s breathing, slow and steady, lulled him towards sleep.

A dull thud broke his reverie.

Mazael looked up, wondering if Striker had fallen from Morebeth’s saddle. Another thud came, then another, and another.

“What’s that?” said Morebeth, lifting her head.

“A drum,” said Mazael.

“Here?” said Morebeth, frowning. “Lord Malden didn’t bring one, did he?”

“Bandits, most likely,” said Mazael, scowling in alarm. He had brought Lion, and his old Mastarian war hammer, but no armor and no other weapons. “We’d better get dressed.”

Morebeth sighed and stretched against him, sending tingles down his nerves. “Pity, that.”

“It is,” said Mazael, but he managed to stand anyway. It took him only a short time to dress. Morebeth‘s more complex garments took longer, and Mazael had to help her.

The drumbeat came louder, harder.

“Damn this frippery,” said Morebeth. “I’d wear trousers and a tunic and damn what they think, even my brother. Sometimes I wish I had been born a man.”

Mazael grunted. “I’m grateful you weren’t, just now.”

Her cold stare cracked just long enough to flash him a wicked grin.

They climbed back into the saddle.

“Let’s find Lord Malden,” said Mazael.

“Why don’t we find that noise instead?” said Morebeth.

“You must be kept safe,” said Mazael, “and I’ve only my sword and hammer, and no armor.”

Morebeth’s cold smile returned. “I’m quite safe, my lord. After all, I am with you, am I not?”

“All right,” said Mazael. “We’ll look. Maybe it’s nothing.”

They rode off, following the drumbeat. The land rose, becoming hilly. In places ancient, moss-cloaked boulders jutted from the ground. The drumbeat grew louder, accompanied by a strange, droning noise.

“What the devil is that?” said Mazael.

Morebeth titled her head to the side. “Chanting, I think.”

“Chanting?” said Mazael.

Morebeth nodded, pointing at a steep hill. “It’s coming from over the next hill.”

“Your ears must be better than mine,” said Mazael. He dropped from the saddle and drew Lion. “Wait here. I’m going to climb up and take a look.”

Morebeth dismounted besides him. “Don’t be foolish.”

Mazael stared at her, trying to phrase a refusal. She reminded him of Romaria’s bravery. He felt a surge of sorrow, and could think of nothing to say.

They climbed the hill together. Morebeth’s skirts didn’t hinder her, and she made less noise than Mazael. She even seemed to keep her balance better than he could. Mazael wondered at this, and shrugged it off. She was almost ten years younger than he was, after all.

Mazael dropped to his stomach and crawled to the edge. Beyond the hill the land dropped down into a bowl and a small, mirror-bright pond. A crowd of thirty people stood at the edge of the pond, and a black-bearded man and a woman in peasant clothes stood atop a boulder. The woman had the black-slit yellow eyes of a San-keth changeling.

The man was Sir Roger Gravesend.

“Damn,” breathed Mazael.

Morebeth crawled to his side and whispered in his ear. “San-keth, aren’t they?”

“Aye,” hissed Mazael, clenching Lion’s hilt. “And the black-bearded fellow? Sir Roger Gravesend, once one of my sworn knights. He tried to kill me and Rachel. Twice. Gods damn it all. I should have killed him when I had the chance.”

“A lord can live to regret mercy,” said Morebeth. “What are they doing here?” She paused, steely eyes narrowed. “Some of them are human.”

“Followers of the San-keth way, no doubt,” said Mazael.

The changeling with the drum stopped, and the chanting ended.

“People of great Sepharivaim!” said the woman atop the stone, “hear me!” A frightening madness lit her face. “Our time draws close. Soon the castles of the mighty will fall. Soon the rivers will run red with the blood of the infidels!” The changelings’ cheers punctuated her remarks. “And the infidel lords will pay from their crimes against the people of Sepharivaim. Lord Malden Roland will die. Lord Richard Mandragon will beg for mercy before he perishes! The Grand Master of the wretched Dominiars will die screaming! And Lord Mazael and his apostate sister will hang from the highest tower of the castle they stole from us!”

The changelings howled, and Roger grinned.

Morebeth scoffed. “Rabble. I should like to see them try.”

“We need to get Lord Malden,” said Mazael. “If they catch us here it will be our deaths.”

“Why?” said Morebeth.

Mazael beckoned her away from the edge of the hill. “There’s thirty of them. I can’t take them by myself.”

“You need not,” said Morebeth. “There’s two of us, after all. And we’ll be mounted.”

Mazael gaped at her. “You?”

Morebeth nodded, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Me.”

“You don’t have a weapon.”

“I’ll borrow your hammer.”

“Do you even know how to fight from horseback?”

Morebeth shrugged, shoulders rippling beneath black fabric. “You raise the hammer and bring it down on a foe’s skull. And I have ridden since I was a small child.”

“You must be mad,” said Mazael.

“No more than you, my lord,” she said.

Mazael met her unwavering eyes for a long moment. “Why not? You, my lady, are at least as fearsome as they. Come.” They crept back down the hill, and Mazael pulled the Mastarian war hammer from his saddle. It had a solid head of black steel and an oak handle worn from much use. He handed it to Morebeth, who took it without flinching or staggering. Mazael climbed back up into Mantle’s saddle. He wished he had Chariot, but Mantle was sturdy enough.

“Ready?” he said.

Morebeth hefted the hammer easily in her right hand. “I am.”

“Then let’s go,” said Mazael, “and settle my debts with Sir Roger.”

Mazael rode around the hill, Morebeth at his side. He heard the changeling woman shrieking, her voice ringing over the hollow. Mazael came around the hill, saw the changelings standing before the stone, and kicked Mantle to a gallop.

The changelings, rapt in their ecstasy, did not see him until Lion came down and ripped through the nearest man's neck. Mantle raced through their ranks, Mazael striking right and left, Lion’s blade running with blood. Untrained for war, Mantle did not try to bite and trample as Chariot would have. Nevertheless, the changelings and the snake-kissers reacted with panic, turning to flee.

Roger blanched, almost falling from the stone. Mazael risked a quick glance at Morebeth. She swung the hammer with cool ease, leaving a trail of dead changelings in her wake.

“Kill them!” screamed the changeling woman. “Kill them now!”

Roger jumped from the stone and started running as fast as his legs could carry him. The woman stared after him and snarled . Mazael galloped through the mass of changelings and wheeled around, Lion clenched in his fist. A heartbeat later Morebeth brained a changeling and reined in besides him. A dozen dead changelings marked their path.

The survivors fled in every direction. One made the mistake of dashing past Mantle, and Mazael took off his head. He caught a glimpse of Roger dashing for the trees on the far side of the pond.

“Morebeth!” he yelled. “Stay with me!” He did not wait for an answer, but booted Mantle to a gallop. Roger glanced over his shoulder, cursed, and redoubled his pace. Mazael gritted his teeth, raising. If he could just catch the traitor before he reached the trees…

Sir Roger raced into the forest, and Mazael spurred Mantle after him, ducking low to avoid an overhanging branch. But the wrist of his sword hand slammed hard into the branch, the crack of bone filling his ear, Lion tumbling from his grasp. Mazael hissed in pain, just as his forehead smacked into another branch. He fell backwards off his horse and hit the ground hard.

Mazael spat in furious pain and lurched back to his feet.

Roger was gone, and he saw none of the other changelings. Mazael rubbed his broken wrist, cursing. Already his flesh writhed as the broken bones began to knit themselves together.

“Mazael!” Morebeth reined up besides him and jumped from the saddle. “Are you all right? I was sure you had split your skull.”

“I’m fine,” said Mazael, releasing his wrist. He did not want to draw Morebeth’s attention to his healing ability. “My pride is the worst injury. Gods, but this was foolish. I should have gone back to find Lord Malden.” He scooped up Lion with his left hand.

“You did as you thought best,” said Morebeth, still holding the hammer. “And suppose you had gone to find Lord Malden? The changelings would have gone by the time we returned.”

“I suppose,” said Mazael. “Perhaps we ought to track down Roger Gravesend.”

“No,” said Morebeth. “You’re not a tracker, and neither am I. At best we’ll get lost. At worst, the changelings can set up an ambush. We caught them off guard once, but we’ll not do so again. The best thing to do is to find Lord Malden.”

“You’re right,” said Mazael He eased his right hand through Mantle’s reins, trying not to wince, and led the palfrey back into the hollow. The bodies of the dead changelings lay strewn about the ground. He severed a changeling’s head, waited for the blood to drain, and wrapped it in a dropped cloak.

“A trophy?” said Morebeth.

Mazael shook his head. “Proof. Lord Malden will never believe me otherwise. Or Brother Trocend.” Trocend might discover more than Mazael wished. But he had no other choice. If the San-keth infiltrated Knightcastle, if they plotted to kill Lord Malden and Rachel, then Mazael had to stop them.

Whatever the cost to himself.

“Let’s go,” said Mazael. Morebeth nodded and handed him the war hammer. “You’re…quite good with that.”

“Thank you.” Morebeth plucked at her hair, adjusting her crown of braids. She almost smiled. “Sir Brandon, my husband…showed me. Before he died.”

Mazael swallowed. “I’m sorry.” Her remembered Romaria’s skill with blade and bow and felt again the grief.

“The woman you loved,” said Morebeth. “She was skilled with weapons, wasn’t she?”

“She was,” said Mazael.

“So was Brandon.”

They stared at each other in silence.

Mazael looked away first. “No sense standing about all day.”

A ghost of smile flickered across Morebeth’s face. “Of course not.”

###

“Mazael, my friend!” said Lord Malden. “Come, sit! I see you had a successful hunt.”

“Of a sort,” said Mazael.

They found Lord Malden and Sir Tobias encamped at the edge of the Lords’ Wood. Sir Tobias’s party had claimed a half-dozen stags, while Lord Malden’s hounds had run several foxes to bay. The huntsmen, pages, and squires busied themselves preparing the kills. Both Lord Malden and Sir Tobias seemed in excellent spirits.

“We had best go at once,” said Mazael.

“Whatever for?” said Lord Malden, his full attention on Claretta, who sat besides him.

Mazael pulled free the changeling’s head, the snake-eyes glazed and staring. A stunned silence fell over the hunters. Lord Malden blinked once.

“My lord Mazael,” he said, “you certainly hunt exotic prey.”

“There were about thirty of them,” said Mazael, “led by Sir Roger Gravesend, who’s been trying to kill Lady Rachel for weeks. I rode them down, scattered them, killed several, but Gravesend got away.”

Lord Malden’s eyes flicked to Morebeth. “And you did this all by yourself?”

Morebeth didn’t blink. “It would be most unbecoming for a lady to take up arms.” Her gray eyes sparkled with amusement. “And Mazael is the mightiest warrior I have yet met.”

“They were planning to kill you,” said Mazael. “And me, and Lady Rachel, and your sons.” He left out Lord Richard. Lord Malden might approve, after all.

“Did they?” said Lord Malden, still gazing at the head. “We shall have to increase our guard.”

Mazael nodded. “We ought to leave at once.”

“No,” murmured Lord Malden, “no, it’s almost nightfall. No sense blundering about in the dark. We’ll leave at daybreak.”

Mazael had yet another sleepless night, though less pleasant than those he had spent with Morebeth. He spent all night on guard, watching, waiting for Sir Roger and the changelings to strike.

But no attack came, and they rode to Knightcastle the next morning.

###

Mazael found Brother Trocend in a forgotten corner of Knightcastle.

Trocend occupied a warren of mismatched rooms created by successive expansions to the castle. He sat a writing desk in a tower chamber, near a balcony overlooking the Riversteel. Shelves of enormous ledgers occupied one wall, and cages occupied the other wall, pigeons cooing and flapping their wings. Trocend used the birds as messengers, sending Lord Malden’s commands throughout Knightrealm.

“Ah, Lord Mazael,” said Trocend, clad in a voluminous monk’s robe. He did not look up from the papers on his desk. “What brings you to the home of this humble clerk?”

“I need your help,” said Mazael.

Trocend gave him a thin smile. “I am always eager to serve.”

“You might not be.” Mazael unwrapped the changeling head. The thing had begun to rot, and smelled quite unpleasant, but the black-slit eyes still glared.

“Damnation.” Trocend sighed. “I rather doubted they would give up.”

“A group of thirty, in the Lords’ Wood,” said Mazael, “they were plotting to kill Lord Malden. Sir Roger Gravesend was with them.”

“You really should have killed him,” said Trocend.

“A mistake I intend to rectify,” said Mazael. “I’m sure there are San-keth changelings in the castle, somewhere. And Straganis might still be alive.” He omitted Lucan’s discoveries. “I want you to use your…special talents to find the San-keth changelings, if you can.”

“I see,” said Trocend. He folded his hands. “You brought your court wizard. Why not use him?”

“Timothy’s talents do not lie in divination,” said Mazael.

“And where do they lie?”

“In good sense.”

Trocend smiled. “A rare commodity.”

“The changelings will try to kill Lord Malden,” said Mazael. “I realize you might prefer Gerald and Rachel to remain unwed...”

“Do you imply that I would stand by and let the San-keth murder them?” said Trocend. “Yes, I wish Lord Malden would turn his attention from the Grim Marches. But I am Lord Malden’s servant, and I carry out his will. I serve the Lord of Knightcastle.”

“And if the San-keth kill Lord Malden and his sons, there will be no Lord of Knightcastle,” said Mazael. “I need your help. Lord Malden needs your help.”

Trocend sighed. “As you wish, Lord Mazael. I will look. Bear in mind, however, that I do not promise success. Divination is not a precise science.”

“I will,” said Mazael.

“Leave the head,” said Trocend. He smiled his thin smile. “I will require…components…for my spells.”

Mazael nodded and tried not to shudder.

2

Hammer of the Old Kingdoms

Mazael awoke well before dawn.

He had not slept at all well. His nightmares conjured visions of the San-keth slaughtering Lord Malden’s court, Roger Gravesend slamming a dagger into Rachel’s back, yellow eyes staring at him from the darkness.

He yawned, turned his head, and almost screamed.

Morebeth’s head lay in a pool of blood.

But it was only her hair spread out across the pillow. Mazael stared at her sleeping face, feeling both foolish and guilty. Suppose the San-keth killed her to get at him? Suppose she died just for having known him?

Mazael rolled out of bed, trying to push aside the dark thoughts.

He walked onto the room’s small balcony. It had a splendid view of Castle Town and the Riversteel. Stars blazed overhead, the eastern sky beginning to brighten. The maze of tents and pavilions surrounding Castle Town had doubled.

Mazael stared at the tents. Lord Malden’s tournament began tomorrow. Hundreds of minor lords, landless knights, and their followers had swarmed to Knightcastle, eager for wealth and glory. How many San-keth changelings hid amongst them? Or, for, that matter, how many hid in Knightcastle itself, waiting for a chance to strike?

The prospect of his own death did not faze him. He worried for too many other people.

“Cannot sleep?”

Morebeth walked naked on the balcony, the faint dawn turning her pale skin rosy. The sight sent a pleasant shock down Mazael’s nerves, but only added to his burdened mind. He had spent almost every night with her since returning to Knightcastle. It had been nothing more than desire at first, nothing more than a yearning for her in his arms, but that had begun to change. He was not in love with her, not by any means, but he had begun thinking of her as an ally, and perhaps even as a friend.

Sometimes he wandered what she really thought of him. It was hard to read anything through her usual cold mask.

“Nothing to say?” she said, amused. “Or will you simply stand there and stare?”

“You’re unclad,” said Mazael.

“Observant. And so are you,” said Morebeth.

“Someone will see us.”

Morebeth yawned, hair sliding against her back and shoulders. “Let them. I care nothing for what they think. I was a proper lady all my life, and it has brought me nothing but misery.”

Mazael thought of Rachel. “I think I understand.”

Morebeth laughed. “You are a man, so you do not, but I forgive you.” She wrapped her hands around the balcony’s rail. “Will you ride in the tournament tomorrow?”

“I will,” said Mazael. “Lord Malden would take it amiss if I do not.”

“You worry a great deal about what he thinks,” said Morebeth.

Mazael found himself staring at her and forced himself to look away. “I do. He could, if he chose, bring ruin and war to my people. I cannot let that happen.”

“So you will instead carry war and ruin to the Dominiars?” said Morebeth. Her tone conveyed neither anger nor approval.

“If I must.” Mazael watched her eyes. “Does that anger you?”

“It should.” Morebeth looked at the valley, hair blowing across her face like a veil. “Yet it does not. I have lived in Mastaria all my life, yet I care nothing for the Dominiar Order.”

“What do you care about, my lady?” said Mazael.

Morebeth’s slim shoulders rippled. “I don’t really know, any more.” She pushed aside her hair and looked at him. “But what of you, my lord? What do you care about? You seem as if you know.”

Mazael looked back at her. “I want to keep my sister safe. I want peace. I don’t want my people, my lands, to suffer the horrors of war.”

“Why not?” said Morebeth. “Do not knights glory in war?”

“Most do,” said Mazael. “I did, once. But that was long ago.” He stared at her, and almost told her everything. Only Lucan knew his secret, the truth of his nature, and he offered Mazael no comfort. “It…I…”

“Shh.” She pressed up against him and put her fingers over his mouth. “You are nobler than most lords, I think. You will have peace. I think you are strong enough to make your own peace, force the others to follow you.” She took his hand, drawing him back into bedchamber. “Come. I know what will drive these shadows from your mind.”

“You always say that,” said Mazael, letting her lead him.

She smiled and sat on the bed, legs curling beneath her. “And I am always right, am I not?”

And as it turned out, she was right yet again.

“Shall you carry my colors when you ride tomorrow?” she murmured into his chest, after they had finished

“Perhaps,” said Mazael. “I wonder what they’ll say.”

“That Lord Mazael rides with his mistress’s colors,” said Morebeth. “What matter what they think? Even Lord Malden spends more time with his mistress than…”

Someone hammered at the door.

Mazael growled. “What?”

“Lord Mazael!” It was Adalar. “Lord Malden wants you at once.”

“Why?” said Mazael.

There was a pause. “Is Lady Morebeth…with you?” His voice crackled with disapproval.

“I’ll ask once more. Why?” said Mazael.

“A group of Dominiars are riding for Knightcastle’s gates, flying a banner of parley” said Adalar. “Lord Malden’s going to ride out and meet them himself, and he wants you with him. And…Sir Commander Amalric wants Lady Morebeth to join him.”

“Damn him,” muttered Morebeth. “I had best go. And so should you.” She rolled from the bed in a lithe motion, scooped up her clothing, and vanished through the hidden door to the Trysting Ways.

Mazael walked to the door and unbarred it, letting Adalar inside. “Help me dress.”

Adalar’s mouth was a tight line of disapproval, but he nodded and helped Mazael don his formal clothes.

“You seem distressed,” said Mazael.

Adalar adjusted Lion in its scabbard. “I am happy to serve my lord.” He stepped back. “And his lady, should he have one.”

“Not this again,” said Mazael. “Don’t you have any urges, boy?”

Adalar said nothing.

“Well?”

“My father would not approve of what you are doing,” said Adalar.

“I’ve done a lot of things Sir Nathan would not approve,” said Mazael. “Yes, I suspect this to be one of them. Your father is a great man, Adalar, but he’s not always right. Lady Morebeth is willing, am I willing, she lost her husband, and I…I lost…” Mazael shook his head. “We comfort each other. Gods damn it, Adalar. I wouldn’t tolerate these questions from anyone else. Well, maybe Sir Gerald, but he would know better than to ask. Listen to me. I don’t want to talk about this again. Understand?”

Adalar nodded. Some of the rancor faded from his face. Yet…yet something in his eyes…

Adalar was afraid of him. Over Morebeth? That made no sense.

“Is there anything else?” said Mazael.

Adalar shook his head, too quickly. “No. Nothing.”

“Are you certain?”

“Lord Malden said we should make haste,” said Adalar.

“As you will,” said Mazael. “But we will talk later.”

He followed Adalar to the High Court, where Mantle stood saddled and waiting. Mazael swung up into the saddle. Adalar mounted and picked up a lance flying the Cravenlock banner.

“Lord Malden awaits us in the lower barbican,” said Adalar.

Mazael nodded, adjusted his cloak, and kicked Mantle to a trot, riding through Knightcastle’s maze of courtyards and ramps until he came to the great barbican. There Lord Malden sat atop his stallion, surrounded by his household knights. Sir Garain waited by Lord Malden’s side, yawning, and Trocend sat sunk in his monk’s robe. Mazael wondered if Trocend had found any trace of the San-keth.

On the far side of the barbican waited a group of Dominiar Knights, Sir Commander Amalric at their head. Morebeth sat at his side, in her mourning veil again. Near them stood the Justiciars with Sir Commander Galan at their head, scowling at the Dominiars, who scowled right back.

“Ah, Lord Mazael,” said Lord Malden. He seemed indifferent to the tension. “I will be glad for your counsel.”

“Have the Dominiars sent another embassy?” said Mazael.

“Not at all,” said Lord Malden. “Grand Master Malleus is coming here himself.”

“What?” said Mazael.

“I rather expect he has come to offer congratulations and gifts on the occasion of my son’s wedding,” said Lord Malden. “Or maybe he wishes to ride in the tournament. And, perhaps, to discuss the minor matter of Tumblestone, which has caused some petty quarrels in the past.”

Mazael said nothing. Malleus would not come to Knightcastle to celebrate a wedding, or to ride in the tournament. Only one thing would bring the Grand Master of the Dominiar Knights to Lord Malden’s castle.

Malleus had come to demand Tumblestone back.

And when Lord Malden refused, war would begin.

“No sense in keeping our illustrious guest waiting eh?” said Lord Malden. “Let us ride out and meet him. “

They rode out the gate and down the road towards Castle Town, the Justiciars and the Dominiars flanking Lord Malden’s party. A group of black-armored horsemen waited below Castle Town's gates. They carried the banner of the Dominiars knights, a silver star on a black field, and the personal banner of Malleus, a golden hammer on black. Lord Malden raised his hand, and his party reined up.

One man rode out from the newcomers. He wore well-crafted black plate armor, the breastplate adorned with a relief of two crossed hammers. Above his breastplate, the man had a leonine mane of white hair and an enormous white mustache. Mazael had never seen the man before, but knew him at once.

Malleus, Grand Master of the Dominiar Order. The man who had led a triumphant crusade to distant lands, who had conquered the Old Kingdoms, who had almost defeated Lord Malden and conquered Knightcastle. Some believed him the greatest living commander of armies. Mazael believed it. If he had not defeated Aeternis outside Tumblestone, nothing could have stopped Malleus.

Lord Malden and Malleus stared at each other, waiting for the other to make the first move.

Sir Garain spurred forward, breaking the silence. “Grand Master Malleus, I am Sir Garain Roland. Permit me to welcome you to Knightcastle, and to introduce my illustrious father, Lord Malden Roland.”

Malleus smiled beneath his mustache. “An honor, Sir Garain.” He had a voice like a booming drum. “Your son is fairly spoken, Lord Malden. A worthy heir to the throne of Knightcastle.”

“He does my house honor,” said Lord Malden, with a smile that did not reach his eyes, “as do you, Grand Master. Knightcastle has not hosted such an illustrious guest for quite some time.”

“Why, I wish to offer congratulations to your noble son and his fair bride,” said Malleus, “on the upcoming joy of their marriage. And rumor of your most excellent tournament has spread far and wide. I am an old man, and though I cannot take part in such things anymore,” he waved his hand, “my preceptors and commanders are eager for renown and glory. I’m sure you understand, eh?”

“But of course,” said Lord Malden. “After all, my son Mandor won great glory in the conquest of Tumblestone, did he not?”

An uneasy rustle went through the Dominiar Knights.

“I’m sure,” said Malleus, turning his head. “Ah! Sir Commander Amalric! There you are. Come here, my friend.”

Amalric rode past Mazael, reined up before Malleus, and bowed deep from the saddle. “Grand Master. How might I serve you?”

His voice was quiet and calm, like a frozen sword.

“Amalric.” A genuine smile spread across Malleus’s face, and he gripped the younger man’s arm. “How have matters proceeded?”

“Well, Grand Master,” said Amalric. “All has gone as you wished.”

“Good, good,” said the old man. “We’ll speak more later.”

Amalric bowed again.

“Young Amalric has been a tremendous boon to the Dominiar Order,” said Malleus to Lord Malden, “my strong right arm. Once I am gone, I believe he will make a fine Grand Master.”

“No doubt,” said Lord Malden.

Malleus’s eyes fell on Mazael. “And this is Lord Mazael, I take it? Ah…of course. I recognize that sword of Aeternis’s. I suppose Malden has promised you vast lands in Mastaria?”

Mazael met the old man’s sharp gaze. “Nothing of the sort. I want peace.”

Malleus laughed. “Don’t we all? Ah, Lord Malden…you must show me Knightcastle. I have heard so much about it, but never have had the opportunity to see it with my own eyes. Lord Mazael saw to that, did he not?”

“Of course,” said Lord Malden. “Knightcastle is mine, but I have no qualms about letting others see its splendor.”

“Then let us begin at once,” said Malleus. “And mayhap we can discuss a few…trifling matters of mutual interest, no?”

Lord Malden’s smile never wavered, not a bit, but his eyes had turned to ice. “Of course.”

They rode to the castle in silence.

Chapter 6

1

Tournament

The day of Lord Malden’s grand tournament dawned.

Armies of workmen descended on the fields outside Knightcastle, raising the lists, assembling benches, and building platforms for the ladies and the great lords. Throngs of peasants from the countryside and townsfolk from Castle Town surrounded the tournament field. Merchants sold food and ale, armor and weapons. Jongleurs wandered the crowd, singing ballads of heroic deeds. A few enterprising fellows set up betting pools, the good money riding on Tobias Roland and Amalric Galbraith.

Mazael watched the crowd from the walls of the High Court, wondering how many San-keth changelings hid among them. He had heard nothing from Trocend, and Lucan had disappeared yet again.

“Lord,” grunted Adalar, “I’ll never get this breastplate adjusted if you keep fidgeting.”

“I’m not fidgeting,” said Mazael.

“Fine. Then stop sighing. And complaining,” said Adalar.

Mazael gave him a look.

Adalar grunted again. “You ought to get a new breastplate. This one looks like a peasant’s cook pot.”

“It suffices,” said Mazael. He wore a mail coat, gauntlets, a helmet, and a cuirass, all of it well-used. “And it has saved my life on more than one occasion.”

“It looks bad,” said Adalar, buckling Mazael’s sword belt.

“That’s what the surcoat is for,” said Mazael.

Adalar shook his head and helped Mazael don the surcoat.

“You’re going to the squires’ melee, I hope,” said Mazael.

Adalar nodded.

“The prize is substantial,” said Mazael. “A hundred gold pieces, three horses, a suit of plate. If you win, you’ll be quite well equipped once you become a knight.”

Adalar stepped back and scowled at Mazael’s armor again.

“Once we return to the Grim Marches, I think it is time you were knighted,” said Mazael.

Adalar’s head jerked up in surprise.

“It’s almost time,” said Mazael. “By the time we return home, you’ll be more than old enough. I hope you’ll swear to my service then.”

“I don’t know,” said Adalar. “I…was thinking about striking out my own…”

Mazael frowned. “Why? I…”

Adalar peered at the barbican. “They’re lining up. My lord, we’d better go.”

Mazael frowned, but followed his squire to the stables. Adalar already had Chariot saddled and waiting. The big destrier stamped his hoofs, eager for combat. Mazael grinned, patted Chariot on the neck, and clambered into the saddle.

“Eager devil,” muttered Mazael. He remembered feeling that way about battle. Still, it was just a tournament. And he had used more lances in war than in sport. “Let’s get on with it.”

Mazael and Adalar rode to the barbican, the Cravenlock banner billowing from Adalar’s lance. Hundreds of landless knights, minor lords, and a few greater lords eager for glory waited in the barbican. More than a few Justiciar and Dominiar knights traded barbed glances. Mazael had never seen so many knights gathered for a single tournament.

Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith sat atop his horse, watching the assembled knights like a wolf overlooking sheep. Sir Garain wove here and there through the knights, lining them up according to rank. Then Lord Malden’s heralds rode to the gate, their banners billowing.

“The time has come,” they boomed, “and Lord Malden summons you to the Field of Valor.”

The knights galloped out in a long line, squires riding at their sides, banners flapping overhead. Garain, Tobias, and Gerald led the way, their Roland banners almost bluer than the sky itself. Mazael followed them, Chariot’s hooves pounding the road. Amalric Galbraith rode at his side, eyes lost in thought, and made no effort to speak.

A dull roar reached Mazael’s ears. He looked up, wondering if the weather had turned sour, and realized it was the cheering of the crowds gathered for the tournament.

Long wooden lists had been raised, and spare lances stood like a forest around the edge of the field. Beyond lay an empty field for the squires’ melee, and another lined with archery butts. An army of grooms stood ready to manage the horses. A wooden platform overlooked the lists, and Lord Malden sat there, Grand Master Malleus at his side. The heralds thundered the names of the knights, and one by one they rode past Lord Malden’s platform and saluted.

Mazael took Chariot past the platform, saluted, received Lord Malden’s regal nod in return. Rachel sat in the front row, smiling at Mazael and Gerald. Behind her sat Morebeth, all in black, her cold eyes glinting over the top of her veil. Mazael smiled at her, and she parted the veil just long enough to smile back at him.

Amalric scowled at Mazael.

The heralds blew their trumpets, and one climbed the railing of Lord Malden’s platform.

“Lords noble and ladies fair!” called the herald, his voice ringing, “knights-errant and Knights Justiciar and Dominiar, folk of Castle Town, merchants and travelers, and all the free folk of Knightrealm, my noble Lord Malden bids you welcome to this, his tournament!”

Lord Malden favored the crowds with a shallow nod.

The herald waited for the cheers to die. “Many knights have come to compete for glory and renown. Only the noblest, the most valiant, the most chivalrous, the most puissant at arms, the true knight, shall be crowned victor of this tournament!” He swung his fist over the fields. “The squires shall test their skills at the blade, and the archers shall contest their mastery of the bow!”

The Archbishop of Knightrealm, a timid old man too fearful to breathe without Lord Malden’s express permission, tottered forward and said a prayer to the gods, calling on Joraviar the Sacred Knight to lend his strength to the combatants, for the Holy Lady Amater to lend womanly courage to the knights’ wives and sisters and mothers, and for Amatheon, father of all, to bless the tournament.

“And now!” said the herald, “Lord Malden bids you to ride!”

The knights dispersed to their tents and pavilions, save for Sir Tobias and a young Dominiar preceptor, who took their places at either end of the lists. Mazael reined up next to Lord Malden’s platform, slid from the saddle, and bought a goblet of wine from a peddler. Adalar stood stiff and formal at his side, watching the knights.

The heralds loosed a trumpet blast, and Sir Tobias and the Dominiar galloped at each other. Sir Tobias’s lance caught the Dominiar square in the chest. The black-armored knight fell with a mighty clatter, and Tobias galloped past. A few Dominiar squires and a surgeon hastened the fallen knight from the field.

Mazael glanced at the platform. Lord Malden clapped and grinned, while Malleus sat still, his face a calm mask.

Adalar snorted. “That was quick.”

“Sir Tobias is built like a brick wall,” said Mazael. “That Dominiar could have hit him with a hammer and not made a dent.”

He glanced back into a nearby tent. Timothy sat cross-legged on floor, eyes closed, hands clutching a wire-wrapped quartz crystal. The wizard kept watch over Lord Malden’s platform with his magic, waiting for any San-keth changelings to approach.

For the thousandth time, Mazael wondered what had happened to Lucan.

“It ought to be easy,” muttered Mazael, “to find an old man selling cheese.”

“Lord?” said Adalar.

“Nothing,” said Mazael.

A Justiciar preceptor and a Dominiar preceptor rode against each other next, broke two lances, and succeeded in unhorsing each other on the third. The Justiciar broke his arm, the Dominiar a leg, and the squires carried both from the field.

“He was holding his lance wrong,” muttered Adalar. “My father would have boxed his ears.”

“No doubt,” agreed Mazael. As a boy he had suffered many such punishments from Sir Nathan, and the lessons had served him well.

Next Gerald rode against Tobias. Gerald’s armor gleamed like silver, his shield like a mirror, and an exhausted-looking Wesson stomped after him. A silken lady’s scarf had been tied around Gerald’s right arm, no doubt a favor from Rachel. Mazael leaned forward, watching with interest.

The trumpets sounded, and the brothers rode at each other.

They broke lances on the first ride, and the second, both men swaying in the saddle like drunkards. Rachel winced with every blow. On the third lance Gerald caught Tobias’s thrust on his shield and sent the blunted tip of his own lance right into Tobias’s chest. Tobias sailed from the saddle in a smooth arc. Gerald jumped from his horse, helped Tobias up, and the two brothers bowed to each other.

The crowds loved it. Mazael heard Grand Master Malleus complement Lord Malden on his courteous sons. Rachel’s eyes almost shone with pride. Mazael laughed and bought another flagon of wine.

Despite his worries, Mazael began to enjoy himself.

The herald’s called his name. Mazael drained his wine in one gulp and mounted Chariot. The big horse stamped and whinnied in eagerness. Mazael pulled on his helmet, took his shield and first lance from Adalar, and rode to the end of the lists.

Sir Commander Galan Hawking waited at the other end of the field, resplendent in his armor and blue Justiciar cloak. He lifted an eyebrow, saluted with his lance, and dropped his visor. Mazael saluted back and waited.

The trumpets sounded.

Chariot surged forward of his own volition. Mazael dropped the reins and readied his lance and shield, trusting Chariot’s instincts. Sir Commander Galan thundered towards him, faceless in armor and helmet. Mazael set himself and gripped his shield tighter. Galan’s lance exploded against his shield. The blow nearly dislocated Mazael’s arm, but he kept his saddle, his lance skidding off Galan’s breastplate.

They wheeled around at the end of the lists. Both men snatched up fresh lances. Mazael had Galan’s measure now. The man kept his shield too low.

The trumpets blew again. Chariot leapt forward, Mazael shifting his balance. Galan came at him, lance high, and dropped the tip at the last minute. Mazael lowered his shield, caught the lance, and sent his own lance arcing over Galan’s shield. It crashed into Galan’s breastplate, just beneath his gorget, and sent the Justiciar tumbling. Mazael reined up and wheeled around. Galan lay supine for a moment, groaned, and then tottered back to his feet.

“Are you injured?” said Mazael.

“Nay,” growled Galan, staggering. A Justiciar squire hurried forward and helped him along, while another took the reins of his horse. “Your family never seems to bring me anything but misfortune.”

He tottered from the field, grumbling.

“I did save your life,” Mazael pointed out, to nobody. He shrugged and rode back to Adalar, who took the reins.

“That was good, my lord,” said Adalar, grinning. “You took him in two passes.”

“He wasn’t trying,” said Mazael, swinging down. “The others will be harder.”

“Mazael!” Rachel waved at him from the platform. “That was grand.”

Mazael did a little bow. “Thank you, my lady.”

“I can’t decide if I want you or Gerald to win,” said Rachel. “Wouldn’t it be splendid if you unhorsed each other simultaneously in the final pass, and both won the tournament?”

“My back groans at the thought,” said Mazael. He looked up and saw Morebeth smiling at him, felt the familiar jolt, and smiled back.

Sir Aulus went against Sir Commander Aeternis of the Dominiars next. Sir Aulus lasted for two passes, but went down on the third, and limped from the field with a rueful grin.

“Are you all right?” Mazael called.

Sir Aulus nodded. “This is still better than spending time with my wife.”

More knights mounted, charged at each other, knocked each other from the saddle. The sun climbed higher, and the day began to grow warmer. Mazael wished he could remove his armor.

Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith rode twice, first against a Justiciar preceptor, the second-time against a hard-looking knight of Lord Malden’s household. Amalric took both men from the saddle in the first pass and broke one of the Justiciar’s legs. Mazael watched Amalric with cold interest. The man was very good. Morebeth sat rigid and unsmiling as Amalric rode.

Then Mazael had to ride again, this time against Sir Garain Roland. He stifled a wince as he mounted up. Sir Garain was Lord Malden’s chancellor, the glue that kept Knightrealm together, but he was not a skilled fighter. That was Sir Tobias’s task.

The trumpets sounded, and Mazael let Garain break two lances. On the third pass he knocked Garain from the saddle with the least force he could manage. Garain wobbled back to his feet and bowed to the crowd, which cheered him. Everyone respected Sir Garain. Mazael sighed in relief. Hurting Sir Garain would have not pleased Lord Malden.

The heralds blew another blast, and the jousting halted for the squires’ melee.

“My lord, are you coming?” said Adalar.

“I am,” said Mazael. He turned and saw Trocend standing behind Lord Malden’s platform, beckoning to him. “In a moment. Go! They’ll start without you.”

Adalar dug through their piled equipment, snatched out his sword, and broke into a run. Mazael pushed past the milling spectators and made his way to Trocend’s side.

“You’ve ridden well today, my lord,” said Trocend. “The Justiciars are so feared that everyone expected Sir Commander Galan to unhorse you.” He loosed a dry chuckle. “You ought to see the bet-makers scramble to rework their numbers.”

“Have you found anything?” said Mazael.

Trocend smiled, reached into his robe, and produced a small glass jar filled with clear liquid. The yellow eye of a changeling floated within, rotating.

“A grisly trophy,” said Mazael.

“A trophy?” said Trocend. “What use has a simple clerk for a trophy?” He shook his head. “It acts as a compass.” He held the jar steady, and the eye rotated to point at Knightcastle. “It points at San-keth changelings.”

“Then they’re at Knightcastle?” said Mazael.

Trocend nodded. “Some, at any rate. I’ve had a busy night.” He beckoned again, and walked to a drab tent. Mazael followed him, watching the spinning eye. Trocend lifted the flap of the tent and pointed.

Six dead changelings lay within.

“A busy night, indeed,” said Mazael.

“Two were working in the kitchen,” said Trocend. “One masqueraded as a beggar at the gates of Castle Town.” He shook his head. “A fourth was a servant with the Dominiars.”

“The Dominiars?” said Mazael. “Do they know?”

Trocend shook his head. “They’ll assume the servant ran off.”

“What of the other two?” said Mazael.

“I don’t know.” Trocend toed one of the corpses. “I found them.”

“Where?” said Mazael.

“In the Trysting Ways,” said Trocend. “Someone killed them by magical means.” He shrugged. “A San-keth cleric, most likely. Perhaps there was dissension in the ranks.”

“Perhaps,” said Mazael. Or had Lucan killed them? “How did you get the bodies here? Did you move them yourself?”

Trocend gave him a thin smile. “Well…not entirely by myself. My spirit-servants brought the bodies here, and will dispose of them once we are finished.”

Mazael suppressed a shudder. “How many changelings are left?”

Trocend shrugged. “Dozens, probably.”

“Dozens?”

“Yes. I see you set Timothy to keep watch over Lord Malden,” said Trocend. “An excellent idea; I taught him a better spell than the one he was using. Best to have him keep watch over Lord Malden at all times, until I can exterminate these changelings. I’ll arrange a watch kept over the kitchens.”

“No need,” said Mazael, remembering how close Blackfang had come to killing Rachel. “The changelings kill with poisoned daggers, or with their bites, but not food.”

Trocend nodded. “One less worry. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must continue. Best if we are not seen together more than necessary.” He wrapped himself again in his cloak and vanished into the crowds. Mazael stared after him, scowling.

Where the devil had Lucan gone?

He shook aside the thought and jumped back into Chariot’s saddle. Brooding achieved nothing, after all. Mazael walked Chariot through the crowds, who hastened to get out of the big horse’s way, and came to the squires’ melee.

The four hundred squires attending the tournament had been divided into four teams. A ring of Lord Malden’s heralds surrounded their field, accompanied by archers. As the squires battled with wooden weapons, the heralds called out the names of those who had been eliminated, who then left the field. Failure to comply earned a blunted fowling arrow from the archers.

Mazael spotted Adalar, who fought side by side with Wesson. Adalar caught a descending slash, twisted around, and struck his attacker across the back of the legs. The bigger boy went down with a howl. Mazael grinned; he had taught Adalar that move. The defeated squire rose with a growl, stalking towards Adalar, and caught a blunted arrow in the rump for his efforts.

Wesson went down with a blow across the knee and shuffled from the field, muttering. Adalar remained fighting, wheeling, ducking, dodging slashing. Mazael watched with some pride. The boy was good, very good, and Mazael knew he would only become better. Adalar parried, took his wooden sword in both hands, and knocked another squire over.

The melee raged on. One by one, the squires walked from the field. In few cases the fallen squires had to be carried. Adalar remained in the melee. Sweat poured down his face, his chest heaved, and his face was locked in a grimace, but Adalar remained untouched.

Finally it came down to Adalar and another squire, a young man in Dominiar black. The two youths circled each other, feinting, wooden blades licking out. Both combatants were winded. The Dominiar squire lunged forward, feinted high, and swung low. Adalar caught the blow and hopped back, trying to circle around the Dominiar squire. The Dominiar rushed at him, slamming hard on Adalar’s sword. Adalar stumbled back, fighting for balance, and the Dominiar sprang. Mazael winced, thinking it over.

But Adalar twisted in a feint even Mazael had not seen, and came up behind the Dominiar. His sword smacked across the Dominiar’s back, the other squire fell, and Adalar stood victorious.

For a moment silence reined, and then the crowds cheered in delight, Mazael’s voice raised with theirs. A herald came onto the field, lifted Adalar’s arm, and proclaimed him the victor. Others came out leading three horses loaded with a full suit of plate and a hundred gold pieces. Some of the squires swarmed around Adalar, slapping him on the back and offering him congratulations, while some of the others stalked away, scowling. Adalar took the reins of the lead horse, wooden sword dangling from his free hand, and looked about in weary bewilderment.

“Well done, Adalar,” said Mazael, riding to his squire’s side, “well done.”

Adalar wiped sweat from his brow and smiled. “Thank you, lord.”

Wesson appeared, bearing a pitcher of mixed wine. “Here.” He grunted. “You look thirsty.”

Adalar grinned and drained off most of the pitcher in one gulp. “Thank you. Lord, we had best go, you’ll need to ride again soon…”

“Rest,” said Mazael. He glanced at the horses. “Take care of your loot first. Once you’re ready, come help me. I can manage well enough until then.”

“But…”

Mazael pointed. “Rest.”

“You heard him,” said Wesson.

Adalar nodded, sweaty hair falling across his eyes. “All right. If you command.”

“I do,” said Mazael. “Now rest.”

“If you ride back to the lists now, so you’re not late,” said Adalar.

Mazael laughed. “As the champion commands.”

He steered Chariot through the crowds and reined up besides Lord Malden’s platform. The jousting had begun again some time earlier. Mazael arrived just in time to see Sir Commander Aeternis unhorse a young Dominiar Knight.

“By the gods!” roared Aeternis, shaking his head. “I taught you to ride when you were a boy! When did you start holding your shield so low?” The young Dominiar retreated under a hail of withering criticism.

Then it was Mazael’s turn to ride against Aeternis. He rode to the end of the lists and snatched up a lance. Chariot bared his teeth, recognizing to the Dominiar commander.

“So we face each other again, eh?” called Aeternis.

“So we do,” said Mazael.

“Let’s hope it’s not another Tumblestone,” said Aeternis.

Mazael said nothing, Chariot pawing at the earth. The heralds blew the trumpets, and Mazael and Aeternis rode. Mazael caught Aeternis’s blow on his shield, but the force of it nearly dislocated his arm. His own blow cracked into Aeternis’s shield. The other man reeled, black armor clanking, but managed to keep his seat. One of Lord Malden’s squires brought Mazael a fresh lance. The trumpets sounded again, and Chariot’s hooves tore at the trampled grass.

Both lances exploded in a spray of splinters. Mazael grunted, threw the ruined lance down to one of the waiting squires, and flexed his aching hand. Aeternis was very good.

Then the trumpets sounded again, and Mazael had no time to think, only to do. Mazael’s lance broke again against Aeternis’s shield, and Aeternis’s lance hit Mazael’s shield and slid down to shatter against his breastplate. A roaring cheer went up from the spectators. No joust had yet lasted more than three passes. Mazael pulled off his helmet, wiped the sweat from his brow, saw Lord Malden and Malleus whispering to each other, saw Morebeth watching him with interest. Mazael set his helmet back on, his mind racing. Aeternis was strong and fast, but Mazael thought Chariot a little faster than Aeternis’s destrier.

The trumpets rang for the fourth time. Aeternis came forward at a full gallop, lance angled for Mazael’s chest, while Mazael only kicked Chariot to a rapid trot. Chariot whinnied in displeasure, but obeyed. Aeternis leaned ahead, aiming for Mazael’s breastplate. At the last second, Mazael booted Chariot to a full gallop, and the big horse surged forward. Aeternis’s lance caught the edge of Mazael’s shield, nearly twisting it from his arm, but Mazael had just enough time to slam his lance into Aeternis’s chest. For a moment the Dominiar commander teetered, but he fell with a clattering crash. An exulting cheer went up from the crowds, and Mazael saw Lord Malden applaud, Malleus’s face settling into a calm mask. Aeternis grunted, wheezed, and marched off the field with a rueful shake of his head.

Mazael rode back to Lord Malden’s platform and found Adalar waiting for him.

“I told you to get some rest,” said Mazael, swinging down from the saddle.

Adalar handed him a flagon of mixed wine. “I did. And Wesson took care of the prize for me.”

“If you insist,” said Mazael, drinking the entire flagon in three gulps. “Gods, it’s getting hot out.”

“Mazael!”

He saw Rachel hurrying towards him, a wide smile on her face. “You missed it! Gerald defeated a Justiciar commander, unhorsed him on the second pass. And you were magnificent. I thought Aeternis had you on the third pass.”

Mazael laughed and caught his sister in a rough hug. “Come, now! You think I’d let him unhorse me? I’d never hear the end of it.”

“And young Adalar,” she said. Adalar bowed. “I heard you won great honor in the squires’ melee."

“My lady,” said Adalar. “I was but fortunate.”

“A squire like you makes his own fortune, I think,” said Rachel. “Mazael, might I speak with you for a moment?”

Mazael frowned. “If you wish. Adalar, keep an eye on Chariot.”

They walked off a small distance, found a quiet corner behind a tent where they could speak.

“What’s wrong?” said Mazael.

“I had an interesting conversation this morning, while watching the tourney,” said Rachel. “I made the acquaintance of Lady Morebeth Galbraith.”

Mazael stifled a wince, bracing himself for the sermon on the evils of keeping a mistress.

“She seems a gentle lady,” said Rachel. “Did you know her husband died while under her brother’s command?”

“I…heard a rumor of that nature,” said Mazael.

“She never said it,” continued Rachel, “but I wonder if Sir Commander Amalric made sure that Lady Morebeth’s husband died in the battle.”

“Possibly,” said Mazael, shaking his head. He remembered what Aeternis had told him about Amalric, tales of women and children dying atop stakes. “He…seems a hard man.”

“He does,” said Rachel, staring at the ground for a moment. “I think you ought to marry Lady Morebeth.”

Mazael coughed. “I beg your pardon?”

“I think she would make you a good wife,” said Rachel. “Mazael…you cannot stay unwed forever. I…I know Romaria’s death was…hard…”

“It was.”

“A man needs a wife,” said Rachel. “You do. Else…otherwise why would you take up with so many mistresses?” Mazael said nothing. “You…should have a wife, Mazael. The Lord of Castle Cravenlock should have one.”

“Since you’re soon to be wed yourself, I assume you’ll be playing the matchmaker of Castle Cravenlock for the rest of your days?” said Mazael.

Rachel grinned. “It would fill my time, would it not?” The smile faded, and she took his hand. “Mazael…I know you are not happy. You hide it well, but I can see that many things trouble you. I think…maybe Morebeth could make you happier.”

“Lords wed for alliance and power,” said Mazael. He stared at Rachel. What could he tell her? That he was Demonsouled, and feared falling to his heritage’s corrosive power? That he suspected the Old Demon stood behind the coming war, controlling men like puppets? That the San-keth still plotted to kill her? Still, it cheered him to know that she worried for him. It was good to know somebody did. “I’ll think it over.”

“I can introduce you after the tournament, if you like,” said Rachel.

“Oh,” said Mazael. “We’ve met.”

“You have?” said Rachel. “Did you like her?” Mazael tried to keep his face neutral. “You…” She peered at him, and Mazael felt a surge of alarm. He kept quite a few secrets from Rachel, but she sometimes had an uncanny ability to guess his thoughts.

Rachel’s eyes widened.

“Oh, gods,” mumbled Mazael.

“You didn’t!” said Rachel.

“What of it?” said Mazael.

“She’s a widow!”

“So she’s not married,” said Mazael. He sighed. “If she’s willing, I’m willing…gods, I made this speech already to Adalar, I’ve made it to Gerald a hundred times in the last ten years, and now I’m making it to you.”

“If you’ve bedded her, it is only honorable to marry her,” said Rachel. “Suppose you got her with child?”

Mazael opened his mouth to say that wasn’t possible, but fell silent. He would not betray Morebeth’s trust that way.

“I’m mindful of the danger,” he said, finally.

“Well, good,” said Rachel. “It wouldn’t do for you to have a bastard son. It wouldn’t do at all.”

“I agree,” said Mazael, remembering his previous worries. “You have no idea how much I agree.” He glanced up at the lists. “I have to ride soon.”

Rachel’s eyebrows lifted over her green eyes. “To your vast relief, I’m sure.”

“Vast.” Mazael laughed and kissed her on the cheek. “Wish me luck.”

“I’m not sure I can,” said Rachel. “You’re riding against Gerald, after all.”

“I am?” said Mazael. “This ought to be interesting.”

He hurried back to Adalar, who stood speaking with Wesson.

“I’m sure,” said Wesson, his voice cracking, “that Sir Gerald will unhorse Lord Mazael.”

“Care to make a wager?” said Adalar.

“Boys!” Gerald strode up, armor gleaming, helmet under one arm. “Wagering is an uncouth practice, to be sure.” He smiled at Mazael. “So we are to ride against each other, I suppose?”

“We are,” said Mazael. “Remember what I told you when you were my squire?”

Gerald nodded. “Keep your shield up, hold the lance steady, and lean into it. I ought to remember it. You repeated it often enough.”

“He does repeat things,” said Adalar.

Mazael gave them both a look. “You both remembered it, didn’t you?”

“Let’s see how well I learned, shall we?” said Gerald, holding out his hand.

Mazael gripped it. “I guess we will.”

They rode to either end of the lists. Mazael took yet another lance from Adalar, while Wesson handed one to Gerald. Rachel sat on the dais by Lord Malden, her eyes darting from Gerald, to Mazael, and then back again. The trumpet blast rang out, and Mazael and Gerald rode at each other. They broke lances on the first and second passes. On the third Mazael sent Gerald tumbling in a clean arc to the ground. He wheeled up and rode back as Wesson helped Gerald to rise.

“Are you all right?”

Gerald coughed, rubbing his arm. “Well enough. My pride is bruised, and perhaps my backside.”

They shook hands, to the cheers of the crowd, and Gerald rode from the field and joined Rachel.

The day drew on. The afternoon passed, and the sun began to sink into the west. Mazael rode twice more, both times against skillful household knights, and knocked them both from the saddle. Sir Tobias rode thrice more, and won, to his father’s obvious delight.

Amalric Galbraith won again and again, to the clear annoyance of Morebeth, and the pleasure of Grand Master Malleus.

Mazael wandered to the tables where the heralds toiled, keeping track of the victors and the defeated. To his astonishment, he realized he had a good chance of winning the tournament. He had not been defeated once, and neither had Sir Tobias or Sir Commander Amalric, though Mazael had unhorsed more knights. Consequently Sir Tobias and Amalric would face each other, and then Mazael would ride against the winner.

He found himself hoping Sir Tobias lost.

He very much wanted to ride against Amalric Galbraith.

The penultimate match came, and Sir Tobias and Amalric faced each other across the lists. Mazael watched as the trumpets blared, watched as the two destriers thundered as each other.

They came together with a crash. Amalric caught Tobias’s lance on his shield, shoved down, and rammed his lance into Tobias’s stomach. The blow knocked Tobias from the saddle, and his horse staggered to a halt, dragging Tobias from the right stirrup. The squires hastened out and helped Tobias up, who staggered to the platform, reeling.

Mazael watched Amalric. He had not seen anyone move so fast in quite some time, and no one had ever unhorsed Tobias in one pass.

Then the heralds called his name, and Mazael led Chariot to the lists for the last ride of the day.

2

Black Knights

“Be careful,” whispered Adalar, handing Mazael his lance and shield. “He’s as fast as you.”

Mazael stared at Amalric. The Dominiar commander wore fine black plate, his features hidden beneath a black helm crowned with sweeping eagle’s wings. Dominiar squires swarmed around him, adjusting his armor, his horse’s traces, his shield, lance, and black cloak with the Dominiars’ silver star.

“I think he wants to kill you,” said Adalar.

Mazael glanced at his squire. “It’s a tournament. Sometimes knights get killed.”

“Aye,” said Adalar, “but accidents are one thing, and malice another. I think he wouldn’t have minded killing Sir Tobias. And I don’t think he’d mind killing you.” He hesitated. “You did bed his sister.”

“I told you,” snapped Mazael, “I don’t want to hear…”

The trumpets blasted, and Amalric surged forward. Mazael cursed, caught his balance, and kicked Chariot to a gallop. The Dominiar commander seemed like a statue of black iron atop his horse, immutable and invulnerable. Mazael gritted his teeth, set himself, and brought his lance around.

Amalric shifted his shield, caught Mazael’s lance, and leaned forward. His lance slammed hard into Mazael’s chest, skidding past his shield. It exploded in a spray of splinters, Mazael’s breastplate ringing like a gong. The force knocked Mazael back, almost tearing him from Chariot’s saddle. He flung aside the shattered lance, seized his saddle horn, and managed to keep his balance.

“Gods, that hurt,” muttered Mazael, brushing splinters from his armor.

Adalar sprinted up. “Are you all right? I was sure he cracked your breastbone.”

“No,” said Mazael, trying not to cough. His chest hurt, and he wondered if Amalric’s blow had in fact cracked something.

“I think he’s faster than you,” said Adalar.

“I know,” said Mazael.

“You’ll have to keep your shield up, try to hit him as he hits you,” said Adalar, handing up another lance. “Otherwise he’ll unhorse you before your lance even gets near him.”

The trumpets blared again.

Chariot sprang forward. Mazael set himself, kept his shield up, and rode at Amalric. Their lances exploded against their shields, splinters flying in all directions. The blow slammed Mazael’s shield back, his hand cracking hard against his chest, the rim smacking against his chin. Both men rocked in the saddles, flailing for balance, but neither one fell. Amalric reined up, black cloak billowing like a flock of ravens. Mazael let Chariot come to a halt, shaking his shield arm. It hurt like the devil, and the shield had splintered. Gods, Amalric hit hard! He tossed it aside, and Adalar provided him with a fresh shield and a fresh lance.

They rode again, breaking a third lance.

And then a fourth.

The cheers from the crowds rose to a roar. Mazael and Aeternis had broken three lances against each other, but Mazael had knocked Aeternis from the saddle on the fourth pass. No one had yet broken four lances.

Mazael pulled off his helmet, wiping the sweat from his brow, and glanced over the crowds. It seemed as if all of Knightrealm had arrived to watch the final ride of the tournament. Both Lord Malden and Malleus leaned forward, watching keenly. The Justiciar Knights and Lord Malden’s vassals cheered for Mazael. The Dominiar Knights clustered around Amalric like a flock of black-armored ravens. The throngs of common folk looked enraptured.

Rachel and Morebeth stood behind Lord Malden’s chair, watching.

“Gods,” mumbled Mazael. He might start a war right here, if he wasn’t careful. Amalric’s squires signaled readiness. Mazael slammed his helmet back on, gripped his lance and shield, and readied himself. The trumpets rang like a thunderclap. Amalric’s stallion whinnied, tossed its black mane, and rolled forward like a black flood. Chariot leapt forward, breathing hard. Mazael gritted his teeth and leaned forward in the saddle, lance reached for Amalric’s chest. The point shattered against Amalric’s left shoulder, knocking him back.

Yet despite the force of Mazael’s blow, Amalric’s lance still struck true, sliding past Mazael’s shield. Mazael’s breastplate clanged, splinters spraying across his legs, and the stump of Amalric’s lance stabbed into his left calf. The blow nearly tore him from the saddle, and only by jamming his feet into the stirrups did he keep from falling.

The effort sent a stab of agony shooting up his left leg. He seized the saddle horn, grinding his teeth in pain.

A bit of rage stirred in his mind.

“My lord!” shouted Adalar, running to his side. “My lord, are you…”

Mazael growled, yanked the bloody shard from his leg, and flung it aside. Blood stained his boot and stirrup. Beneath the pain, he felt a deep itch as the torn flesh began knit itself together, but he didn’t care.

“The tournament is over!” Grand Master Malleus stood up. “They have ridden five times, and Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith has wounded Lord Mazael. Amalric is the victor!” A cheer went up from the Dominiar Knights, but no one else.

“It most certainly is not!” said Lord Malden, rising.  Amalric’s black helm turned to face Lord Malden. “Lord Mazael has not yet been unhorsed!”

“They have ridden five times,” said Grand Master Malleus. “It is customary for knights in tourney to only ride against each other five times.”

Lord Malden’s heralds began to confer in anxious voices.

“It is only customary because most knights are unhorsed in the first or second pass!” said Lord Malden. “Both Sir Commander Amalric and Lord Mazael are most skilled, and neither one has yet been victorious. Shall we cut this contest short? Shall we not see a rightful victor?”

“But Sir Commander Amalric is the rightful victor,” said Malleus. “Lord Mazael was wounded in the leg. He cannot ride again, and so Amalric triumphs.”

Mazael stood in his stirrups, ignoring the agony in his leg. “I can yet ride, Grand Master!” His knee only twitched a little.

“If Lord Mazael says he can ride, then let him ride!” shouted Gerald. “Will we deny Lord Mazael and Sir Commander Amalric the chance to strive honorably for the victor’s title?”

“Aye!” A woman’s voice rang over the field, commanding and full of fire. Mazael watched in surprise as Morebeth stood, adjusting her skirts. “Lord Malden and Sir Gerald are correct! The tournament must finish. And if Lord Malden awards the victory to Sir Commander Amalric,” Amalric’s black helmet swiveled to face her, “then all men will say he stole this triumph.”

Amalric shifted, hand closing about the hilt of his sword, every gesture radiating hatred. Malleus’s calm mask cracked, and for just an instant he glared at Morebeth. One of the heralds approached the platform and cleared his throat.

“My lords,” he said, “while knights rarely ride after five broken lances, that is because very few men have the necessary skill at arms.” He turned an admiring glance Mazael and Amalric’s way. “If Lord Mazael is yet able to ride, then our consensus is that the joust should continue.”

Mazael felt fine. The aches from Amalric’s battering had failed, and the blood from the wound in his calf had slowed to a trickle. Adalar stared at the wound with a fixed expression, but Mazael paid him no heed.

He could not think through the growing anger.

Lord Malden sat back down, the pages lifting his cloak. “Then let them ride!”

"So be it!" said Malleus, seating himself once more.

Mazael turned Chariot, reaching for still another fresh lance. Adalar said something, but Mazael didn’t hear it. The anger hammered in his head, louder and louder. He thought of what Aeternis had told him, how Amalric had ground the Old Kingdoms into the dust. Romaria would have hated Amalric for that. Perhaps she had even fought against his armies, before she came to the Grim Marches. And Mazael remembered the pain and hate in Morebeth’s eyes whenever she spoke of her brother…

The heralds’ trumpets sounded, and Chariot raced forward, sensing Mazael’s eagerness. Amalric kicked his destrier to a gallop, lance leveled, shield raised. Mazael gritted his teeth and leveled his own lance.

The anger raged through him, and he flung aside his shield.

Astonished silence fell over the crowds.

Amalric hesitated, then leaned forward, all his strength and the speed of his horse behind the lance.

Everything happened very fast.

Mazael’s left hand snapped up and caught the shaft of Amalric’s lance just behind the head, shoving it aside. His own lance stabbed under Amalric’s guard and exploded into the black breastplate. Amalric bellowed, rocking back, and the shaft of Mazael’s lance smacked hard across his arms.

Amalric hit the ground with a clatter of armor. His helmet rolled away across the trampled grass. Mazael tore past and managed to rein up, his blood racing through his ears.

For a moment silence hung in the air.

Then the field exploded with cheers. Lord Malden stood, smiling. Grand Master Malleus remained sitting, and did not smile. Gerald and Tobias pumped their fists in the air, and Rachel had a wider smile than Mazael had seen in years. His anger drained away, replaced with weariness and faint nausea. The rage had almost mastered him again. Romaria had died to keep him from succumbing to his Demonsouled spirit, and yet he had almost gone mad to avenge a wrong that may or may not have been done to her.

If his weapon had not been a flimsy jousting lance, he might have killed Amalric Galbraith.

Amalric Galbraith stood, brushing the grass from his black hair. He looked to Mazael and made a small bow, but his black eyes burned with hatred. With that, Amalric turned and joined the waiting Dominiars, who walked from the field without a word.

“The winner of this tournament!” boomed one of the heralds, “Mazael, Lord of Castle Cravenlock!” The common folk screamed cheers, and the Justiciars saluted.

Chariot, to Mazael’s annoyance, began to prance.

He reined up before Lord Malden’s platform, dismounted, and knelt.

His leg did not hurt at all.

“Well done, Lord Mazael,” said Lord Malden. Grand Master Malleus had departed with the other Dominiars. “Well done indeed.”

“My lord,” said Mazael, rising. “Thank you.”

Lady Rhea came forward, winked at him, and wrapped the white victor’s cloak around his shoulders. Mazael tried to ignore the invitation in her eyes. “You have brought great honor to our house this day, Lord Mazael.” She held out her hand for him to kiss.

He did so, catching a glimpse of Morebeth over Lady Rhea’s shoulder. She looked amused, damn her.

“My lord!” Timothy hastened up. “My lord, are you hurt? I saw that lance pierce your…” His eyes widened at the blood on Mazael’s boot.

“It was but a glancing hit,” said Mazael. “I’m fine…”

Gerald and Tobias and Garain and Aulus and dozens of other knights and lords swarmed around him then, offering congratulations. Rachel kissed him on the cheek.

“A feast, of course,” said Lord Malden, “to celebrate the grand honor you have won for your sister and the house of Roland.” A small smile flickered across his thin lips. “And for the house of Cravenlock, of course.”

Mazael wondered if Lord Malden had planned that from the beginning. Squires came forward, bearing horses, and the knights and lords mounted up and began riding back to Knightcastle.

As Mazael turned, Morebeth stepped before him.

She bowed. “My lord has won great honor for himself this day.”

Mazael kissed her hand with more enthusiasm than Lady Rhea’s. “My lady.”

“I am glad,” she said. Her gray eyes glittered as she glanced at the dark mass of the Dominiar Knights. “I am very glad.” The setting sun touched the braided red hair beneath her feathered hat, transforming it into a crown of bloody gold. “Would my lord accompany me to the feast?”

Mazael hesitated, and then took her arm. Let them gossip; he no longer gave a damn. “I would be honored.”

He looked around and wondered what had happened to Adalar.

3

Thrown Gauntlets

Adalar wandered towards Knightcastle, his mind whirling.

He had seen the lance shard sink deep into Mazael’s leg. The wound ought to have left Mazael in crippling pain, left him unable to endure the jouncing gallop of the joust. Instead he had ripped the shard from his leg, knocked Amalric from his horse, and ridden to victory.

Adalar had seen that wound close, watched the torn flesh flow back together. It had been a raw, gaping pit of blood when Mazael tore the shard free. A few moments later it had been a gash.

When Mazael rode to Lord Malden’s platform, the wound was gone.

Adalar raked shaking hands through his sweaty hair. He remembered Mazael lying on the pew in Tristgard’s church, the shredded flesh of his chest writhing as it knitted back together.

“Holy gods,” mumbled Adalar. What had happened to Lord Mazael? Adalar remembered Mazael’s vow to defeat the San-keth cleric Skhath and the necromancer Simonian a year ago. Had Mazael sold himself to dark powers in exchange for battle prowess and unnatural health? Skhath had used his unholy arts to masquerade as a mortal man. Had some dark creature killed Mazael and taken his place?

Adalar walked alone through Knightcastle’s gates. The armsmen congratulated him for his victory. Adalar nodded, his mind far away. He wandered past Knightcastle’s looming towers, the statues of Roland lords long dead and forgotten, up the ramps and barbicans until he came to the stables. He crossed to a pile of hay, sat down, and buried his face in his hands. He did not know what to do. His father would have known, but Sir Nathan was far away in Castle Cravenlock. Adalar might have turned to Timothy, or Sir Gerald, or Sir Aulus, but they would not believe him. And suppose Adalar spoke to Mazael? If Mazael had truly sold himself to dark powers, or been replaced by a wicked creature, he would not hesitate to kill Adalar…

“What am I going to do?” he whispered.

A soft voice answered. “Do you not know?”

Adalar’s head looked up. Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith stood before him.

He did not look at all tired from the tournament.

Adalar jerked to his feet and bowed. “Sir Commander.” He remembered all the dark tales that hovered over Amalric Galbraith like ravens circling over a gallows, stories of slaughtered peasants and crucified women. “Are…are you well, Sir Commander?”

A thin smile split Amalric’s pale face, black eyes glittering. “You are afraid, squire, are you not? You think, perhaps, that I have come to slay you, in vengeance for my defeat?”

Adalar stared at him. “The thought crossed my mind.”

Amalric scoffed. “Did it? Your Lord Mazael won fairly. In truth, I was irritated when Grand Master Malleus declared premature victory.” He shook his head, black hair brushing against his shoulders. “I wished to win, of course, but fairly.”

“Noble,” said Adalar.

Amalric nodded. “I saw you in the squires’ melee. You fought most skillfully, most valiantly.”

“Thank you, Sir Commander,” said Adalar.

“I suppose Lord Mazael plans to knight you, once you return to Castle Cravenlock?”

Adalar nodded. “He said as much.”

Amalric paced to one of Adalar’s newly-won horses and rubbed the mane. “And then you will swear to his service?”

“I might,” said Adalar. “I don’t know yet.”

“You might?” said Amalric. “The life of a landless knight is a hard one, and Lord Mazael would feed and clothe you. Why turn down such a generous offer?”

Adalar licked dry lips. “I don’t know.”

“I suppose not,” said Amalric. “Young men often do not know their own hearts, or their minds.” He turned to face Adalar. “You ought to consider joining the Dominiar Order.”

“Sir Commander?” said Adalar.

“Consider, squire,” said Amalric. “Suppose you take up the life of a wandering knight? You will spend your days scraping along, fighting in petty wars, guarding the caravans of greedy merchants. Your life will be little better than that of a common mercenary. Or suppose you do swear to Lord Mazael? How then will you spend your days? You will fight in his wars, for the glory of his name, to make his lands richer, and you will spill the blood of men for his power. What purpose in such a life? Meaningless and futile, a crass scrabbling for gold and power.”

Adalar said nothing.

“But the Dominiar Knights, our Order…we have duty. Purpose and meaning,” said Amalric. “It is our mission to spread the light of the Amathavian gods throughout the world, to defeat the forces of darkness and idolatry.”

“My father said your Order slaughters innocents and rules as tyrants,” said Adalar, shocked at his own boldness.

“Some of my brothers do,” said Amalric. “Some are overzealous, and oppress godly folk in their determination to root out evil. Sometimes it has happened under my command, I am ashamed to admit, though I do not permit it any longer.”

“I have seen real evil, Sir Commander,” said Adalar. “I have seen San-keth clerics and walking corpses and a Demonsouled necromancer. Every Justiciar or Dominiar I have ever spoken to says that neither San-keth nor Demonsouled exist, that they are the superstitions of fearful peasants. At least,” he added, thinking of Galan Hawking, “until they see the San-keth with their own eyes.”

“The San-keth are very real, squire,” said Amalric quietly. “I have killed them with my own blade. And the Demonsouled…the Demonsouled creep through the realms of men like a cancer, masquerading as mortal men. They could be anyone, anywhere.” He glanced at Adalar. “Perhaps even your Lord Mazael.”

The words struck Adalar like a hammer. Something clicked within his mind. He thought of Lord Mazael’s rages, his speed and strength, his unnatural healing, and his apparently endless lust for mistresses.

“That’s impossible,” said Adalar, mouth dry.

“Is it?” said Amalric. “His mother Lady Arissa was a notorious adulteress. And Simonian the necromancer was rumored to be Demonsouled.”

“Simonian was,” said Adalar. “He told Mazael himself. But Simonian didn’t come to Castle Cravenlock until after Lady Arissa had died…”

“And how do you know that?” said Amalric. “Were you there? Simonian could have visited Castle Cravenlock, and Lady Arissa, long before you were ever born.”

“No,” said Adalar. “Lord Mazael is not Demonsouled.” Yet his voice held no sincerity.

“Perhaps not,” said Amalric. “But suppose he is. The Demonsouled always go mad, always try to make themselves tyrants of men. And here Lord Mazael is surrounded by the great lords of Knightrealm, men he could overthrow with ease.” He stepped towards the doorway. “Perhaps, squire, you should think on that.”

He left, leaving Adalar in confused turmoil.

###

“Mazael.”

Mazael opened his eyes. Pale dawn sunlight streamed through the windows. Morebeth lay against him, head on his shoulder, her hand tracing slow circles across his chest. She had a sleepy smile on her lips.

“The great champion awakes,” she whispered. She had looked happy ever since Mazael had knocked Amalric from the saddle. The expression seemed alien on her cold face. It almost suited her.

Mazael titled her head up, kissed her. “You seemed pleased.”

“The expression on his face,” she said, eyes glinting, “when you unhorsed him.”

“He looked calm enough,” said Mazael.

“He was furious,” said Morebeth. “I know. I’ve known him all my life, have I not? He was enraged.” She laughed a little. “He would have killed you, if he could have gotten away with it.”

Her glee unsettled Mazael, but only little. Amalric had led Morebeth’s husband to his death, after all.

“A victory for you, my lady,” he said, kissing her again.

“And a triumph for you, my lord,” she answered. “We ought to go to court. I wonder what Malleus will do, now that his pet has lost the tournament.”

Mazael sighed and dragged his mind to more serious matters. “Nothing good.” Morebeth rolled away, got up, and began to dress. She never brought any of her maids with her through the Trysting Ways, though that failed to deter the gossip.

Mazael sighed again. “We don’t have to go right away.”

She gave him a wicked grin. “Eager man. You seemed so weary before.”

“You have a way of waking me up.”

Morebeth’s eyes glittered. “Wait until tonight, my lord. You’ll beg for sleep, before we’re done.”

Mazael grinned back. “As my lady commands.” He climbed out of bed and began gathering his clothes.

“Where is your squire?” said Morebeth, fiddling with some hideously complex undergarment. “Should he not help you dress?”

“I don’t know,” said Mazael. “I haven’t seen him since the tournament.”

“Mayhap he took after his lord,” said Morebeth, “and found some eager lass who wanted to celebrate his victory.”

“You are in a good humor,” said Mazael.

“Quite.” She finished dressing and gave him a quick kiss. “I shall see you at court, then.” With that she turned and vanished into the Trysting Ways. Mazael grunted, adjusted his cloak, and stepped into the corridor.

He still saw no sign of Adalar. Maybe Morebeth was right, and he had finally found some willing lass. Mazael hoped so. It would do Adalar some good.

He walked alone to the Hall of Triumphs. Morning court had already begun, and Lord Malden did not like interruptions of his stately rituals. Mazael slipped through the door, past a pillar, up a stairwell, and to one of the balconies. Squires, minor knights, and a few petty lords leaned against the railing, watching the great lords in the Hall below. Their eyes widened when they saw him, and a few congratulated him on winning Lord Malden’s tournament. Mazael thanked them and moved away, leaning against the cold stone railing.

Morning sunlight illuminated Lord Malden on his ornate throne. He did not look pleased. Before him sat Sir Garain and Brother Trocend at the councilors' table, and they also looked displeased. Mazael followed their gazes, and saw a dozen Dominiar Knights marching up the Hall’s length. At their head strode Grand Master Malleus, his black cloak flaring out behind him. Behind him came Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith, grim and silent. Morebeth walked on his arm, cold and rigid, inscrutable beneath her black veil.

Mazael turned his head and saw Adalar leaning against the rail. His squire looked tired and haggard, dark circles beneath his eyes.

“Adalar.”

Adalar whirled, hand fumbling for the dagger at his belt.

“What is it?” said Mazael.

“Nothing,” mumbled Adalar, shaking his head. “I was startled, that’s all.”

Mazael laughed. “Long night?”

“It was.”

Mazael jerked his head at the Dominiars. “What’s happening?”

“Malleus demanded to speak with Lord Malden in court this morning,” said Adalar. “I don’t know why.”

Mazael scowled. “I think I do.” His stomach clenched.

Lord Malden’s war against the Dominiars might begin right now.

The Dominiars stopped before the stone dais. Amalric slipped his arm free from Morebeth’s and stepped forward, raising his voice. “The Grand Master of the Dominiar Order, Malleus, greets his brother the Lord of Knightcastle, and asks to speak on matters of grave import.”

One of Lord Malden’s heralds stepped forward. “The wise and noble Lord Malden greets his brother, the Grand Master of the Dominiar Order, and bids him to speak at once.”

Malleus stepped past Amalric and gave a slight bow. “Lord Malden, all men speak of your wisdom, your clemency, and your justice.” His stentorian voice carried the formal phrases over the Hall. “Indeed, what wrongdoer does not fear your wrath, or what villain your swift sword? Yet, my Lord Malden, an injustice lurks in your realm, an injustice that has lingered for five long years.”

“Tumblestone,” whispered Mazael.

“Tell me, Grand Master,” said Lord Malden. “Of what injustice do you speak?”

“Beyond the southern border of your lands,” said Malleus, “there lies a fair city called Tumblestone, a thriving port, overthrowing with the riches of all the world. The Patriarch of the Holy Amathavian Church gave that city to the Dominiar Order, many long years ago. Our Order has guarded that city from all foes for centuries, shepherding its people in the ways of righteousness and godliness. Truly, the people of Tumblestone are the people of the Dominiar Order. And yet this city that has been guarded by the Grand Masters of our Order for centuries lies in the hands of another lord.” Malleus spread black-gloved hands. “Lord Malden, you are a man of justice and wisdom, prudence and mercy. Will you not restore the people of Tumblestone to their rightful guardians?”

A dead silence reigned over the Hall for a moment, all eyes on Malleus and Lord Malden.

“You speak,” said Lord Malden, “of justice and mercy. Yet is it not just to uphold a man’s rights? What of my rights, Grand Master? For, you see, Tumblestone is mine by right. By right of conquest, by right of blood. For it was my vassal, now Lord Mazael of Castle Cravenlock, who defeated Sir Commander Aeternis, who rode through the gates of Tumblestone in my name. It was Sir Mandor Roland, my son, my blood, who fell in the battle for the city.” Sir Mandor had actually been killed two weeks before Tumblestone, deep inside Mastaria, but Lord Malden had never let that inconvenient truth trouble him. “Sir Mandor spilled his blood to win Tumblestone for Knightcastle, for all the heirs of the great King Roland. Therefore Tumblestone is mine, noble Grand Master. Mine by right of conquest and right of blood.” He leaned back in his throne, keen eyes narrowed. “I will not give up that which has been so dearly bought.”

“You will not?” said Malleus, his tone just as cold as Lord Malden’s. “I advise my Lord Malden to be wary. That which has been dearly bought can prove even more expensive to maintain.” His eyes wandered over Garain, then to Tobias. “A price even more painful can yet be exacted.”

“And a just lord does not tolerate thieves,” said Lord Malden, almost snarling.

“Indeed not,” said Malleus. “And a wise lord does not lay claim to stolen goods.” He shrugged. “And if a lord was foolish enough to buy stolen goods at a dear price, well…that is not the concern of the rightful owner.”

“A fascinating point,” said Lord Malden. “Perhaps the sophists and the jurists can debate it at length in their dusty halls. But the point is meaningless. After all, Tumblestone is mine, now and forever, and I will not give it up.”

“I urge wise Lord Malden to surrender Tumblestone,” said Malleus. “As all men know, goods obtained by theft, murder, and treachery only bring ruin and woe in the end.”

Lord Malden’s eyes blazed, and he stood. “Has the Grand Master failed to hear me? I will not give up Tumblestone.” He glared down at Malleus. “And if any thieves come to take it from me…I will mount their heads on pikes over Tumblestone’s gates.”

Malleus stiffened. His face remained calm, but his eyes narrowed to icy slits. “So be it.”

He turned and marched from the Hall, the Dominiar Knights following.

Chapter 7

1

Children of the Old Demon

Lucan Mandragon was in a foul mood. He stalked through Castle Town’s bustling market square, past the ornate doors of the town’s church.

Things had not been going well.

That the changelings had infiltrated both Knightcastle and Castle Town to an alarming degree, Lucan had no doubt. Several of the Dominiars’ servants were also changelings. Lucan wondered if any Dominiars served the San-keth faith in secret. Or perhaps the San-keth just manipulated the Dominiars from the shadows.

Either way, the San-keth planned to kill a great many lords, and Lucan had to stop them. Most of all, he had to find and kill Straganis. With Straganis dead, the changelings would have no leader, and Lucan could destroy them at his convenience.

Yet finding Straganis had proven difficult.

Three separate times, Lucan had captured and questioned changelings. After they failed to answer, he ripped into their minds with his spells, but to no avail. Straganis had laid magical protections over his minions’ thoughts, protections Lucan could not break.

But that was no hindrance for one such as Lucan. He had killed the changelings, readied the appropriate necromantic incantations, and set out to summon their shades. Again, his efforts had been blocked. Somehow Straganis had bound the spirits of his minions, shielding them from any necromantic summons.

And that left the vexing problem of Harune Dustfoot.

One wandering cheese merchant ought to have been easy to find. Instead, Lucan had discovered no trace of the strange peddler. Even odder, no one remembered seeing him. In exasperation, Lucan worked spells, probing the thoughts of those he questioned, yet none of them remembered Harune Dustfoot. Yet their minds held a curious echo, almost as if…

Lucan muttered a curse.

It was almost as if someone had used a spell to erase all memories of Harune Dustfoot.

And that didn’t take into account the problem of Brother Trocend. Lord Malden’s pet wizard had awakened to the danger of the San-keth changelings. Trocend possessed both potent divinatory magic and a small army of spies, hired assassins, and enslaved spirit-creatures to carry out his will. San-keth changelings had started turning up with their throats cut. While Lucan found the assistance useful, Trocend’s divinatory magic might discover his presence.

And Trocend would not appreciate Lucan’s presence.

Something heavy and feathered landed on Lucan’s shoulder.

“G’day, squire!” The tip of a beak brushed his ear. “Why, you look like a man in need of cheering up, so you do.”

Lucan sighed. “I trust this is worth my time?”

Mocker-Of-Hope had proven useful. The malicious little wretch could see the auras, the souls, of mortal men, and had spotted several changelings Lucan might have missed. Yet Lucan did not even want to think about what havoc the creature might wreak, should it escape from him.

“Why, sir!” said the raven, speaking in the little-girl’s voice, “I would never disappoint you! It would hurt me ever so much! I have found something wondrous and glamorous and magical.” The voice giggled. “It’s delightful.”

“Then stop babbling and show me.”

Mocker-Of-Hope obliged, hopped from Lucan’s shoulder, and transformed into the shape of the tow-headed boy. “This way, squire, right this way.”

They walked unnoticed and ignored through the crowds of Castle Town’s market. Lucan remained wrapped in his mind-clouding. No one paid any attention to Mocker-Of-Hope.

“And once you’ve seen my wonder, squire,” said Mocker-Of-Hope, a weird gleam coming into his eyes, “you ought to go speak with Lord Mazael again, eh?”

“Perhaps,” said Lucan. “If this news of yours merits it.”

“Oh, it does, it does!” said Mocker-Of-Hope. His voice lost its human aspect, became low and grating. “It would be grand to see Lord Mazael again…to see the black fires in his blood…”

Something about Mazael’s Demonsouled nature held Mocker-Of-Hope rapt with awe. The creature often seemed to speak of little else.

“He could be so much stronger than he is,” said Mocker-Of-Hope, doing a mad little jig. “Why, he only uses the tiniest bit of his power, so he does. He could be mighty, one of the great.”

“It is better that he does not,” said Lucan.

Mocker-Of-Hope glared up at him. “He could become the Great Demon. He could be a god, and break your will like glass.” All humanity had fallen from his voice, and his eyes looked like ravenous mouths.

Lucan feigned indifference. “This wonder you have discovered…it must not be so wondrous after all.”

Mocker-Of-Hope shuddered. “Why, squire, you do me wrong!” He sounded the affable boy-thief again. “This way, so it is!” He scampered off, Lucan trailing after him.

They stopped before a massive, three-story public house of dressed stone and wooden timbers. A wooden signboard showed a silver helm crowned with a golden diadem, painted in bright colors.

“The Inn of the Crowned Helm,” said Lucan, scowling. Perhaps Lord Malden wished to become King Malden. Of course, Lucan’s own father no doubt desired a royal circlet. “What is so interesting about this?”

Mocker-Of-Hope became a raven, settled on Lucan’s shoulder, and cawed at the door. Lucan shrugged, strengthened his mind-clouding, and stepped into the inn’s common room. The place looked like any other inn, albeit a bit more prosperous. Dozens of merchants sat around the tables, drinking, arguing, and haggling. Most spoke about the coming war between the Dominiar Order and Lord Malden. Such news would please Lucan’s father to no end, but he doubted Mocker-Of-Hope found it interesting.

Lucan turned, and saw Harune Dustfoot. He sat alone in the corner, still in his dusty cloak and boots, frowning beneath his mop of dusty hair. Every now and again he took a long swig from his mug, still frowning.

“Well,” muttered Lucan, “well, well.”

“Peculiar, ain’t it, squire?” croaked Mocker-Of-Hope. “Like he’s not there, you know?”

“What do you mean?” said Lucan.

“I can see the souls of mortal blokes,” said the creature on Lucan’s shoulder. “Yours looks like a pile of ashes.” He sniggered. “But…this fellow, it’s like he’s not here, you know?”

“I don’t,” said Lucan. He traced a sigil with his fingers, muttering an incantation, and worked the spell to sense magic. He sensed potent energies gathered within Mocker-Of-Hope, and some lesser magic on a few of the merchants, no doubt a petty enspelled trinket or two. Yet he sensed nothing from Harune Dustfoot.

Nothing at all…

Lucan  frowned and tightened the focus of his spell.

In fact, he sensed so little that it was as if Harune…wasn’t there at all.

Lucan released the spell and began another, one to sense the thoughts and emotions of those around him. He finished the incantation and a welter of curious sensations filled his mind. The grumbling thoughts of the merchants flickered through his skull. Some were jovial, some cranky, some lustful, some bored. Mocker-Of-Hope’s mind felt like a black pit caked with dried blood. Lucan scowled, shook off the distractions, and focused his spell upon Harune Dustfoot.

He sensed nothing, nothing at all. Either Harune had no thoughts, which was unlikely, or…

Or he was encased in warding spells so powerful that Lucan’s magic could not penetrate them.

Only a wizard of overmastering might, someone far stronger than Lucan, could have worked such spells. A powerful wizard, or perhaps…

“Straganis,” whispered Lucan. Did the San-keth archpriest sit here disguised as a human, like a viper lying in wait? For a moment he contemplated striking, unleashing the full of his power at Harune.

He hesitated, mind racing. If Straganis was here, Lucan’s power might prove insufficient. And he suspected something else was at play here. Why would a San-keth archpriest move disguised among Humans when changelings could spy for him?

Harune rose, drained off the rest of his ale, and marched upstairs. Lucan followed, and saw him disappear into a room on the third floor.

“Well,” said Lucan. “It appears you’ll get to see Lord Mazael again after all.”

Mocker-Of-Hope cackled in delight.

###

“Nothing,” said Timothy, shaking his head. He looked tired, his eyes bloodshot, his black coat rumpled. “There’s…a few times, when I felt changelings approaching.” He turned over the wire-wrapped crystal. “They’re here, somewhere. But I could never focus on them, though. I’m sorry.”

“No matter,” said Mazael. “You might have deterred them from making an attempt on Lord Malden’s life.”

They stood on the balcony outside Mazael’s rooms, watching the valley of the Riversteel. The tournament camp had vanished, only to have a new one rise in its place. Lordly banners flew over the tents, flapping in the wind.

Lord Malden’s vassals gathered for war.

“Keep watching Lord Malden and Lady Rachel,” said Mazael. “The changelings will try to kill them sooner or later.” He stared at the gathering tents and scowled. If the San-keth and Straganis wanted to kill Lord Malden, no better time would present itself.

“My lord,” said Timothy. “You…should watch yourself, as well. The San-keth will most surely try to kill you as well.”

Mazael grimaced. “Let them try.”

A large raven landed on the railing, flapping its wings. Mazael thought it looked familiar.

“What a remarkably ugly bird,” said Timothy.

The raven somehow managed to give Timothy a dirty look.

A dry, mocking voice answered him. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Lucan Mandragon stepped onto the balcony, wrapped in his dark cloak.

Timothy gave a violent start. “Lucan! I thought you had stayed at Castle Cravenlock…”

“No,” said Lucan. “I’ve been here…in disguise, you might say, the entire time. Lord Mazael thought a hidden spy might prove useful.”

“I thought you were dead,” said Mazael.

“Again?” said Lucan. “Your lack of faith wounds me, as ever.”

“You’ve found something?” said Mazael.

“Yes,” said Lucan. “Harune Dustfoot.”

“It’s taken you this long to find a peddler of cheese?” said Mazael.

“For a peddler of cheese,” said Lucan with some asperity, “he possesses some remarkably potent wards against divination. I only stumbled upon him by…chance, of a sort.”

“Do you think he’s in league with the San-keth?” said Mazael.

“Possibly,” said Lucan, shrugging. “I had no way to tell.”

“If he’s in league with the San-keth,” said Timothy, “why would he have sold a weapon of magic power to a Dominiar commander?”

“You only have the word of Sir Commander Aeternis that he bought your sword from Harune,” Lucan gestured at Lion. “Suppose he lied to you?”

“Aeternis isn’t the sort to lie,” said Mazael.

“You did try to kill him,” said Timothy.

“And he tried to kill me,” said Mazael. “That’s the way war works. And suppose Aeternis didn’t buy Lion from Harune Dustfoot? Then it’s just an unlikely coincidence that, as the Dominiar Order and Lord Malden prepare to go to war, there’s a merchant in Castle Town hiding beneath protective spells?”

“It does seem unlikely,” said Timothy.

“Well put,” said Lucan.

“Where is he?” said Mazael.

“The Inn of the Crowned Helm,” said Lucan.

“Then let’s pay him a visit,” said Mazael. “Come with me, both of you.”

“Both of us?” said Timothy.

“Yes, both,” said Mazael. “If this Harune’s a wizard, or a San-keth cleric, I’ll need your help to deal with him. Don’t tell anyone about Lucan, though.”

“I daresay,” said Timothy. “I doubt Lord Malden would welcome him.”

“That,” said Lucan, “is perhaps understating the case.”

The raven hopped from the railing and landed on Lucan’s shoulder.

###

“You know, I’ve been to the Inn of the Crowned Helm,” said Timothy. “They have the most splendid beer.”

Lucan lifted an eyebrow. “During your search for the San-keth, I suppose?”

“Of course,” said Timothy. “The inn had to be searched, after all. And searching is thirsty work.”

Mazael stalked across the square. The townsfolk hastened to get out of his way.  “Splendid beer, you say? If this goes well, I’ll buy you an entire barrel.”

He threw open the door and stepped into the Inn of the Crowned Helm. The gathered merchants and townsmen looked up at him. The inn’s master scurried over, bowing and scraping. He had wide, fearful eyes for Mazael, and even wider eyes for Timothy’s black wizard’s coat.

He failed to notice Lucan.

“Nothing, thank you,” said Mazael, striding past. “I wish to speak with a merchant about a purchase. Harune Dustfoot? Is he upstairs?”

“Yes, lord,” said the master, still bowing. “Do you wish to try my beer? I’ve even some wine…”

“Thank you,” said Mazael again, climbing the stairs. Lucan pointed at one of the doors. Mazael nodded, drew Lion, and kicked open the door. The room was large and spacious, with windows looking over the square. It even had a table and a chair.

Harune Dustfoot sat in the chair, wrapped in his dusty cloak, holding a tankard of beer.

Lucan and Timothy stepped to either side of Mazael, hands raised for magic.

Harune did not look alarmed.

“Lord Mazael.” Harune set the tankard on the table. “It is an honor to see you again. Have you come to kill me?”

“Who are you?” said Mazael. Lion hadn’t burst into blue flame, as it did when confronting creatures of dark magic.

“I told you, my lord,” said Harune. “I am Harune Dustfoot, a merchant of fine cheeses.”

“Cheeses, you say?” said Mazael. He waved his sword over the furniture. “Quite a fine room, for a merchant of cheeses.”

“My customers appreciate my cheeses,” said Harune, “and my friendly charm.”

“I’m sure,” said Mazael. “And do they appreciate your protective spells, your wards against divinatory magic? I’m sure those are helpful indeed to a man in the cheese trade.”

“Ah,” said Harune. He nodded at Lucan. “I suppose young Lucan here told you about that?”

“You can see him?” said Mazael.

“Of course I can see him,” said Harune. “He’s standing there plain as the day, after all.” He shrugged. “He’s using a particularly potent mind-clouding spell, true, but he’s still standing there.”

“You’re a wizard, then?” said Lucan.

“No,” said Harune. “I haven’t the spark.” He smiled. “Or that particular madness, if you will.”

“Then who are you,” said Mazael, “in truth?”

Harune shrugged. “Does it matter? I am a simple wanderer, and nothing more.”

“I’m sure,” said Mazael.

“I think you came here to ask me something,” said Harune. He spread his hands. “Why not just ask it?”

Mazael lifted Lion, the blade gleaming. “Do you recognize this?”

“Of course,” said Harune. “Your sword. Quite distinctive. I saw you use it during the fight with the bandits. And you carried it in the tournament. A splendid victory, by the way.”

“Thank you,” said Mazael. “Ever met a Dominiar commander named Aeternis?”

“I did, some years ago,” said Harune. “It was during the wars in the Old Kingdoms. He seemed a solid enough fellow.”

“He told me that you sold him Lion,” said Mazael.

“I did,” said Harune.

“And did you know it was a sword of old Tristafel, a weapon of power?”

Harune stared at him, unblinking. Then he sighed. “I did.”

“And where did you find it?” said Mazael.

“Have you ever heard,” said Harune, “of the Cirstarcine Order of monks?”

“I have,” said Mazael. “They helped me fight Skhath and Simonian.”

“They fight the San-keth and the Demonsouled everywhere,” said Harune. “As you have taken it upon yourself to do.”

“How did you know Simonian was Demonsouled?” said Lucan, eyes narrowed.

“The Cirstarcians told me,” said Harune. “And I tell them many things. I work for them, in a way. When I learn something they might wish to know, I tell them. And sometimes they tell me things in return.”

“Like where to find Lion?” said Mazael.

“Yes,” said Harune, closing his eyes. “It was…ten years ago. Yes. Ten years. In a ruined tower far south of the Old Kingdoms, overlooking the sea. Your sword had lain in a vault under that tower for centuries. Even millennia, for all I know. The Cirstarcians had hidden it there until it was needed. They told me to take the sword and sell it to someone in the Old Kingdoms or Mastaria.”

“Why?” said Mazael.

Harune shrugged. “Because a powerful Demonsouled was in the Old Kingdoms.”

Mazael felt a chill. Had the Cirstarcians known about his Demonsouled nature?

Harune kept talking. “They knew that Demonsouled would rise to power, and they wanted Lion ready to fight.”

“That’s…a foolish plan, if I may say so,” said Timothy. “Suppose Lion wound up in the hands of a bandit? Such a man wouldn’t oppose a Demonsouled. And suppose the sword was lost?”

“You underestimate Lion’s magic,” said Harune. “The spells used to create it are far stronger than anything used today. It was imbued with purpose, with power to fight the creatures of darkness. It will seek them out. The sword’s magic will not permit it to be lost. Throw it into the sea and a passing wave will bring it back to shore. Fling into a pit and a man will explore that pit, seemingly by chance.”

Mazael looked at Lion with a new, uneasy light.

“So I sold the sword to Sir Commander Aeternis,” said Harune. “He seemed valiant enough, the sort of man to fight against evil without hesitation.” He shrugged. “Then you defeated him and took Lion with you to the Grim Marches.”

“Hardly a brilliant plan,” said Lucan. “And mayhap you place too much faith in the magic of old Tristafel. They were mighty, but they were not gods.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Harune. “Lion went to the Grim Marches, not to the Old Kingdoms.” He smiled. “But there was a mighty Demonsouled in Castle Cravenlock, was there not? Lion was needed there. And now it comes back to Knightrealm and Mastaria, where it might be needed again.”

“Sophistic rubbish,” muttered Lucan.

“Needed again?” said Mazael. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t know?” said Harune. “Surely you must by now.” His face tightened. “The San-keth. They swarm over Knightcastle, their changelings disguised as servants and common folk.”

“We know,” said Lucan. “We’ve been working to stop them.”

“With limited success,” said Harune. “Kill one changeling and five more will take its place. Have you found their master yet? Have you found Straganis?”

“How do you know that name?” snapped Lucan. “Perhaps you are in league with him.”

“I know the names of all seven San-keth archpriests,” said Harune. “They are all mighty and utterly mad. For all their power and guile, all their rage, they gain nothing. They spend their lives in hopes of regaining their lost limbs, in restoring their people, yet reap nothing but torment. I pity them..

“I do not pity them,” said Mazael, finding his voice, “for they have tried to kill my sister far too many times for mercy.” His hand tightened around Lion’s hilt. “This sword was made to fight the powers of darkness, you say? Then fine. I will find Straganis and end this.”

“That will not end it,” said Harune. “Do you think this is just about you, Lord Mazael, about your sister? The San-keth wish you both dead, yes. But your deaths are a minor concern to them.”

“Then they’re here to kill Lord Malden,” said Mazael, “are they not?”

“Of course,” said Harune, “but why?”

Timothy shrugged. “Why not?”

“Lord Malden scarcely believes that the San-keth exist, despite what you’ve told him,” said Harune. “Why would they kill Lord Malden?”

Mazael remembered the dream after his first night with Morebeth, remembered the Old Demon sitting in Lord Malden’s throne, mocking him.

“Not why,” whispered Mazael. Timothy and Lucan frowned at him. “Not why. But who. Who is Straganis’s master?”

Harune nodded. “Yes.”

“What do you mean?” said Timothy.

“I think,” said Harune, “that the San-keth act under the direction of a powerful Demonsouled.”

Mazael suppressed a shudder.

“It has always been thus,” said Harune. “The San-keth are mad with hate, and so are most Demonsouled. Yet the Demonsouled are stronger, and can manipulate the San-keth, use them as weapons and pawns.”

“Yes,” said Timothy. He swallowed. “Simonian was Demonsouled, and he was in league with Skhath.”

“He was,” said Mazael. Timothy didn’t know the half of it. The Old Demon had used Skhath and the San-keth, but they had meant nothing to him. The destruction of the Grim Marches had meant nothing to him. The Old Demon had only wanted to unlock Mazael’s Demonsouled nature, and if that failed, to kill him.

“Yet the San-keth are always betrayed,” continued Harune, shaking his head. He sighed. “They are foolish enough to view the Demonsouled as allies or pawns, and are too blind with their hatred to see that the Demonsouled are stronger.”

Mazael said nothing.

“So, then, what do the Demonsouled want?” said Timothy.

Harune shrugged. “Power. Dominion. The throne of a tyrant, I suppose, for the greatest Demonsouled all have the soul of a tyrant.” His eyes flicked over Mazael. “And the children of the Old Demon burn with the hottest madness of all.”

“The children of the Old Demon?” said Mazael, his voice hoarse.

“Most Demonsouled have but a small part of their souls twisted by demon magic,” said Harune. “Some never notice it, live their lives free of the curse. Some others become killers, even twist themselves into inhuman monsters. But they are rare, and can be killed, though with difficulty.” He sighed and rubbed his face. “But the Old Demon was the son of the Great Demon itself. He is half a god. And the children of the Old Demon are all filled with demon power. They also have the power to lead others, to dominate them, to work their will over men until they become slaves.” He paused. “Have you ever heard of the Destroyer?”

“It’s a legend of old Tristafel,” said Mazael, remembering what Lucan had told him. “One of the Old Demon’s children will rise up, become stronger than his brothers, and crush the lands of men. He will rule with an iron fist and a bloody sword, and claim the Great Demon’s empty throne.” Was that Mazael’s fate? To succumb to his demon blood and become a monstrous god, or to fall at the hands of another of the Old Demon’s children?

“Yes,” said Harune. “And that is what I think is happening. One of the Old Demon’s children yearns to become the Destroyer. Perhaps he hides among the Justiciars, or the Dominiars, or Lord Malden’s court. Either way, the San-keth work at his bidding.”

Harune was more right than he knew. One of the Old Demon’s children stood before him, after all. Yet Mazael wanted peace, wanted to stop this war. But what if another of the Old Demon’s children stood in the shadows, pushing both Lord Malden and the Dominiars towards war? Could Mazael stop it?

Did he even have the strength to face another of his monstrous father’s sons?

“You seem quite well informed,” said Lucan, voice cold. “Did the Cirstarcians tell you all of this? Or have you another source of knowledge?”

“I have told you,” said Harune, “all that I know. Doubtless you know things that I do not. I know you don’t trust me. Indeed, I see no reason why you should. But I swear to you, on the names of Amatheon the father, Amater the lady, and Joraviar the knight, that I have spoken no false word.” He leaned forward. “The Cirstarcine Order sent me to Knightcastle to help, however I could. You, Lord Mazael, you are the only one working to stop the San-keth.” He spread his hands. “Therefore I will help you however I can.”

“Then help me,” said Mazael. “Find me as many changelings as you can. Help me to find Straganis, and kill him. And if you are right, if one of the Old Demon’s children is our true enemy, then help me to kill him.”

“I will,” said Harune. “I swear it.”

“And I’m sure your oath is precious,” said Lucan.

“Yes,” said Harune. “It is.”

###

“I do not trust him,” said Lucan.

Mazael walked from the Inn of the Crowned Helm, head bowed in thought. He had expected Harune Dustfoot to provide answers.

Instead, he had more questions.

“The Cirstarcians are secretive, yes,” said Timothy. “But they move openly enough when they feel the need.”

“I don’t know,” said Mazael, scowling. “Who cast those wards over Harune?”

“It’s rumored that many senior Cirstarcians are powerful wizards,” said Timothy. “They could have laid the spells over Harune.”

“Many things are rumored,” said Lucan, “but few things are true. I’m sure Straganis could cast spells of that nature.”

“Spells,” said Mazael. “You told me that you knew a spell to determine the nature of a creature from a drop of its blood. Could you work such a spell over Harune?”

“Unfortunately, no. His wards against divination are powerful enough to render my spell useless.”

The fat raven dropped from the sky and landed on Lucan’s shoulder.

“Why does that damned bird keep following you around?” said Mazael.

“Ravens posses just enough wit to be useful,” said Lucan, “so I tamed the beast to act as a pair of eyes.”

The raven loosed a derisive caw.

“So,” said Mazael. “Magic will not give us an answer. We are left with our wits. Why do you distrust Harune so?”

“Harune did not tell us anything we did not already know,” said Lucan. “We knew about the San-keth. We knew about Straganis, and Harune likely learned about Straganis at Tristgard, just as we did. And you already suspected a Demonsouled behind the San-keth. Harune but strung these facts together with a few vague warnings of impending doom. A common technique of tricksters and rogues. At best, he is a charlatan. At worst, he is an agent of the San-keth, or Straganis himself in disguise.”

“Then why didn’t he kill us all?” said Mazael.

Lucan grimaced. “You seem determined to trust this man.”

“I don’t want to trust him. I want to know the truth of him.” Mazael glanced at Timothy, who still looked troubled. “You can often read people well. What do you think?”

“I think.” The frown lines in Timothy’s forehead deepened. “I think…Harune seems to be what he claims to be. He was telling us the truth. But I doubt he told us all of it. He wasn’t telling us something…whether about himself, or the San-keth, I don’t know.”

“See?” said Lucan.

“And there was something else,” said Timothy. “Something that bothered me…ahh!” He slammed his right fist into his left palm. “Something about him unsettles me, or reminds me of something, but I cannot think of what it is!”

“That’s good enough for me,” said Mazael. “Lucan, can you keep an eye on Harune?”

“Oh, I shall.” Lucan scowled up at the Inn of the Crowned Helm. “Believe me, I shall.”

2

Courtship

Mazael Cravenlock and Morebeth Galbraith walked together through the Arcade of Sorrows.

He had expected Sir Commander Amalric’s embassy to depart after Malleus had left in a rage. Instead they remained, brooding in their guest quarters. Mazael wondered why. Lord Malden’s vassals gathered outside Castle Town, both petty knights and mighty lords with hundreds of vassals at their command. And reports had come of the Dominiars riding north, bands of their footmen gathering near Tumblestone.

Yet Amalric’s embassy lingered, and Mazael was glad, for Morebeth had remained with the embassy.

They walked together, arm in arm, yet Mazael cared not who might see. A lord had every right to take a lady on a walk around Knightcastle’s walls. Besides, everyone already knew about them.

“I have to ask you something,” said Morebeth, glancing at him.

“Ask,” said Mazael.

“What do you think will happen?” said Morebeth.

“With what?” said Mazael.

“This war,” said Morebeth, “that seems unavoidable.”

Mazael sighed. “I don’t know.”

“All of Lord Malden’s vassals are eager,” said Morebeth.

“They are fools,” said Mazael, “all of them. I saw them sitting around a map of Mastaria, choosing which lands to claim after the war is done. Never mind defeating the Dominiars first. There are knights who already think themselves lords of places they have never been, nor will ever see.” He sighed again. “I wonder if half of them will live to see their new lands.”

“So do you think the Dominiars will win?” said Morebeth.

“They might, or they might not,” said Mazael. “Lord Malden is overconfident. He thinks he can smash the Dominiars with ease. One grand charge of knights and it’s over.” He shrugged. “Of course, the Dominiars are just as overconfident.”

“My brother is an overconfident, prideful fool,” said Morebeth, “so you are right about that, at least.”

“I don’t know who will win,” said Mazael. “I do know we will see carnage and sorrow before this is done.”

Morebeth looked at him, eyes glinting. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

Mazael looked back at her, struggling for the words. “Do…you believe in Demonsouled?”

“You mean the Old Demon, the Destroyer, those stories?” said Morebeth. She shrugged. “I never gave it much thought. The priests prattle on about it, of course, but they’ll say anything to exact their tithes. And men are malignant enough. They hardly need some dark force to spur them to evil deeds.”

“Aye,” said Mazael, “that’s true enough. But…Morebeth, the Demonsouled are real.” Again he felt tempted to tell her everything, but dismissed it as a dangerous idea. “I have seen one. A necromancer, Simonian, in league with the San-keth at Castle Cravenlock. He was Demonsouled, could wield arcane arts of awful power.”

“If you have seen them,” said Morebeth, “then I believe you.”

“Simonian’s still alive,” said Mazael. Again he remembered the Old Demon’s taunting dream. It seemed to be coming true, yet Mazael could think of nothing to stop it. “I wonder if this war is his doing, if we are dancing on his strings.”

“I doubt that,” said Morebeth. “You are no man’s puppet.”

“You cheer me.”

Morebeth’s cold smile glinted across her face. “I but tell the truth. If it cheers you, well and good.”

They came to Audea’s Garden and sat side by side on one of the marble benches. The garden looked had grown greener with the spring, and some of the flowers had even begun to bloom. Morebeth’s slim fingers laced with Mazael’s.

“Will you fight when the time comes?” she said.

“I will,” said Mazael, staring at the grass. “I don’t have any other choice. I told Lord Malden I would. It’s the only way to keep the horrors of war from my lands.” He shook his head. “So instead I will bring the horrors of war to another land.”

“Shall I tell you what I think?” said Morebeth.

Mazael nodded.

“You don’t have enough faith in yourself,” said Morebeth. “You will win this war, I know. Not Lord Malden, not Sir Tobias, not the Justiciars. You will win it, not them. The Dominiars cannot stop you.”

“Perhaps,” said Mazael.

“And after this is done,” said Morebeth, “we should wed.”

Mazael looked at her in astonishment. “We should what?”

“I know why you haven’t wed already,” said Morebeth. Mazael felt a twinge of alarm. Did she know about his true nature? Had she learned his secret?

“Why?” said Mazael.

Morebeth’s fingers tightened about his. “Because you want Castle Cravenlock to pass to your sister’s children, do you not? Because then Castle Cravenlock will be bound to both Richard Mandragon and Malden Roland, and neither will be able to wage war against the other.”

“Yes,” said Mazael. “How did you know?”

“It is plain to see, if you care to look,” said Morebeth. “Most men yearn for sons to carry on their names. That is a very noble sacrifice to make.”

“It may not be as noble as you think,” said Mazael.

“But why should you deny yourself the comfort and companionship of a wife?” said Morebeth. “The life of a monk was meant for some men, but not for you. I cannot bear children, and we can lie together without fear.”

“I don’t love you,” said Mazael.

Morebeth lifted her eyebrows. “Of course you don’t. Nor I you. But what has love to do with marriage? Nothing, we both know. And are we children, to sit here and prattle about love? No.” Her gray eyes turned distant. “No, I know what love is. I felt it for my lord husband, when he lived. Sometimes it is like a fire that devours you completely. And sometimes it is a thing that grows slowly over time, like water wearing away a rock.” She turned her eyes back to him. “When a lord and a lady marry, most times they have never even laid eyes on each other, let alone love each other.” She leaned forward and gave him a light kiss. “We are already friends. Is that not enough?”

Mazael said nothing, his mind struggling.

“I know you have mistresses,” said Morebeth.

Mazael jerked. “How did you know that?”

“Because I’ve known you long enough,” said Morebeth. “You may sleep with peasant women, and they may give you a little comfort, for a little while. But you can never trust them, and they are not your companions. They are not your equals.”

“But you are,” said Mazael.

“You know that I am,” said Morebeth. The familiar wicked glint came into her eyes. “You may even keep your mistresses, if you please, so long as you are always ready to satisfy me when I feel the need.”

“Your brother will never approve,” said Mazael.

“Of course he won’t,” said Morebeth. “But I don’t care. I hold my lands in my own right, small as they are. He is not my guardian, and I am not his ward. He has no right to declare whom I will or will not wed.” Her eyes glittered. “And what does his approval matter? What will he do, attack your lands? You are already going to war against him.”

Mazael laughed. “I am, aren’t I?” He sobered. “But will you leave your lands, your home, to live at Castle Cravenlock?”

“I will,” said Morebeth. “Mastaria means nothing to me. The Dominiar Order means nothing to me, and my brother has long ceased to care anything for me.”

Mazael nodded.

“So,” said Morebeth, “I am asking you to marry me. I know it is unseemly, a woman asking a man, but that doesn’t trouble me. Will you wed me, my lord? Shall I be your lady, and you my lord?”

Mazael stared at her. He didn’t love her, not as he had loved Romaria. But Morebeth was right. That didn’t matter. Amalric would fly into a rage, and Lord Richard might not even approve. But Mazael didn’t care. He didn’t love Morebeth, but thought he might learn to do so.

And he was so tired of facing his burdens alone.

“Yes,” said Mazael, “we shall.”

She gave him a lingering kiss, a kiss that somehow promised much more.

“I just hope,” said Mazael, “that I can live long enough to wed.”

“My lord,” whispered Morebeth into his ear. “You need not fear. Amalric is not as strong as he looks. You are the stronger. The future belongs to you and I, not to him.” She pushed away from him. “Now let us speak no more of wars, and just walk together.”

Mazael took her hand, and allowed her to lead him from Audea’s Garden.

###

Adalar hastened through the maze of Knightcastle’s corridors.

He should have stayed in Mazael’s rooms, waiting on his lord. But he could not, not without flinching. Every time he looked at Mazael, he saw again the wounds closing of their own accord. He thought of Mazael’s rage and fury, his prowess in battle.

What if Mazael Cravenlock was Demonsouled?

And what about Mazael’s mistresses? The mere fact that Mazael had mistresses grated on Adalar. Should not a true knight lie only with his wife? But what if Mazael was truly Demonsouled? What if his mistresses became pregnant with demon spawn? Suppose Mazael sired monsters on his lovers, or went mad and killed everyone in Knightcastle? How many innocent people might die in the resultant bloodbath?

Yet if Adalar had the power to prevent it…

His resolve stiffened, he came to the corner turret that held the Dominiars’ guest quarters. Two Dominiar knights stood before the tower’s door, the afternoon sun glimmering off their gleaming black breastplates. One stepped to the side, pulling open the door.

“Young sir,” said the Dominiar, “you are expected. The Sir Commander awaits you within.”

Adalar managed an awkward bow and stepped inside.

He entered a large solarium, the sun glimmering through the high windows. The chamber had a splendid view of the Riversteel valley. In the center of the room a polished table reflected the sun, surrounded by comfortable chairs. A few clerks in Dominiar livery sat there, writing letters.

Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith stood by the windows, rimmed in the red sunlight. He wore a black tunic and a black cloak with a brooch shaped like the Dominiar silver star.

“Sir Commander,” said Adalar, bowing. “You sent for me?”

Amalric turned. “I did.” He beckoned. “Please, come with me.”

They walked in silence past the clerks, up the spiral stairs, to the turret’s roof. They stood alone on the battlements, the wind rising from the valley below. The banners of the Rolands billowed and snapped overhead.

“Have you,” said Amalric, “given any more thought to my offer?”

“Sir Commander?” said Adalar.

Amalric turned dark eyes towards him. “On joining the Dominiars.”

Adalar looked away. “I have. I don’t know yet, Sir Commander. I have to think about it.”

Amalric nodded. “Do that. It is a momentous decision, to join our noble Order, and not one that should be lightly made.” He paused. “Though I think you would make an excellent Dominiar Knight.”

“Thank you,” said Adalar, who could think of nothing else to say.

“Your loyalty to Lord Mazael holds you back, does it not?” said Amalric.

“I am loyal to Lord Mazael,” said Amalric. Despite everything that had happened, he had no wish to betray Mazael.

“Why?”

Adalar blinked, taken aback. “He is my lord. My father thinks well of him. Lord Mitor was a cruel and lawless lord. Lord Mazael defeated him, defeated the San-keth and Simonian, and brought justice back to Castle Cravenlock. I think he might bring even prosperity to the Grim Marches, some day.”

“Perhaps he might,” said Amalric, gazing down at the lower levels of the castle. “He is a courageous man. Assuming his mind and soul remained uncorrupted, of course.”

“They will,” said Adalar, hating the doubt in his voice.

“Did you know that he is bedding my sister?” said Amalric, voice flat.

“I did,” said Adalar.

“And do you approve?”

“No,” said Adalar. “No, I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because a knight, a true knight, only sleeps with his lady wife,” said Adalar.

“Yes, quite right,” said Amalric. “She’s a widow, you know.”

“I did,” said Adalar. “Ah…the veil and the black gown made that quite clear.”

“Do you know how her husband died? Sir Brandon Clemand. Or, rather, how they say he died?”

“Ah…he fell in battle,” said Adalar. “During your campaign against the Old Kingdoms.”

Amalric glanced at him. “A knight always speaks truly.”

Adalar tensed. “They say you killed him.” He felt Amalric’s gaze. “I mean, that you…put him in the front line of battle, during a siege, and then pulled your men back. The archers focused on him and shot him from his horse.” Amalric regarded him without expression.

Then a ghost of a smile touched Amalric’s face. “Thank you. You were honest with me, and I shall be honest with you. Do you know how Sir Brandon really died?”

Adalar’s mouth went dry. “How?”

“Exactly as you told me,” said Amalric. “We had laid siege to a stronghold of the pagan sorcerers. Sir Brandon had command of the first wave. Yet I gave secret orders to his officers to pull back, orders I did not share with Sir Brandon. When the attack pulled back, the archers turned their fire on Sir Brandon, and he fell dead with a hundred arrows in him.”

Adalar backed away from Amalric, backed away until he slammed into the battlements. “You killed your sister’s husband.”

“I did,” said Amalric. “Do you know why?”

Adalar shook his head, wondering if he could make a run for the stairs.

“Because he was Demonsouled,” said Amalric.

“What?” breathed Adalar.

“There were a hundred arrows in him because it took a hundred arrows to kill him,” said Amalric. “After the first volley, he rose, roaring in rage, ripping the arrows from the wounds. It took eight volleys to bring him down.”

“You mean the wounds healed?” said Adalar, clutching the rough stone.

“Before our very eyes,” said Amalric. “It is one of the signs of Demonsouled blood. Along with rage and battle madness and an insatiable lust for women. Does it sound familiar, squire?”

Adalar said nothing.

“My sister is a troubled woman,” said Amalric. “She has always been steeped in dark arts, obsessed with a desire for occult power. She knew Sir Brandon was Demonsouled when she wed him. She wanted to control him with her wiles and her body, and through him, to rule the kingdoms of men.” He paused. “And now the same thing happens to Lord Mazael.”

“Lord Mazael is not Demonsouled,” said Adalar, his voice little more than a weak croak.

“Adalar,” said Amalric. “You are loyal to your lord, and that is admirable. But do not lie to yourself.”

“In Tristgard,” whispered Adalar. “He took four crossbow bolts. It should have killed him. At first I though it was just good fortune, that it wasn’t the gods’ will that he fall there. But then I saw him in the church, and his wounds…it, they, they just closed before my eyes. And again, when you wounded him during the tournament. And his rage, and his…his…” Adalar raked shaking fingers through his hair. “Gods, gods, he is Demonsouled.”

Amalric nodded. “I am glad you could see the truth.”

Adalar flinched. “You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?”

“I may have to,” said Amalric, shaking his head. “But I hope we are not yet too late.”

“Too late for what?” said Adalar.

“Sir Brandon Clemand was once a good and loyal Dominiar Knight,” said Amalric. “His Demonsouled nature was locked away within him, imprisoned by his faith and his duty.” His black eyes turned flinty. “Lady Morebeth drew the darkness out of him. Morebeth corrupted him, ruined him, and drove him to his death. I had no choice but to kill him, squire, no choice at all! If he lived, think what he could have done. What he could have become.”

“Why didn’t you stop Morebeth?” said Adalar, seeing her in a new, darker light. He had been angered to see Lord Mazael seducing a widow still in mourning black. But had it been the other way around? Had Morebeth seduced Lord Mazael? “Why did you let her do it?”

“She is my sister,” said Amalric. “I thought the best of her. I refused to believe my eyes, even when I saw the evidence before them.” He sighed. “A good man became a monster and died because of my error. I regret that. And I will not let it happen again.”

“What are you going to do?” said Adalar.

“I think,” said Amalric, pacing, “I think Morebeth wants Mazael to kill Lord Malden, to seize Knightcastle and Knightrealm for himself. With her ruling at his side, of course.”

“Can you stop her?” said Adalar. “Couldn’t…couldn’t you simply kill her?”

Amalric scowled. “My sister, squire. A Dominiar Knight does not raise his hand against women. And I see her for what she is, along with a few of my trusted knights. But who else would, squire? You have, for you have seen Mazael’s unnatural powers. But most folk believe the Demonsouled to be a story to frighten children. Who would believe us?”

Adalar clenched his fists. He remembered Mazael dancing with Lady Morebeth, walking with her along the walls of Knightcastle. Had she been a spider all along, weaving her poisoned web around him? “We have to do something.”

Amalric nodded.

“But what?” said Adalar.

“We must set watch over Lord Mazael,” said Amalric. “Sooner or later Morebeth will twist him, convince him to kill Lord Malden. We must be ready to stop him. If we can stop him, if we can keep him from killing Lord Malden…we can show him the truth, turn him from the darkness within.”

“I will help you however I can,” said Adalar, “if we can save Lord Mazael.”

“Then this is what you must do,” said Amalric. “Do you know of the Trysting Ways?”

“Aye,” said Adalar, nodding, “the secret passages in Knightcastle. The lords and ladies use them to visit their lovers in secret.”

“Have you explored them?” said Amalric.

“Somewhat,” said Adalar. “I…I thought San-keth assassins might try to use the Trysting Ways to get at Lord Mazael, or Lady Rachel. So I explored them as best I could, when I had the time.”

“If Lord Mazael meant of his own accord to murder Lord Malden,” said Amalric, “he would challenge him openly. But Morebeth will make him into a puppet, if she can. She will trick him into creeping through the Trysting Ways to murder Lord Malden in his sleep.”

“Lord Mazael would never do anything like that!” said Adalar.

“Neither would Sir Brandon, once,” said Amalric.

Adalar said nothing.

“Show us the Trysting Ways, Adalar,” said Amalric, “the secret doors, the passages, all of them. Then we can lie in wait for Mazael when Morebeth sends him to kill Lord Malden.” He spread his hands. “If we do…we can yet turn him from his black path.” His hands closed into fists. “And then with his help, we can stop Morebeth, keep her from ever corrupting another man.”

“I will help you, Sir Commander,” said Adalar, relieved that he had at last found someone who understood, someone who could help Lord Mazael.

“Good,” said Amalric. “Come to our quarters at midnight, and we will map out the Trysting Ways. Now go, and do not tell anyone of this.”

Adalar nodded, bowed, and departed.

He came back to the High Court just in time to hear the heralds proclaim the betrothal of Lord Mazael Cravenlock and Lady Morebeth Galbraith.

3

Harune Dustfoot’s Veil

Something bothered Timothy, had bothered him since the confrontation with Harune at the Inn of the Crowned Helm.

But what?

Timothy spent most of his time following Lord Malden at a distance, his divinatory spells focused on the Lord of Knightcastle. So far no threats had shown themselves. Every now and again Timothy caught a flicker at the edge of his senses, like dry scales brushing against stone. There were changelings in the castle, Timothy knew, but none had shown themselves.

He could wait as long as necessary. Lord Mazael wanted to stop this war, and Timothy would do everything in his power to help him. Timothy had seen too much war in his life. His homeland had been rent by civil war in his youth, and his parents and brothers burned to death as raiders looted their farm. He had seen the devastation Lord Mitor’s mad war had brought to the Grim Marches.

And if Timothy could stop war by guarding Lord Malden, then he would guard Lord Malden.

Now if he could only figure out what troubled him about Harune Dustfoot.

He brooded as he lurked in an unobtrusive corner of the Hall of Triumphs, as Lord Malden pronounced his judgments and prepared for the campaign against the Dominiars. Harune reminded him of something, but what?

Lord Malden retired to his bedchamber, accompanied by his mistress Claretta. Timothy ensconced himself outside, wrapping himself in his cloak. His divinatory spell would awake him should anyone approach Lord Malden with hostile intent.

He dozed off.

A few hours later he sat bolt upright, heart racing. His fingers fumbled for the quartz crystal, and for a moment he thought someone had murdered Lord Malden. But the crystal remained cool, and Lord Malden was most likely asleep.

But Timothy found himself thinking about something else.

He remembered Skhath, the San-keth cleric that had nearly killed Lord Mazael a year ago. Skhath had masqueraded as a human knight for years, wrapped in a spell of illusion. When Timothy met him for the first time, he had sensed something vaguely wrong right away.

Later he had seen the illusion melt away, revealing the San-keth cleric riding a headless human skeleton.

And Timothy had sensed the same wrong note from Harune Dustfoot. The truth struck him like a blow, and he felt a fool for not seeing it earlier.

Harune Dustfoot wore a spell of illusion to mask his true appearance.

Timothy stood up, hesitating. He needed to find out the truth now, without delay. Yet someone had to stand guard over Lord Malden. But if Harune was a changeling, even Straganis himself in disguise, and Timothy managed to stop him…

He made up his mind. He went to the stables, borrowed a horse, bribed one of the guards, and rode for Castle Town with all speed. Another judicious bribe got the watchman to open the gate, and he galloped into Castle Town and reined up before the Inn of the Crowned Helm.

A few determined drinkers sat in the tables, a bored-looking barman gazing at them with indifference. Timothy hastened through the common room and up the stairs. His hand dipped into his coat, and he pulled free a copper tube, one end capped with a length of cork.

If Harune meant to fight, then Timothy would be ready.

He kicked open Harune’s door and sprang inside.

Harune sat at the table, writing something. He jerked to his feet in alarm, scrabbling for the short sword at his side.

“Don’t!” said Timothy, brandishing the copper tube. “Don’t even move. Do you know what this is?”

Harune’s eyes fixed on the tube. “Aye. A wizard’s war-spell.”

“I’ll use it if I must,” said Timothy.

Harune seemed amused. “If you use that, you’ll blast away the inn’s wall, and most likely perish yourself in the fire.”

“Who are you?” said Timothy.

“I told you before, you and Lord Mazael and Lucan Mandragon,” said Harune, “I’m just a merchant who works for the Cirstarcians from time to time…”

“Nonsense,” said Timothy. “You wear warding spells…”

“As I’ve already said,” said Harune.

“And one other spell,” said Timothy. “I didn’t recognize it at first, but I’ve seen such things before. A masking-spell, a spell of illusion. Harune Dustfoot is no more real than a wisp of fog. Who are you, really?” He gestured with the tube. “Tell me.”

Harune sighed. “You would not wish to know.”

“Tell me,” repeated Timothy.

“Understand,” said Harune, “that when I said I wished to help Lord Mazael, I spoke truly. I want to help him. If you…if he learns who I really am, I may not be able to help him.”

“You will tell me,” said Timothy.

Harune stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. “Perhaps it is the will of the gods.” He shrugged. “As you wish.”

Harune Dustfoot shimmered and disappeared.

In his place stood something else, something most definitely not human.

Harune Dustfoot was a San-keth cleric.

Timothy yelled and stepped back. He almost loosed the war-spell, almost blasted the San-keth to ashes. Yet something stayed his hand.

The San-keth had arms and legs. It looked, in fact, almost like a scaly man, albeit with a serpent’s head and a dangling tail. Timothy had never seen a San-keth with limbs, save for Straganis’s freakish carrier. In fact, the San-keth claimed to have been stripped of their limbs long ago.

“Are you going to kill me?” said the creature, its voice unlike Harune’s.

“What are you?” said Timothy.

“I,” it hissed, “am Ang-kath.”

Timothy frowned. “What is that?”

The creature told him, at some length, and then said, “I think you should take me to see Lord Mazael at once.”

Timothy lowered the copper tube. “I think you’re right.”

The air shimmered. The creature vanished, Harune Dustfoot reappeared, and followed Timothy from the Inn of the Crowned Helm.

Chapter 8

1

Daggers in the Night

Mazael lay asleep and dreamed:

He stood in the High Court, before the bronze statue of the first King Roland. The statue’s head had been hacked off, its sword shattered, and lay in jagged shards at Mazael’s feet.

Atop of the statue’s broken neck rested Lord Malden’s severed head, the eyes bulging in shock and horror. Blood trickled down the stone, dripping to the ground. Rachel’s head had been impaled on the broken sword, her features bruised and mutilated.

Mazael turned, his hands tightening into fists.

The sky burned like a dying fire, streaked with ashen clouds. Gutted corpses hung from Knightcastle’s walls, staining the stones with blood. Vultures wobbled overhead, bloated with dead flesh. The air hung heavy with smoke and the stink of rotting flesh.

The Old Demon before the Hall of Triumph, glaring at him. Something red and bloody dangled from his left hand.

“You,” snarled Mazael, drawing Lion and stalking forward.

The Old Demon laughed at him. “No words of greeting for your father, my son?” The bloody thing swung from his left hand. “No words at all?”

“I’ll kill you,” said Mazael, raising Lion.

The Old Demon’s eyes flashed like coals. “Miserable little fool. You could no sooner kill me than you could extinguish the sun. Ten thousand years from now, your bones will have moldered to dust, but I will still live.”

Mazael did not slow, did not lower his blade.

The Old Demon snarled, revealing jagged, filthy fangs.

“Then look!” snarled the Old Demon, lifting the bloody thing, “look at what your future holds!”

He flung the bloody sphere at Mazael. It bounced off Lion and rolled away, spinning in a veil of red hair, and came to a stop.

Morebeth’s bloodshot, dead eyes gazed up at him.

“Do you see?” whispered the Old Demon, black robes scraping against the ground like dead skin against a coffin. “You remember the first one, do you not? Romaria, that was her name? She died for you. She died because of you. Your sins, my son, your fault. And your new betrothed,” his face twisted into a grimace of hate, “she will die because of you. Every woman in your life will die because of you, and you will see them suffer before you die.”

“Did you come here to talk,” spat Mazael, tearing his eyes from Morebeth’s tortured face, “or to fight?”

The Old Demon laughed. “Your defiance is futile. You betrayed me, my son. So I will see everyone you ever love die. And then, only then, when despair has crushed your feeble soul, when you beg me for the mercy of death, will I lift my hand to kill you.”

“No,” said Mazael. Lion burned in his fist, the blade writhing with white flames. “Not if I kill you first.”

The Old Demon laughed. “Blind fool. Do you even see the death gathering around you?”

Mazael said nothing, Lion blazing.

The Old Demon grinned. “You don’t, do you? Fool. Tell me, my son, since you are so much wiser than your father. Do you see the betrayals that surround you? The treachery? The lies, the deceit?” One hand cupped and closed like a noose wrapping around a neck. “Your death comes for you like a wolf in the night and you do not even see it. It will spring from the darkness and take you, and you will just have time to choke on bitter tears before you die.”

“Every word you’ve even spoken has been false,” said Mazael. “Why should I believe you now?”

The Old Demon’s smile turned crooked. “Your arguments grow trite.” His breath rasped through his flaring nostrils. “You don’t believe me? Then go. Go and see, my son. You will see that I am right. And before you die, as they rip the heart from your chest, you’ll hear me laughing.”

The earth shook, and the towers of Knightcastle fell, dust and ash rising up in a colossal plume…

###

Mazael jerked awake, sweat oozing down his face and arms.

Besides him Morebeth sighed, hair sliding over the pillows.

It looked to be almost midnight. Mazael stared into the gloom, but saw nothing. He strained his ears, but heard only Morebeth’s slow breathing.

He sat for a moment, fists clenched.

It had just been a dream.

But dreams of the Old Demon were never just dreams.

Mazael rolled out of bed and dressed. He bucked on his sword belt and took a pair of sheathed daggers. His armor sat on a stand in the corner. He began to don it, pulling on the gambeson and hauberk, fumbling with the bindings of his cuirass.

“Mazael?” Morebeth sat up, holding the blanket close. “It’s the middle of the night. What are you doing?”

“Trouble’s coming,” said Mazael.

He felt Morebeth’s stare.

“I don’t know how,” said Mazael. “I just do. Something’s going to happen, and I need to be ready for it.”

Morebeth stood, wrapped herself in a red gown, and lit a candle. “Then you had better be ready, hadn’t you?” She glided to his side, pushed away his hands, and began doing the straps of his armor. “Put on your gauntlets while I do this.”

“Thank you,” said Mazael.

Morebeth said nothing, her slim fingers working the straps.

###

Adalar slipped through the night, his cloak wrapped tight.

He stopped before the door to the Dominiars’ quarters, knocked, and waited. Nothing happened for a moment. Then the door opened a crack, and Adalar felt unfriendly eyes digging into him.

The door opened, revealing a scarred Dominiar Knight. He scowled and beckoned Adalar forward. They passed through the darkened corridors and came to a torchlit hall. A half-dozen Dominiars stood around a table, grim-faced and silent.

“Squire,” said Sir Commander Amalric. He wore black plate and a black cloak with the silver star of the Dominiar Order. “Welcome. I am pleased you came.”

“Sir Commander,” said Adalar, bowing.

“These,” said Amalric, gesturing with an armored hand, “are my most trusted knights.” The men turned cold, flat eyes towards Adalar. They all looked like experienced killers. “They have served me well for many years. We will need to rely upon them during the troubled times ahead.” He paused, fingering his sword hilt. “Have you heard the dark news?”

Adalar nodded. “Lord Mazael has betrothed himself to Lady Morebeth.”

“He has,” said Amalric.

“Can you not stop her?” said Adalar. “You’re her brother, her only male kin. Can’t you forbid her from marrying Lord Mazael?”

“I could,” said Amalric, rubbing his sword hilt. The hilt, wrapped with worn leather, had seen much use. “But she wouldn’t listen to me. She never has, after all.” His dark eyes met Adalar’s. “Our time grows short. If Morebeth has convinced your Lord Mazael to marry her, then her hold over him is strong. Very soon, she will ask him to kill Lord Malden, and he will be deep enough in her thrall to obey. Perhaps even tonight. We must act at once. Show us the Trysting Ways, squire. Show us how we can save Lord Mazael from my wretched sister.”

Adalar nodded and walked to the featureless stone wall. He examined it for a moment, then pushed a stone block. Something clicked, the floor shuddered, and a portion of the wall swung aside.

Amalric’s knights looked startled.

“You can find the triggers like this,” said Adalar, pointing at part of the wall. “In direct light, they don’t look like anything. But if you look at it from the side, you can something that looks like a rose. That marks the door triggers.”

“Cunning work,” murmured one of the knights.

“Good,” said Amalric, nodding. “Show us more.”

Adalar nodded, and led the Dominiars into the Trysting Ways.

###

Sir Roger Gravesend squatted in the darkness, sharpening his sword. The rasps echoed off the damp walls of the stone vault.

“Soon!” shrieked Calibah, brandishing a torch, her reptilian eyes reflecting the fire. “Soon the hour will come! Soon we will slaughter the heretics and the apostates and the unbelievers in their beds! They shall know the stern justice of the San-keth, and we shall be the instruments of great Sepharivaim’s wrath!”

Two dozen changelings stood around Calibah, cheering in bloodlust.

Roger felt a tense eagerness. For weeks they had skulked in the shadows, hiding in Castle Town’s warehouses, in the labyrinth of forgotten passages riddling ancient Knightcastle, in the surrounding wilds and woods. Things had almost fallen apart when Lord Mazael caught them at the Lord’s Wood, but they had managed to escape.

The hiding grated on Roger. Calibah’s endless preaching wearied him, and he wanted to kill her. He wanted to kill all the changelings. Sometimes he wanted to fall on his sword and escape the misery of his life.

But, by Sepharivaim, he wanted to kill Mazael Cravenlock. And Calibah hinted that tonight, they might make their move.

The whetstone scraped against the sword blade.

“The blood of the unbelievers!” Calibah shrieked, slashing with the torch, “will stain Knightcastle’s walls!”

Something moved in the darkness. A vile stench struck Sir Roger’s nostrils. He gagged and scrambled to his feet.

A ghastly shape, a mixture of spider, human torso, and scorpion tail creaked into the light. Straganis’s head swiveled back and forth, his body grafted to his unnatural, alchemy-spawned carrier.

Calibah fell to her knees, as did the other changelings. “We await your command, great one,” she whispered.

Straganis’s tongue flicked at the air, dulled eyes glistening. “The word has come from our ally, my servants. The time has come. Tonight, the unbelievers will perish!”

The changelings cheered, and Roger found himself grinning.

###

Morebeth tied off the last strap and stepped back. “Now what will you do?”

For a moment Mazael felt foolish. Lord Malden would never believe him. Maybe the entire thing was just a fancy of his imagination. But dreams of the Old Demon were never just dreams.

And Lucan would believe him, and Trocend, and Timothy, if Mazael could but find them. If the San-keth meant to strike tonight, then Mazael needed their spells to battle Straganis’s arcane might.

“I have to find Brother Trocend,” said Mazael, stepping towards the door. “And extra guards for Lord Malden, Sir Garain….everyone, I suppose.” He paused, glancing back at her. “What will you do?”

Morebeth shrugged. “I may as well remain with you. I suppose I am as safe with you as anywhere else. And I doubt I am important enough to assassinate.”

Mazael’s jaw worked. “They… might kill you just to get to me, now that we are pledged.” He could not bring himself to tell her everything, could not tell her that the Old Demon might kill her out of spite, and cursed himself for his cowardice.

Morebeth smirked, eyes glittering. “Let them try.”

Someone knocked at the door.

“Answer it,” whispered Morebeth, picking up a dagger.

Mazael nodded, loosened Lion in its scabbard, and threw open the door.

Timothy stood in the doorway, looking worried.

Behind him waited Harune Dustfoot.

“Timothy?” said Mazael. “What’s going on?”

“Lord,” said Timothy. He glanced at Morebeth. “Lady.” Morebeth gave him a gracious nod.

“Lord Mazael,” said Harune, bowing.

“My lord,” said Timothy, “there’s something I’ve learned that you should know at once.” He hesitated. “It…it will probably anger you. But I only ask that you don’t kill Harune until he’s finished speaking.”

Mazael frowned. “What? What’s happening?” Was this the doom the Old Demon had planned?

“I must tell you something,” said Harune.

###

Adalar pointed towards a narrow staircase that spiraled upwards into the gloom. “There. And that stairwell leads towards Lord Malden’s room.”

Amalric nodded. “Good. Very good. Lord Mazael will pass this way when the madness takes him.” He beckoned. “This way. We must return to our guest quarters before anyone notices us here.”

Adalar nodded and fell into line behind Amalric. The Dominiar Knights filed behind him, hands on their sword hilts. They walked in silence, save for the occasional creak of armor, a scabbard tapping against a wall.

“Quiet,” hissed Amalric. Every now and again Adalar started to point out the path, but Amalric silenced him. He remembered everything Adalar had told him. It made Adalar uneasy. He had expected to show Amalric the door to Lord Malden’s chambers.

Instead, he had shown Amalric half the Trysting Ways.

Why did Amalric need to know so much?

They turned left, filing down a narrow passage. The torches in the knights’ hands flared and flickered.

“Wait,” said Adalar. “Sir Commander. This isn’t the way back to your chambers.”

“I know,” said Amalric. He glanced back. “Trust me, please.”

Amalric led them into a portion of the Trysting Ways Adalar had never seen. Dust coated the floors, and mold stained the walls. The stale air smelled of decay and something foul.

Amalric stopped before a massive door bound with rusted iron. He knocked in a complex rhythm and stepped backward. The door swung outward with a squeal of rust. Amalric nodded to someone and stepped through the door.

Adalar followed and came to a shocked halt.

Dozens of San-keth changelings filled the vault. Sir Roger Gravesend, who had betrayed Lord Mazael, stood nearby, a bared sword in his hand. Something creaked in the shadows, a ghastly stench flooding Adalar’s nostrils.

Straganis skittered out of the darkness, his spider-legs creaking, his human torso and arms the color of a dead fish.

“Well,” hissed the San-keth archpriest, “you have come.” His dull eyes swiveled to face Adalar. “And you have brought a guest.”

“Sir Commander!” shouted Adalar. “Run!” He fumbled for his sword.

Strong hands closed about his arms, wrenching them behind his back. Adalar jerked and twisted, trying to tear free, and realized that two of Amalric’s grim-faced knights had seized his arms.

“Sir Commander!” said Adalar, confused, “what…”

One of the knights struck Adalar across the face. “Silence.”

Amalric walked across the room, the changelings parting before him. He stopped before Straganis and gave a curt nod.

Straganis bowed in return, his misshapen body creaking. “Welcome, Sir Commander.”

“Archpriest,” said Amalric. “Is everything ready?”

“All is ready,” said Straganis. “We shall win great glory for Sepharivaim this night.”

“That is no concern of mine,” said Amalric, “but our purposes happen to coincide.”

Adalar stared at Amalric and Straganis in horror.

“What of the wards?” said Amalric. “Knightcastle crackles with divinatory magic. Malden has at least one wizard hidden away someplace. He will know the minute we strike. Can you defeat him?”

“Fear not,” said Straganis. “The arts of great Sepharivaim shall crush this interloper.”

“Good,” said Amalric. “Lord Malden and all three of his sons must die. Kill any Justiciar officers you can find. Knightcastle will be leaderless, and shall fall easily to Grand Master Malleus.”

“And Mazael and Rachel Cravenlock must perish,” said Straganis, his head swaying. “He has murdered the servants of great Sepharivaim, and she is an apostate. Both will die screaming for their crimes.”

Amalric shrugged, indifferent. “As you will.”

“You liar!” shouted Adalar, struggling against his captors. Another blow bounced off his jaw, but he ignored the pain. “You’d consort with the San-keth just to defeat Lord Malden. Are you insane? They’ll kill you!”

Sir Roger strolled towards Adalar, grinning. “Well. Mazael’s squire. Quite a present you’ve brought us, Sir Commander.” He lifted his sword, tapping the edge against Adalar’s throat. “Let’s take his ears, or his eyes and nose, and send him back to that bastard Mazael as a warning.”

“Don’t be a fool,” said Amalric. “Lord Mazael is formidable, and must die without warning.” His cold face tightened. “Unless you’d prefer to face him yourself?”

Sir Roger stepped back. “Let me kill the boy.”

“No,” said Amalric. “He may prove useful later, I think. Perhaps as a hostage, should things go awry.”

“You bloody-handed coward,” said Adalar. “If Lord Mazael dishonored your sister, then challenge him to a duel like an honorable man…”

“My sister is an annoyance. Lord Mazael is an obstacle to be removed, and nothing more,” said Amalric, voice cold. He looked to Straganis.

“Prepare yourselves,” said Straganis.

The changelings stood. As Adalar watched, their features flowed and changed, rippling like clay beneath a potter’s hands. The changelings, one and all, took the shape of dark-haired Mastarian men. They donned black mail and black tabards adorned with the silver Dominiar star.

“Make certain you are seen,” said Amalric. “It is my wish that the survivors tell tales.”

“My servants know their business, Dominiar,” said Straganis, turning his baleful glare on Amalric.

Amalric looked back without flinching. “See that they do.”

Straganis hissed and looked away first.

“I might have a use for the boy later. Make certain he doesn’t cause trouble,” said Amalric.

Adalar struggled against the knights’ iron grip. Something hard smashed into the back of his head, pain exploded through him, and everything went dark.

###

“What is it?” said Mazael. “Speak.”

Harune opened his mouth, then Timothy hissed and fumbled in his pocket. The wire-wrapped quartz crystal in his hand shimmered and pulsed.

“Lord!” said Timothy. “Changelings!”

“Are you sure?” said Harune.

“Absolutely,” said Timothy. “They’re nearby…they’re moving towards Lord Malden’s chambers.” His eyes widened. “Gods, there are hundreds of them, they’re everywhere…”

“We have to go now,” said Mazael. He looked at Harune. “We can talk later. Are you armed? We’ll need help.”

Harune nodded and drew his short sword.

Mazael pushed past them, into the corridor, and almost ran into Trocend Castleson.

“Lord Mazael!” hissed Trocend. His hair was unkempt, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He held a glass jar clutched in one hand. Within the jar a changeling’s eye spun like a child’s top. “The changelings are coming! We must move at once!”

“I know,” said Mazael, stepping past him. “For the gods’ sake, let’s…”

“Lord Mazael.” Lucan Mandragon appeared out the shadows, raven perched atop his shoulder. “The changelings are moving. We had best get to…” He stopped, and then Trocend saw him.

“You!” said Trocend, raising his hands. “Did your father send you to work mischief? Or perhaps you were in league with the San-keth all along?”

“Don’t be a fool, old man,” said Lucan. “I’ve been here all along. You simply lacked the wit to notice.” He lifted his hand, the fingers working. “And do you really think yourself strong enough to overcome me?”

Mazael shoved between them. “You damned fools! You can butcher each other after we stop the changelings. Now…”

Something clicked, quite loudly. Mazael turned just in time to see the door to the Trysting Ways swing open, and a dozen men in the tabards of Dominiar footmen swarm into his bedchamber.

For a moment they gaped in confusion. Mazael saw their eyes flicker, saw the black-slit serpent gaze of San-keth changelings.

Then they sprang forward, drawing their swords, and swarmed at Morebeth.

Mazael raced forward, shoving Trocend out of the way. Harune scrabbled for his short sword, and Lucan began an incantation. Mazael yanked Lion free, his heart racing. He couldn’t reach them in time, couldn’t keep them from killing Morebeth…

But Morebeth wheeled aside, cat-quick, her free hand seizing a changeling’s hair. Her other hand brought up the dagger in a quick slash, and the changeling fell with blood bubbling from a slashed throat. Another changeling stabbed at her, but Morebeth dodged aside, ducking towards the bed.

Then Mazael crashed into the changelings, Lion a steely blur. He took the head from one, slashed the arm from another, and gutted a third. His Demonsouled rage boiled beneath his mind, but he kept a tight focus. A few sword points skidded off his cuirass, but he blocked most of the blows, driving deeper into the changelings.

But still more rushed out of the Trysting Ways. Mazael hacked at another, saw Harune slashing with his short sword. Another changeling dashed at Morebeth, and she seized his arm, using his momentum against him. The changeling shot past her, slammed into the wall, and Morebeth drove her dagger through the back of his neck. Despite the mayhem, Mazael felt a brief flash of admiration for Morebeth’s cold-eyed calm.

Then Trocend stepped forward, purple witch-light flashing around his raised fingers, and thrust out his hand. The air shimmered, and a ghastly specter appeared, a gruesome cross between a misshapen ape and a vulture. The creature loosed a warbling cry and ripped a changeling in half, its fangs tearing out the throat of another. Lucan made a chopping motion with his hand, and an unseen force seized three changelings and slammed them against the wall with bone-shattering force.

Mazael parried a blow, raised his free hand, and knocked a changeling back with a ferocious punch. The changeling staggered back with a wail of pain, and Trocend’s winged monster tore it to shreds.

The last changeling fell, the rest fleeing into the Trysting Ways. Blood covered the floor in a sticky coat. Mazael stepped towards the secret door, sword raised, but no further changelings appeared.

“Timothy, Harune,” said Mazael, kicking the secret door shut. “Push the bed in front of the damned door.” The two men hastened to comply. “We’ve got to rouse the castle. Come on, move!”

“But the lady,” said Trocend, squinting at Morebeth, “we cannot leave her here!” The bed slammed against the door.

“I will stay with you,” said Morebeth, wiping her dagger clean on a dead changeling’s tabard.

“Go!” said Mazael. “Lord Malden could lie dying as we speak!” He felt a surge of twisting fear. Had they gotten to Gerald already? Had they murdered Rachel? “Timothy! Rouse the castle. Get to the barracks and ring the alarm bells. Go!” Timothy turned and sprinted away in a swirl of black cloak. “Come!”

They hastened into the corridors of Oliver’s Keep, which stood dark and silent. Mazael saw nothing, and heard nothing but the raspy breathing of his companions.

“We must go to Lord Malden’s rooms,” said Trocend, “if the Dominiars have come to kill him. He is lodging in the Tower of Guard tonight, with Lady Claretta…”

“But what of my sister?” said Mazael. They clattered through the gates of Oliver’s Keep and into the Court of Challengers. “Or Sir Gerald, or Sir Tobias? They’re all in the Old Keep! We can’t…”

“Trocend can warn Lord Malden,” said Lucan. “Lord Mazael and I will see to Lord Malden’s sons.”

“I cannot go alone,” said Trocend. “I am but an old man…”

“Don’t play me for a fool,” said Mazael, running for the ramp to the High Court. “You’re hardly helpless. And get some of Lord Malden’s armsmen, if you need aid. Now go!”

Trocend scowled at Mazael, but nonetheless ran off with surprising speed. Mazael raced through the barbican to the High Court. The armsmen standing guard at the gate stared at him.

“We are under attack!” said Mazael. “Get to the Old Keep and defend your lord, now!”

They gaped at him. Mazael didn’t bother to see if they had obeyed. He cursed under his breath, wishing he had insisted that Rachel stay in Oliver’s Keep. Lord Malden had lodged Rachel in the Old Keep, in the quarters of the Rolands’ most honored guest, since she would soon become a Roland.

She might well die in comfortable luxury, if Mazael didn’t get there in time.

Four household knights stood on guard before the gates of the Old Keep. They moved to block Mazael’s approach.

“Move, you damned idiots,” roared Mazael.

“Lord Mazael,” said one the knights, “no one is permitted to enter the Old Keep without Lord Malden’s…”

Mazael shoved aside the knight and kicked open the door.

The knights yelled, stepped forward, and came to a stunned halt when they saw the two dozen changelings or so standing in the keep’s great hall.

Mazael bellowed and sprang at them, Harune a half-step behind him. Mazael took the arm from a changeling, wheeled, killed another. He heard Lucan chanting something, saw Harune chopping and stabbing.

Lord Malden’s knights stared in shock.

“Fight, you cowards!” said Morebeth, her voice ringing. “Fight and defend your lord!”

The knights ran forward, drawing their swords, and the armsmen dashed through the opened doors. Mazael tore into the changelings with abandon, blood running down Lion’s blade. Rachel and her maids had been lodged on the second floor of the Old Keep. If he could just cut his way through …

Two changelings came at Mazael, screaming, swords raised high. Mazael parried the first blow, twisted around the second, and sidestepped the third. His sword crashed through a gap in the changeling’s armor, sent it sprawling to the ground.

He wheeled to face the second one, Lion arcing in a crimson blur, and Lucan cast a spell.

The air crackled with energy. A half-dozen glowing, translucent wolves appeared out of nothingness, ripped from the spirit world by the force of Lucan’s magic, and pounced upon the changelings. Fangs and claws shredded changeling flesh, blood staining the ancient flagstones of the Old Keep. Mazael cut his way through the melee, his teeth clenched. Another few steps, a few more changelings, and he could race to the stairs…

A high keening sound sliced into his ears, and then something hard and invisible slammed into Mazael with a thunderclap. He went sprawling to the ground, as did a dozen changelings and most of Lord Malden’s men. Mazael groaned and went to one knee, trying to shake off the ringing in his ears. Had Lucan lost control of his spell?

He looked up, and saw Straganis.

The San-keth archpriest skittered towards him, spider legs creaking, green fires crackling around his ghastly hands.

“For your crimes,” hissed Straganis, hands lifting, “for your murder of the cleric Skhath, I sentence you to death!”

Mazael lurched to his feet, his trying to regain his balance. He heard Morebeth shout something, heard the groans of wounded men, Straganis’s voice droning in a necromantic incantation. He took a staggering step towards Straganis, but he knew could not reach his enemy in time…

Then a rushing roar filled the air. Straganis lurched back, the fires around his hands winking out, his spidery legs buckling with stress. Mazael saw Lucan running towards the San-keth archpriest, hands out, lips twisting in a spell. Straganis snarled and thrust out his hands. Part of the wall exploded in a spray of debris, and the rushing sound ended.

“So!” said Straganis, straightening up, “you dare to face me again, maggot?”

“I defeated you once before, did I not?” said Lucan, circling Straganis.

“You escaped because of chance,” said Straganis. “And you will not escape again.”

He thrust out his hands, and a half-dozen wraith-like tigers appeared from nothingness and sprang at Lucan. Lucan gestured, and his translucent wolves leapt from the mauled corpses of the changelings and intercepted Straganis’s tigers. Both Lucan and Straganis began new spells, gesturing like madmen, their voices thundering with arcane power.

Mazael raced for the stairs.

###

Adalar blinked awake.

He had a gag in his mouth and a blindfold over his eyes. Rough hands dug into his shoulders, half-dragging, half-pushing him forward.

“Ah,” he heard Amalric say, “here we are.”

The click of a secret door opening seemed very loud in Adalar’s ears.

###

A ghostly beast, like a lion with kraken's tentacles, fell from the ceiling, jaws snapping for Lucan's head. One of his wolves leapt up and intercepted the creature. Another of Straganis's tigers seized the opportunity and charged at Lucan. Lucan cast another spell, the arcane energies thrumming through his bones, and banished the creature back to the spirit world.

Straganis hissed, venom dripping from his fangs, and began another spell. The hall of the Old Keep thundered with the opposing magic, echoing with screams of pain and the ring of steel as changelings and armsmen battled.

Lucan gritted his teeth, spread his fingers, and made a lifting motion. Three dropped swords floated off the floor. He made a slashing gesture and sent the weapons spinning at Straganis. One of Straganis's tigers jumped, caught a sword in the throat, and vanished. Straganis crossed his arms, a silvery mist shimmering around his misshapen form. The remaining swords crumbled into a cloud of orange rust.

Straganis struck again, with a spell that made the floor tremble and the air ring, and Lucan barely turned it aside. The effort made knives of pain dig into his head.

Once again, he was overmatched. He had enough power to turn Straganis's spells, and even to strike back, but he had nothing to pierce Straganis's protections. Their struggle would become a battle of attrition, and Straganis would outlast him.

But he had expected that.

Straganis sent a chunk of shattered masonry hurtling towards Lucan's head. He gathered his will and flung it into a changeling. Straganis's will struck at Lucan again, and again, and the third strike sent Lucan flying.

He smashed hard into the wall, his head ringing, blood splashing across his lips. Lucan spat a curse and rolled to one knee, saw his spirit-minions fleeing in all directions, Straganis's creatures overwhelming them.

Lucan had landed next to one of the doors into the Trysting Ways.

He scrambled to his feet, triggered the door, and slipped inside.

He heard the skittering clicks as Straganis followed in pursuit.

###

Mazael dashed up the stairs, the noise of the melee below ringing in his ears. He wanted to turn and fight, wanted to plunge into the battle below. How could he leave Lucan and the others to fight alone? But he could not stand against Straganis's magic. And if he stayed, if he fought, Rachel might die.

If she hadn't died already.

He raced around a corner and came to her door.

It was locked.

Mazael spat a curse and rammed his shoulder against the door, all his strength behind it. The wood shattered and Mazael half-jumped, half-fell through the door. Rachel lay sleeping in the great bed, dark hair fanned across the pillows. Her maids and ladies-in-waiting slept on cots around the bed.

Seven changelings in Dominiar guise glided towards them, swords in hand.

They froze in shock, staring at Mazael.

Mazael sprang forward, yelling, Lion raised high. He cut down one changeling and wounded another before they had a chance to react. The rest dashed at him, swords slashing and stabbing. Mazael fell backwards, tripped over a sleeping maid, and rolled back to his feet. He parried a thrust aimed for his face and spun, his blade ripping apart a changeling's throat.

The maids woke up and began to scream. A sword cut open the inside of Mazael's left arm. He bellowed and hacked the head from another changeling.

Rachel sat up, blinking. “Mazael...” Her eyes widened in terror.

“Get out!” said Mazael. “Now! Run!”

Rachel scrambled up, kicking free from the blankets. A changeling vaulted over the bedpost, sword angled for her back. Mazael blocked the stab, and suffered a wound in his leg as another changeling seized the opening. His leg jerked and trembled. The changeling drove hard at him, feinting and thrusting. Mazael blocked, grunted, and kicked out his good leg, shattering the changeling's knee. The creature wailed and topped, and Mazael's counterstroke made a bloody ruin of his face.

“Mazael!” shouted Rachel.

“I told you to run!” growled Mazael. His leg throbbed and ached, but he could manage. Three of the changelings still stood, watching him with wary eyes.

“They'll kill...”

Mazael feinted forward, ignoring the pain. The leftmost changeling fell for the feint, and Mazael took off its hand. He wheeled aside, a weak thrust clanging off his breastplate, and decapitated another changeling.

The survivors fled, vanishing back into the Trysting Ways.

Mazael coughed and lurched towards the door, wincing. Rachel and her maids stood in a tight clump. “Is anyone hurt?”

One of the maids said, “I think you broke my wrist when you tripped over me.”

Mazael shoved past them and back into the hallway. “I weep for you. Now stay with me, for the gods' sake.” He broke into a run for Tobias’s rooms. “This isn't over yet.”

###

Lucan raced down the narrow corridor, his cloak flapping. He tore through the cobwebbed passages with reckless speed. If he did not reach his destination before Straganis, he would likely die.

Behind him he heard the creak of Straganis's legs, the tap of his claws against the stone floors.

“Flee, if you will!” said Straganis, his raspy voice echoing off the stonework. “It will not save you.”

Lucan whirled and began muttering a spell. Straganis hissed, skidded to a halt, and began casting. Lucan's magic summoned a spirit-creature, a beast of claws and fangs and spines that sprang at Straganis.

He did not wait to see what happened next, but turned and kept running. He heard Straganis snarl a spell, heard the shriek and crackle of magical force, and the spirit-creature's scream as Straganis's will hurtled it from the mortal world.

The clicking creak of Straganis's pursuit resumed.

###

Mazael heard someone shout, following by a gurgling scream of agony. Mazael didn't slow, but lowered his aching shoulder and slammed against the door. It burst from its frame, a torn hinge shrieking.

Sir Tobias stood in the corner, naked, his axe clutched in both hands. He bled from half a dozen wounds, and a band of changelings pressed at him, slashing. Three dead changelings lay on the floor. Sir Tobias's current mistress, the daughter of some minor lord, huddled beneath the blankets, screaming.

Tobias bellowed and hacked off a changeling's arm. A sword flicked out and marked his chest.

Mazael raced forward and plunged Lion through the back of a changeling. He kicked the corpse free, wheeled, and killed another. The survivors whirled to face Mazael, and Tobias took them from behind.

The battle ended very quickly.

“Gods damn these devils!” spat Tobias, wiping his forehead. “Do they ever give up?”

“No,” said Mazael, grabbing Tobias's shoulder. “Can you still fight?”

Tobias's eyes blazed. “I'll dash the brains from their skulls!”

“Good,” said Mazael. He gestured behind him, where Rachel and her maids hovered in the doorway. “Get dressed. Stay with the women. They're trying to kill Rachel, too.”

“What of you?” said Tobias, grabbing for his armor.

Mazael didn't answer, but shoved past Rachel's maids and into the corridor. He had to get to Gerald and Sir Garain and Lord Malden before the San-keth did. He wondered why the changelings had taken the guise of Dominiar footmen. Did they think to provoke a war between Lord Malden and the Dominiars? It seemed foolish. Lord Malden and the Grand Master were going to war anyway, with or without the encouragement of the San-keth.

Then the need for action silenced Mazael's thoughts, and he raced forward, Lion trailing a fine mist of bloody droplets.

“Lord Mazael!”

He glanced over his shoulder. Harune and Morebeth and Timothy ran behind him. Harune looked bruised and bloodied, his short sword stained with gore. Morebeth was untouched, but she had traded her dagger for a sword, no doubt seized from a corpse. Her gray eyes shone with a keen light.

“It's over in the Hall,” gasped Harune, panting. “The changelings are dead. Lady Morebeth sent the surviving knights and armsmen to Sir Garain's chambers.”

Morebeth did not seem winded. “These devils are here to kill Lord Malden and his kin, most likely.” Her unbound hair streamed behind her like a bloody banner.

“We're with you, my lord,” said Harune.

Mazael considered sending Morebeth to Tobias, but she would not listen, and seemed capable with the sword, besides. He'd never thought he would wind up fighting a battle side by side with Morebeth again, but needed all the aid he could find.

“Come with me,” he said, “quickly.”

Gerald occupied chambers in one of the Old Keep's turrets, with windows overlooking the lower tiers of Knightcastle and the Riversteel valley. The door was ancient oak, banded with iron, but posed no hindrance to Mazael's Demonsouled strength. The door shattered, and Mazael kicked his way over the debris.

The bed stood on the far side of the circular room, near the balcony. Gerald lay asleep, his squire Wesson snoring at the foot of the bed. Mazael saw no changelings, nor any sign of anything amiss.

A slight breeze blew through the doors.

Gerald sat up and blinked. “Mazael?” His frown deepened. “Lady Morebeth?” Wesson grunted, rubbing his eyes. “Is something wrong?”

“Get your sword,” said Mazael. Wesson scrambled to his feet, drew Gerald's sword, and handed it over. Gerald rolled out of bed, nightshirt flapping around his ankles.

“But...what's going on?” said Gerald.

Mazael opened his mouth to answer.

A large part of the wall swung inward.

A dozen changelings rushed into the turret chamber, more racing after them. Mazael roared and wheeled to meet them, Lion blurring as he slashed. Wesson yelped and scooped up a mace from under the bed. Harune wielded his short sword like an axe, hewing heads and arms like wood. Morebeth thrust her sword like a rapier, fencing rather than fighting, but left numerous corpses in her wake.

Mazael wondered what had happened to Adalar.

More and more changelings poured out of the secret door, brandishing weapons. Mazael gutted one, beheaded another, and ducked beneath a looping blow. If he lived through this, he would make sure Lord Malden walled up every last one of those damned doors.

And still more changelings stormed into the room. Three dozen filled Gerald's bedchamber, crowding against the walls. Mazael had scarce enough room to swing, and yanked his dagger free, stabbing with his left hand while thrusting with his right. Blows clanged and skidded off his battered armor. He bellowed again and killed another changeling. Gods, how many changelings had Straganis smuggled into Knightcastle? Bit by bit, the sheer weight of the press drove Mazael and the others back towards the door. Gerald had been wounded thrice, blood soaking into his nightshirt, and his face had taken a waxen sheen.

“My lords, move!”

Timothy shoved past them, a foot-long copper tube in one hand. He began a rapid chant, his free hand tracing intricate gestures.

Mazael's eyes widened. “Get back! Get back!”

Timothy stood rigid, arm extended. Either the changelings had failed to recognize the danger of Timothy's magic, or they hadn't been at Tristgard. As one, they charged at him, swords raised.

Timothy finished his spell.

The end of the copper tube exploded in a raging gout of flame.

The blast of the spell hammered into the changelings, killing the first rank in an instant. The others went up in flames, clothes burning, flesh charring. They stumbled into the others, the flames spreading. Shrieks of agony rent the air, mingling with the roaring of the fires. The heat smote Mazael like a fist.

“Out!” coughed Timothy, flinging aside the copper tube. “Out!”

They stumbled out of the burning room. A few changelings chased them, screaming and wreathed in flames, and Mazael cut them down. Then the roof of the turret collapsed in a roar of smoke and embers, the heat washing out in waves. They ran back to the relative safety of the corridor, Mazael half-dragging both an exhausted Timothy and a wounded Gerald.

“I always forget how tiring that is,” mumbled Timothy, shaking his head.

“You set fire to my bed,” said Gerald, sounding dazed.

Armor clattered and swords rattled. Mazael turned and saw a dozen of Lord Malden's armsmen running up the hall, escorting Rachel and a half-dressed Sir Tobias.

“The castle is roused!” said Sir Tobias. “We'll hunt down every last one of those damned changelings!”

“Sir Gerald is wounded!” said Mazael. “See to him at once!” He stepped past Sir Gerald, making for the stairs.

“Where are you going?” said Morebeth.

“The Tower of Guard,” said Mazael. If the changelings had waylaid Trocend, kept him from reaching Lord Malden...

“My lord!” Timothy ran to his side, reeling a bit. “You'll not make it to the Tower in time. Come with me, quickly.” He beckoned, and Mazael scowled, but followed nonetheless.

They ran onto a balcony jutting from the side of the Old Keep, overlooking the second tier of Knightcastle's walls. Mazael saw the battlements of the Tower of Guard far below.

“Do you expect me to jump?” said Mazael. “It must be three hundred feet...”

“Yes, it is,” said Timothy, fumbling through his pockets. “And yes, I do.” He yanked free a bit of wire and an eagle's feather. “A spell I have. You can make the jump safely.”

“You're exhausted,” said Mazael.

Timothy nodded. “But I can still do this. My lord, you'll need this if you hope to save Lord Malden. Hold still.” Mazael complied. Timothy muttered under his breath, waving the wire and the feather in patterns. Blue light flashed from Timothy's hands, and Mazael felt a curious lightness, a thunderous rushing filled his ears.

“Now, my lord!” said Timothy, his voice muffled in Mazael's ears, “jump!”

Mazael shrugged, rammed Lion into its scabbard, vaulted the railing, and jumped.  He plunged down, his cloak billowing behind him, and felt an instant of terrible fear.

Then his boots hit the battlements of the Tower of Guard with a gentle tap. Mazael reeled for a moment, his head spinning, then regained his balance. He had fallen over three hundred feet without injury.

He ran for the stairs.

###

Rough hands pulled away Adalar's blindfold.

The point of a dagger pressed against his throat.

“Keep silent, boy,” breathed a voice into his ear. “One word, one twitch, and you'll choke on your own blood. The Sir Commander wants you to see this.”

Adalar's eyes twitched back and forth. Through the opened door he saw a vast, opulent bedchamber, dominated by a bed the seize of a large wagon. Lord Malden lay sleeping in the bed, alongside a naked young woman Adalar recognized as Lady Claretta.

Amalric walked towards the bed, sword sliding from his scabbard with a gentle hiss.

###

A necromantic spell slammed into Lucan, a haze of green flames that threatened to rip the life and warmth from his flesh. He managed a warding spell, but the force still sent him sprawling.

Straganis raced down the corridor, moving ever closer.

Challenging Straganis might not have been a good idea.

Lucan looked up, gazed at the groin-vaulted ceiling, and realized where he was.

The ghost of a smile flicked across his face, and he rose, setting himself to meet Straganis's attack.

###

Mazael sprinted into the Tower of Guard's uppermost levels, where Lady Claretta had her chambers, and where Lord Malden often spent his nights. Two of Lord Malden's household knights stood at guard before the door, yawning and heavy-eyed. They glared at Mazael.

“What is your business here?” they said, staring at the bloodstains on Mazael's armor.

“You damned fools!” said Mazael, drawing Lion. “They've come to murder Lord Malden and you're standing here gaping? Get out of my way!”

The knights moved to block Mazael. He shoved them out of the way and hammered the door open. The bedroom was opulent with silken hangings and rich tapestries, as Lord Malden usually lodged his favorite mistress here. The bed was large and soft, because Lord Malden occasionally wished to spend time with more than once mistress at once. At the moment, it just held Lord Malden and Lady Claretta, both asleep.

On the far side of the bed stood a handful of Dominiar Knights, a half-dozen changelings disguised as Dominiar footmen, and Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith, a sword in his hand.

“Oh, gods,” mumbled one of Lord Malden's knights.

Amalric looked at Mazael, his eyes cold and sharp as the blade of his sword. “Lord Mazael.”

“You damned murderous bastard,” said Mazael, circling towards him. The Dominiar Knights and the changelings raised their weapons. “You're in league with the San-keth.”

“Hardly,” said Amalric, raising the sword. “We share a few common purposes, but nothing more.”

“Did you send the San-keth to kill me at Castle Cravenlock?” said Mazael. “And at Tristgard?”

“Straganis does as he pleases,” said Amalric. “If it amuses him to butcher a few enemies on the side, what is that to me? Your name meant nothing me until a few months past.” His eyes glinted. “Lord Malden is doddering old hypocrite, and will be removed for the greater glory of the Dominiar Order.”

“Villain,” said Mazael.

Lord Malden stirred, yawned.

“You are a debauched lecher, seduced by my whore of a sister,” said Amalric. “Speak to me of villainy, will you?”

“But I have not sent the San-keth to murder men in their beds!” said Mazael, stepping toward Amalric.

“What is this?” said Lord Malden, sitting up, gray hair tangled. He glared at Mazael, at Amalric, and back at Mazael. “If you two are going to kill each other, do it in the morning like civilized...” His voice trailed off as he saw the Dominiars and the changelings.

“Be silent, you old fool,” said Amalric. He stepped towards the bed.

Mazael raised his sword.

“Another step and I'll kill the boy,” said Amalric.

“What boy?” said Mazael.

Amalric gestured. “That boy.”

One of the Dominiars shoved Adalar forward, his hands bound, a gag in his mouth.

“You damned coward,” spat Mazael.

“I am nothing of the sort,” said Amalric, raising his sword. “I'll kill the old man first, then you.”

Lord Malden's hand blurred, dipped under his pillow, and reappeared with a dagger. Amalric's free hand lashed out and sent the old man sprawling across the pillows, the dagger falling from his hand. Lady Claretta sat up, clutching the blankets, and screamed.

Amalric raised his sword for the blow.

Lord Malden's dagger clattered at Mazael's feet.

He snatched it up and flung it. It whirred past Amalric's ear and buried itself in the eye of the Dominiar holding Adalar. The Dominiar shrieked and stumbled back, clutching his face, and dropped Adalar. Amalric hesitated for just a second, and that was long enough for Mazael to block the thrust intended for Lord Malden's heart.

Lord Malden's household knights screamed and charged into the room.

“Impressive,” said Amalric, pressing against Mazael's block. “We already know you're my superior with a lance. Let us see who is better with the blade.”

He came at Mazael in a whirlwind of blows.

###

Straganis skittered into the vault, watching Lucan.

“You lack the strength to run?” he said.

“No,” said Lucan. “I am not running from you.” He backed away a bit more. If he could get Straganis a few more feet into the vault, just a few more feet...

“Fool,” said Straganis. “They all hold you in such fear. You are little more than a neophyte, a child dabbling with petty spells. I shall teach you proper arcane arts, once I enslave your spirit.”

“Such boastful words,” said Lucan, still backing away, heart racing. “Yet I still live.” His back bumped against the vault's wall.

Straganis cackled. “Not for long.”

He came into the center of the vault, and Lucan felt a fierce surge of triumph.

A fat raven flapped up, circled over Lucan's head, and changed into the boy-thief shape. Mocker-Of-Hope seized a rope dangling from the ceiling, swinging like a monkey.

Straganis laughed. “A lesser spirit-creature? It will not save...”

He looked up, saw the dangling corpses, and fell silent.

A dozen dead changelings hung from the ceiling, nooses around their necks. Necromantic sigils covered their faces and chests, sigils Lucan had painted in their own blood.

“Now!” shouted Lucan, beginning an incantation.

Mocker-Of-Hope blurred, became a nightmarish shape of leathery skin and talons, and spun. His claws sheared through the ropes, and the corpses fell in a ring around Straganis. Lucan finished his spell, necromantic energy shimmering around his fingers.

The corpses rose to their feet with terrifying speed and grace. Lucan had spent days preparing them, laying spells of strength and speed over their rotting flesh, burning latent magic in their flesh.

They flung themselves at Straganis, tearing and biting. Straganis’s first spell blasted steaming chunks of meat across the room, and the second reduced a corpse to crumbling ash. Yet the sheer weight of his undead attackers bore Straganis down, drove him to the floor.

An axe leaned in a corner. Lucan seized it and raced for Straganis, the weapon raised high. He knew Straganis had armored himself in wards to turn most spells, but he doubted the San-keth had raised spells against material weapons.

His theory was confirmed when the axe took off Straganis’s arm. A yellowish ooze burst from the wound, and Straganis screamed, the corpses tearing at his flesh. Lucan brought the axe up again, intending to take Straganis's head.

Straganis tore his remaining arm free, gestured, and shouted an incantation. Mist swirled about his maimed form, and he vanished, pulled back into the spirit world. Lucan's axe clanged off the stone floor, numbing his arms. The animated corpses stood and began wandering around the room, seeking for their quarry.

“Damn it!” snarled Lucan. So much effort had gone into the preparations, and he had been forced to use, again, the necromantic arts he had inherited from Marstan, yet Straganis had still escaped. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

The outburst irritated him, and he throttled himself back. He ought to have learned greater self-control, by now. He couldn't afford to lose his temper and kill everyone who annoyed him.

Something tittered. Lucan turned and saw Mocker-Of-Hope, wearing the shape of the noble girl.

“Why, sir!” she said. “That was ever so funny.”

“We failed,” said Lucan.

Mocker-Of-Hope blurred, became the boy-thief, still chuckling. “But, squire! Why, the expression on that snaky devil's face. Course, he doesn't have a proper face, not really, if you follow me.” He pointed. “But I bet he'll not be causing you trouble for some time, so he won't.”

The severed arm of Straganis's carrier lay on the floor in a pool of yellow slime. It had already begun to rot, and the stench was terrible. Lucan sighed, waved his hand, and canceled the necromancy binding the dead changelings.

They fell to the ground in a chorus of meaty thumps.

“Come,” said Lucan. “More blood will be spilled, before this night is done.”

The fat raven gave a satisfied caw and settled on Lucan's shoulder.

###

Sparks flew, and Lion clanged in Mazael's hands.

Amalric was fast and strong, his blade everywhere at once. It took all of Mazael's skill and strength to keep from losing a limb, or even his head to Amalric's sword. He inflicted a half-dozen minor wounds, and Amalric gave the same back to him.

The Demonsouled rage began to rise, filling Mazael with fire, numbing the pain of his wounds.

They battled, hacking and stabbing. A half-dozen of Lord Malden's household knights charged into the room, rushing the Dominiars and the changelings. Corpses fell like leaves in an autumn forest. Mazael's foot tangled in the legs of a dead knight, and he almost lost his balance. Amalric's sword lashed out and skidded off Mazael's forearm, drawing blood. He snarled, kicked free of the corpse, and parried a vicious cut aimed at his head.

More changelings rushed from the Trysting Ways, weapons raised. More household knights and armsmen ran through the door, yelling. Amalric flew into a raging whirlwind of harsh blows, trying to cut down Mazael and get to Lord Malden. Mazael held his ground against Amalric's fury. Sooner or later the armsmen and knights would push back the changelings...

Someone howled in hate. Mazael glanced sidelong just in time to see Sir Roger Gravesend lunge at him, a Dominiar war hammer raised high. The blow crashed into Mazael's left shoulder, crushing armor plates and shattering the bones. The pain plunged into him like a burning spear, and his arm went numb.

“You bastard!” shrieked Roger. His eyes were wide and wild, his beard unkempt, and he looked utterly mad. “I'll smash your damned head in! I'll...”

Mazael ducked under Amalric's next blow and kicked out. His boot slammed hard into Sir Roger's stomach, sent him reeling. Amalric's next slash skidded off the top of Mazael's helmet. Mazael staggered with the blow, snarled through the pain, and stabbed even as Amalric raised his sword for an overhand slash.

Lion's point plunged into Amalric's left armpit and burst through the top of his shoulder, scraping against the inside of his armor. Amalric roared in pain and fury and lurched backwards, almost tearing Lion from Mazael's grasp.

Sir Roger bellowed and swung the hammer in a loop. Mazael staggered away from the whirling blow and lashed out. Lion's bloodstained tip caught Sir Roger across the jaw. Sir Roger groaned and dropped the hammer, clutching his face.

“Damned traitor!” spat Mazael. Roger half-lurched, half-crawled away, and Mazael stalked after him. “You've gotten away three times before, but this time...”

Amalric's sword cracked into the side of Mazael's helmet. His head rang like a bell, and he almost toppled, Lion's point scraping against the floor. Amalric pressed forward, sword angled for a killing blow. Mazael ducked under the blow and struck back, Lion smacking into Amalric's wounded shoulder. The armor turned the edge, but Amalric snarled in pain and staggered back a step.

More armsmen poured into the room, yelling and attacking the changelings. Amalric looked around with furious eyes, backing towards the door.

“Fall back!” he yelled, gesturing with his bloody sword. “Fall back!” The changelings raced for the door into the Trysting Ways. Amalric turned one last murderous glance at Mazael, then disappeared through the hidden door. Mazael tried to chase after him, but his head ached and his stomach swam, and it was all he could do to stand. Instead he leaned on his sword and waited, the warmth of his unnatural healing abilities spreading through him.

Bit by bit the pain began to ease.

The door the Trysting Ways slammed shut. The armsmen rushed forward and began pounding at it, trying to pry it open. Amalric and his men must have blocked it somehow. Mazael waited until his head stopped spinning, then rushed forward to help rip the door open.

They swarmed into the Trysting Ways, but Amalric, the Dominiars, and the changelings had vanished from the Trysting Ways.

And they had taken Adalar with them

###

Someone slammed Adalar against a wall, the back of his head cracking against the stone. His vision blurred, and when it cleared, he saw one of the hard-faced Dominiar Knights scowling at him.

“Sir Commander!” said the Dominiar. “We should kill him and leave him behind.”

Amalric appeared behind the Dominiar's shoulder. “No. Take him with us.” His wounds seemed to trouble him at all.

“Sir Commander!” said the Dominiar. “Every man in Knightcastle will be on our trail! It will be half a miracle if we make it to Mastaria alive...”

“We will escape without difficulty,” said Amalric, turning. “Now, come. And take the boy. He may prove useful as a hostage.”

Adalar's eyes fell on Amalric's left shoulder, on the grisly wound beneath the torn cloth and broken armor.

The flesh writhed and twisted like clay. The edges of torn skin pulled back together.

The wound was healing.

Adalar's breath wheezed in a terrified gasp.

Amalric Galbraith, Sir Commander of the Dominiar Order, was Demonsouled.

Amalric caught Adalar's eye, smiled.

“You ought,” he said, “to have paid better attention.”

The Dominiar looked at Adalar, grinning. “The Sir Commander's going to rule the world someday.”

Adalar screamed into his gag.

“Make sure he causes no trouble,” said Amalric, turning away, black cloak swirling around him.

Something hard slammed into the back of his head, and everything went black.

###

At Lord Malden’s command, Mazael and the others scoured the Trysting Ways from top to bottom. They found the corpses of dozens of dead changelings, some of their bodies mutilated and marked with arcane sigils. They also found an ancient vault in Knightrealm's depths, where the Dominiars and the changelings had hidden dozens of horses for their escape. The vault opened into a tunnel that led into the Riversteel valley.

They found no trace of Straganis, nor Amalric Galbraith, nor Sir Roger Gravesend.

And no sign at all of Adalar.

2

The Faithful Ones

Dawn sent pale rays of sunlight through the balcony door.

“I have to go after him,” said Mazael.

“Hush,” said Morebeth, rubbing his back. The bones in his left shoulder had more or less healed, but he still sported a hideous greenish-purple bruise. Most of the cuts had dwindled to livid red streaks. Mazael had tried to stay out of Morebeth's sight, lest she notice his healing, but she insisted on tending him.

Either she hadn't noticed his healing ability, or she didn't care. Sometimes Mazael wondered just how much she knew about him.

“You are not riding after them,” said Morebeth. “You might be able to take wounds that would kill a dozen lesser men, but you're exhausted. And you're not invincible. They'd kill you.”

“They kidnapped my squire,” said Mazael. “I have to go after them.” Dear gods, what would he tell Adalar's father?

“You will,” said Morebeth. “With Lord Malden, when he marches against Mastaria. You'll crush the Dominiars like bugs, and rescue Adalar.” Her slender fingers kneaded his skin, coaxing away the pain. “Mayhap you'll become the first King of Mastaria?”

He looked at her. “And you my queen?” He felt a pang. Romaria had said much the same thing when he agonized over becoming Lord of Castle Cravenlock.

“Of course,” said Morebeth. “I would make a grand queen. And you would make a fine king.”

Mazael laughed. It made his injured ribs hurt. “How gracious.”

“Go to sleep,” she said, standing.

He caught her wrist. “Maybe I don't want to sleep.”

“Maybe you don't,” said Morebeth, “but I do.” She smiled. “Later. Lord Malden is having his war council at noon. You had best be there.”

Mazael sighed. “I know.” There didn't seem any way to stop the war, now that a Dominiar officer had tried to murder Lord Malden in his bed. Mazael wondered if Amalric had acted on his own, or if he had just followed Malleus’s orders.

Or maybe Straganis commanded them both. Mazael didn't know. But war was now inevitable.

He wondered if that was the Old Demon's wish.

“Rest.” Morebeth gave him a soft kiss. “I'll see you at the war council.” She went into the corridor, where her maids waited, and left.

Mazael closed his eyes.

“There's far too much work for us to sleep.”

Mazael grabbed for his dagger.

Lucan Mandragon sat slumped in a chair, wrapped in his dark cloak. He looked battered, bruised, and very tired.

“You're alive,” said Mazael.

“I don't feel it,” said Lucan, “but I am.”

“And Straganis is dead?” said Mazael.

Lucan scowled. “No. He did lose an arm. Though he can probably graft a new one onto that damned carrier of his.” He started to rise, winced, and sat back down.

“Are you wounded?” said Mazael.

“I’ve been better.” Lucan blinked bloodshot eyes. “I envy you. Another day and you'll not have a mark on you.”

“It comes at a price,” said Mazael.

“Yes.” Lucan winced again and stood. “Perhaps. But it must be a useful power.”

“Enough of this,” said Mazael. “What do you think?”

Lucan sneered. “I have thoughts on many matters. Which ones would you like to hear?”

“Are the San-keth controlling Amalric Galbraith?” said Mazael. “Is Grand Master Malleus in league with the San-keth? Did he order these assassinations? Did he even know about it?”

Lucan thought about it. “I don't know.”

Mazael grunted. “Helpful.”

“It hardly matters,” said Lucan, glancing at Mazael's bloodstained tunic, lying crumpled in the corner. “Amalric Galbraith just tried to assassinate Lord Malden. Not all those Dominiars were San-keth changelings. Perhaps the San-keth commanded Amalric, or perhaps he commanded the San-keth, or Malleus commanded them, or their orders all came from Straganis. It no longer matters. Either the Dominiars will destroy Knightcastle, or Lord Malden will destroy the Dominiars.” He shrugged. “We can do nothing to stop it.”

“It does matter,” said Mazael. “Before the changelings came...I had another dream of the Old Demon. He told me that I was going to die.”

“Yet you still live, do you not?”

“It was a close thing,” said Mazael. “So we are going to war. Is that the will of Lord Malden, or Grand Master Malleus, or the Old Demon?”

Lucan grunted. “All three, most likely.”

“Then how are we going to stop this?” said Mazael.

Someone knocked.

Mazael glared at the door and picked up Lion. “Enter.”

The door swung open, and Timothy and Harune Dustfoot entered.

“My lord,” said Timothy, bowing.

“You did well, Timothy,” said Mazael. “You saved our lives in Gerald's room. Thank you.”

Timothy still had soot on his forehead. “My lord. Thank you. But...ah, you may not be so pleased with what I have to tell you.”

“Why?” said Mazael. “What is it?”

Lucan leaned forward in sudden interest, his eyes fixed on Harune.

“I just ask,” said Timothy, “that you don't kill Harune...at least, give him a chance to speak.”

Mazael frowned. “Why? What has he come to say?”

Timothy swallowed and stepped aside. “Perhaps I had best let him speak. I will wait outside, if you have need of me.” He bowed against and vanished into the corridor, shutting the door behind him.

“Well?” said Mazael. “I appreciate your aid against the changelings. But what do you want?”

“Lord Mazael,” said Harune, clearing his throat. “Everything I have told you is true.”

“But?” said Mazael.

“I did not tell you everything.”

Lucan smirked. “Such a surprise.”

“I did not tell you the entire truth of who I am,” said Harune. “Just as you did not tell me the entire truth.”

“What do you mean?” said Mazael, his fingers tightening around Lion's hilt.

“I'll show you,” said Harune.

He spread his hands, shimmered, and disappeared.

Mazael sprang up, raising his sword. Lucan surged forward, muttering an incantation.

In Harune Dustfoot's place stood a San-keth.

At least, it looked like a San-keth.

Its body was shaped like a human man's, but with scales, a serpent's head, and a long, thick tail. For a moment Mazael was reminded of Straganis. But Straganis's limbs were hideous, an unnatural fusing of stolen flesh into a ghastly carrier. This creature stood on its own legs, gestured with its own hands.

It was a San-keth with arms and legs.

“What is this?” said Lucan. “Are you some new breed of San-keth?”

“I am not San-keth,” said the creature with a marked sibilance.

“Then what are you?” said Mazael. “Speak!”

“I am the San-keth as they should be, as they once were,” said Harune. “I am Ang-kath.”

“The Ang-kath?” said Mazael. “What is an Ang-kath?”

“How did the San-keth come to be?” said Harune.

Mazael stared at the serpent man. “They...were once a race of serpent people, with arms and legs.” He remembered Skhath hissing the story at him,. “But they sided with the Great Demon in the last days of Tristafel. And the Great Demon was destroyed and they were defeated. So as punishment, the gods stripped the San-keth of their limbs, condemning them to crawl in the dust, and imprisoned Sepharivaim in the form of a giant snake.”

“Again, that is the truth,” said Harune. His scales changed color as he spoke, shifting from dark green to pale red and back again. “But that is not the entire truth.”

“Then what is the whole truth?” said Mazael.

“These primordial snake people,” said Lucan, his eyes gleaming, “these ancestors of the San-keth...not all of them worshiped the Great Demon?”

Harune no longer had human expressions, but he seemed pleased. “Most did. Perhaps eight out of every ten. But a bare remnant did not follow Sepharivaim in his madness. And when the great cataclysm came, when the Great Demon was annihilated and Tristafel destroyed, my ancestors were spared the cruel fate of the San-keth.” His scales turned a sorrowful purple. “On that terrible day our race was split in two. The faithless ones, the San-keth, became as you know them now. But some had remained faithful, and took on themselves a new name. The Ang-kath, the faithful ones.”

“Your people,” said Mazael.

“The San-keth are my people, too,” said Harune. “Our lost brothers.”

“Why are you telling me this?” said Mazael. “Why share your secret?”

“Because you, Lord Mazael, you have the power to aid my people in their task,” said Harune.

“And what is that task?” said Lucan.

“Ever since that terrible day when our people were divided,” said Harune, “the San-keth have sought revenge. They want to see the races of man destroyed and broken. They want to free mad Sepharivaim from his imprisonment. They wish to make themselves lords and masters of the earth, all other races their slaves.” He paused, forked tongue lashing at the air. “And we, the Ang-kath, work to stop them.”

“Tristafel perished three thousand years ago,” said Mazael. “You have struggled for so long?”

“It has been a long war,” said Harune, “and only rarely have mortal men learned of it. And now a great battle comes.”

“The war between the Dominiars and Lord Malden,” said Mazael.

“Hardly,” said Harune. “That will bring suffering and death, doubt not. But it is just a mask, a cover for the real battle.”

“Against Straganis,” said Lucan. “If you wish to kill him, you have my wholehearted approval.”

“Straganis is powerful,” said Harune, “but even he is not our greatest enemy.” He stared at Mazael with inhuman, reptilian eyes. “You know.”

“The Demonsouled,” said Mazael, his mouth try.

Harune nodded. The gesture looked odd, with his serpentine neck.

“And the greatest of the Demonsouled,” said Mazael. “The Old Demon.”

“Aye,” said Harune. “The spirit of the Great Demon lay with mortal woman, and the Old Demon was born, and from him was spawned the race of Demonsouled. He survived the destruction of Tristafel. For three thousand years he has wandered the face of the earth, sowing hatred, reaping misery, ruining souls, moving the kingdoms of men as if they were pieces on a chessboard.”

“But why?” said Mazael. “What does he want? Is he evil or mad? Does he just act out of malice?”

“He does,” said Harune, “but he has a greater goal. He wishes to succeed his father, to claim the Great Demon's empty throne for himself. But to do so he needs power even greater than his own. So he sires children, permits them to wreak havoc for a time, and once they have grown strong, he devours them, adding their might to his own.” Mazael shuddered, remembering the Old Demon’s furious taunts. “The Old Demon has grown strong in this way. Do you know the legend of the Destroyer?”

“A child of the Old Demon will one day enslave the kingdoms of men,” whispered Mazael, “make himself lord of over the earth, and claim the throne of the Great Demon.”

“It will happen,” said Harune, “and then the Old Demon will devour the Destroyer, claim the Great Demon's throne, and make himself king and god over the earth. Why am I telling you this, you asked?” He looked Mazael in the eye, scales reddening. “I know you are Demonsouled, Lord Mazael, a child of the Old Demon.”

Mazael said nothing.

“But I also know that you have, somehow, gained the strength to deny your father, to deny your black heritage,” said Harune. “Your soul and will are your own, and not the Old Demon's. We need your help, if the Old Demon is to be stopped.”

“What do you ask of me?” said Mazael, his voice hoarse.

“Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith is Demonsouled, a child of the Old Demon, just as you are,” said Harune.

Lucan swore.

“He knows what he is,” said Harune, “and unlike you, he has embraced his heritage. He wishes to become the Destroyer, to take the Great Demon's throne, and to impose his vision of order and justice over the world. He does not know that he is but the Old Demon's puppet, that his father will betray and devour him. Amalric wants to remake the world, and he will begin with Mastaria and Knightcastle.”

“Morebeth,” said Mazael, licking his lips. “What of Morebeth? Is she...is she...”

“Fear not,” said Harune. “She is not Demonsouled. Nor does she know the truth about her brother. She hates and fears him for his cruelty, and believes you can protect her from him. She is cold and fearful, but not Demonsouled.”

“Splendid,” said Lucan. “She's but coldly manipulative, not evil. So. What do you require of Lord Mazael?”

“You have to kill Amalric,” said Harune.

Mazael said nothing.

“In all of history, only three children of the Old Demon have rejected him,” said Harune. “That gives you power. Not so blatant as the power usually conferred by Demonsouled blood, but potent nonetheless. You are the only one strong enough to face Amalric and have a chance of...”

The door burst open. Harune whirled, and Timothy shouted something.

Trocend Castleson stalked into the room, robe swirling around him, eyes wide and hair wild.

Lucan swore again.

“So!” said Trocend, glaring at Harune and Lucan. “The Mandragon wizard is in league with the San-keth? I thought so. This treachery ends now!”

“Stop this!” said Mazael. “This isn't a San-keth!”

“Do you take me for a fool?” said Trocend, all trace of his calm demeanor gone. “How else did hundreds of those damned changelings get into the castle? It only remains to be seen, Lord Mazael, if you were merely duped, or an active heretic...”

“I know it is hard to live a lie,” said Harune.

Trocend froze, his face twisting.

“All your life you have labored in the shadows,” said Harune quietly, “working to protect your lord from arcane threats, to keep his people safe. And yet, if they knew what you were, if they learned you were a false monk, they would kill you without mercy. I understand that. So strike me down, if you wish. I have fought to protect your home from the San-keth, but you know nothing of that. So I expect no gratitude, only violence.”

Trocend said nothing, his hands knotting.

“Do you really think I allied with the San-keth to kill Lord Malden?” said Lucan, standing.

Trocend's bloodshot eyes shifted to Lucan.

“I can give you proof that I did not,” said Lucan.

Trocend's lip twisted. “Can you?”

“If I had tried to kill Lord Malden,” said Lucan, “he would already be dead. And you would have never known who had done it.”

Trocend sneered. “You are an arrogant pup.”

“Perhaps,” said Lucan. “But I'm right.”

Trocend stared at them. Mazael adjusted his grip on Lion. If Trocend decided to fight...

“We have not been introduced,” said Trocend, his eyes flicking to Harune.  Some his calm returned. “Perhaps you should explain to me why a San-keth with arms and legs is standing in my lord's castle.”

“I am not San-keth,” said Harune, “but Ang-kath.”

Harune told Trocend everything he had told Mazael. He did not, though, mention Mazael's Demonsouled heritage. Trocend listened with a scowl, his gray brows knit, eyes glinting.

“Do you,” said Trocend, when Harune had finished, “really expect me to believe that?”

Harune shrugged, scales rippling. “It is the truth.”

“Is it?” said Trocend, shaking his head. “A fantastical tale, no doubt.” But his voice held no conviction.

“You have heard the tales of Amalric's cruelties, how he waded through rivers of blood,” said Harune.

“And does that make him Demonsouled?” said Trocend. “Men are cruel enough without diabolical influence.”

“Do you believe in the San-keth?” said Harune.

Trocend scoffed. “I have seen the changelings. Do you think me a fool?”

“So, then, if you believe in the San-keth, is it so hard to believe in Demonsouled?”

“No,” said Trocend, sighing. “No, it is not.”

“We need your help,” said Mazael, “to stop Amalric. You helped us against the changelings. Help us against Amalric.”

Trocend said nothing.

“Amalric must be stopped,” said Harune. “Trocend Castleson, your oath and your loyalty is to your lord. If you wish to serve him, if you wish to keep Knightcastle safe, then you must stop Amalric. Otherwise he will destroy Knightrealm with fire and sword, stain the walls of Knightcastle with blood. Lucan Mandragon. You wish to stop the dark powers?”

“How could you know that?” said Lucan, face cold.

“It is written in everything you do,” said Harune. “If you wish to stop the dark powers, if you wish for no one to ever again experience your torment, then you must help stop Amalric. Lord Mazael. You want to keep your people safe from war and harm. Amalric will raze the Grim Marches, if he grows strong enough to become the Destroyer. He will destroy your lands, if he can, slaughter your people, and your betrothed will never be free of his shadow while he lives.”

“I will do what I can,” said Mazael, thinking of Romaria, thinking of the Old Demon, standing atop that altar. “If there is a way to stop him, then I will find it.”

“And I am with you, too,” said Timothy, hands clenched into fists. “I saw enough of that Demonsouled fiend Simonian at Castle Cravenlock."

“Lord Malden must know nothing of this,” said Trocend.

“He would neither believe nor understand,” said Harune. “He thinks the Dominiars came to kill him. When he marches against the Dominiars, we must come with him.”

“We'll stop him,” said Timothy. “By the gods, we will.”

“The gods,” said Trocend, “have nothing to do with the Demonsouled.”

Mazael shuddered.

###

Lucan watched the others make their pact.

He needed power.

He had come so close to defeating Straganis. A little more power, just a little more arcane strength, and he could have rid the world of the San-keth archpriest once and for all. Even a few seconds of extra strength would have proved sufficient.

His eyes strayed to Mazael's bloodstained tunic, lying in the corner.

The blood of even a minor Demonsouled carried tremendous power. The blood of a child of the Old Demon held great might. If Lucan could distill the essence of the blood, work it into an elixir, he could use it to power his spells, if only for a few moments.

As they left for Lord Malden's war council, Lucan pulled his mind-clouding glamour tighter and took the tunic.

He needed the strength. He would face Straganis again, no doubt, but this time he would triumph.

Chapter 9

1

Destroyer

Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith stood on the walls of Castle Caerglamm, watching the sea.

The ancient castle sat on the high bluffs of the Mastarian coastline, its strong walls battered by centuries of storms. The landward walls faced grassy moors, dotted with occasional hills and boulders. A sea of tents now filled the moors, campfires crackling, the black Dominiar banner flapping in the sea breeze. The castle had been a druid stronghold, centuries ago, a nest of pagan worship. But the Dominiar Order had come and purified the castle in an orgy of slaughter.

Amalric watched the sea crash and foam against fallen boulders. He imagined it as a sea of blood, corpses choking the beach.

The vision would become real, soon enough. He would make it real.

The thought thrilled him.

He turned from the battlements, walking along the ramparts. It had begun, and nothing could turn it back. Nothing could stop Lord Malden and Grand Master Malleus from waging war upon each other. Amalric had failed to assassinate Lord Malden, but that didn’t matter. War would come, and swiftly. Castle Caerglamm lay but two days' march from Tumblestone. They would march, and take Tumblestone, and then Knightcastle, and then...

And then...

The dark fire in his Demonsouled blood blazed, making him stronger.

Amalric smiled, closing a gloved hand.

He looked forward to the war, to killing Lord Mazael. Then man had proved an annoyance. He still had Mazael's foolish squire, rotting in a cell beneath Caerglamm. Perhaps he would present Mazael with the squire's head. Or perhaps he would give the boy to Straganis...

Of course, Malleus knew nothing of Amalric's alliance with the San-keth, nor of the changelings. The old man believed the San-keth legendary, a lie told to keep the commoners loyal to the church.

Nor did Malleus believe in Demonsouled.

Amalric laughed. He looked forward to the expression on Malleus's face when the old man leanred the truth. He looked forward to killing his sister.

He looked forward to many things.

“Amalric.”

Amalric turned, annoyed and angry. Who had dared sneak up on him? For that matter, who even had the ability...

A man in a black robe stood on the ramparts, smiling at him.

Amalric's blood roared within him like thunder, power calling to greater power.

The gray-eyed, hawk-nosed man in the black robe had many names. Sometimes he went by the name of Mattias Comorian, a wandering jongleur, and sang songs of woe and death. Sometimes he called himself Simonian of Briault, a feared necromancer, and took the guise of an iron-bearded old man with murky eyes.

He had visited Knightcastle, millennia past, under the name of Marugot the Warlock, and convinced the last Roland king to ride to his death.

The Elderborn of the forest called him sar'diskhar, the Hand of Chaos.

In ancient Tristafel, long ago, they had called him the Malevagr.

But most folk knew him as the Old Demon, the last child of the Great Demon.

“Amalric,” repeated the Old Demon.

Amalric dropped to one knee, head bowed. “My father.”

The Old Demon beckoned. “Rise, my son.”

Amalric obeyed and joined his father. The Old Demon gazed down at the sea. Sometimes a hint of red light glimmered deep in his eyes. Amalric felt the power in his father, the utter irresistible force.

“My son,” repeated the Old Demon. “Tell me of yourself.”

“It is beginning,” said Amalric. “I have convinced Malleus to retake Tumblestone at any cost. And Lord Malden will fight, now that I have tried to murder him and his sons.”

“Did you kill them?” said the Old Demon, indifferent.

“No.”

“It matters not,” said the Old Demon. “All mortals die, soon enough.”

“I will kill them all.”

“Yes,” whispered the Old Demon.

“The war cannot be stopped now,” said Amalric. “We march for Tumblestone very soon.”

“You have done well,” said the Old Demon. “You have proved yourself worthy. Of all my children, you are the strongest.”

Amalric's face twisted with hate. “I am the strongest.”

“The worthiest,” said the Old Demon. “I have something for you.”

He opened his cloak and pulled free a sheathed sword.

Amalric's lips parted in wonder, his hand twitching towards the weapon.

From a scabbard of dark wood rose a hilt and crosspiece of crimson gold. The pommel had been carved in the shape of a roaring demon's head, the ears and fangs sharp as knives. Looking at it made the hair on Amalric's neck stand up. He sensed the power woven into the blade, worked into the very metal.

It called to his Demonsouled blood like a siren's song.

“It's yours,” said the Old Demon, the sword resting on his palms. “Take it.”

Amalric drew the sword from its scabbard, the blade rasping against the leather. The hilt felt like an extension of his hand. Long lines of runes ran down the center of the crimson blade, flashing with ruby light. Power seemed to thrum and crackle within the weapon, woven into the very steel.

The sun glinted off the metal, the blade gleaming like fresh-spilled blood.

“It is marvelous,” said Amalric.

“It is a sword worthy of you,” said the Old Demon. “A sword worthy of the Destroyer.”

Amalric looked up.

“The time has come,” said the Old Demon. “Of all my children, you have are the strongest. The world is yours, my son. You are the only one worthy to become the Destroyer.”

“I am yours to command,” said Amalric.

“Go from this place,” said the Old Demon, “and lead your armies from here. Take Tumblestone. Take Knightcastle. Slaughter anyone who dares oppose you. Every death will make you stronger, make the blood of the Great Demon burn ever hotter within you. You will become the Destroyer. And when you are strong enough, when you are great enough, you can claim the throne of the Great Demon for yourself.”

“But what of you, my father?” said Amalric.

“Myself?” said the Old Demon, distractedly, as if it did not matter a great deal. “Why, I shall watch over you from afar, as I have always done. I would seize the throne of my father, if I could.” He sighed. “But it is not my destiny to do so. And even I cannot change my destiny.” He glanced at Amalric. “But it is the Destroyer's destiny, your destiny, to replace the Great Demon and rule over the mortal races as a god over crawling insects. And once you have become the Destroyer...why, I shall remain at your side forevermore.”

Amalric did not know, and the Old Demon did not mention, that destinies could be stolen.

“We will make this world anew, you and I,” said Amalric.

“Go,” said the Old Demon, holding out the scabbard. Amalric took it. “You know what to do.”

Amalric bowed low, turned, and began walking away.

“Oh, my son?”

Amalric turned again.

The Old Demon smiled, the red glint in his eyes brightening. “There is one thing I wish to ask of you, just one small thing.”

“Anything, my father,” said Amalric.

“Do you know Lord Mazael Cravenlock?” said the Old Demon, his voice darkening.

“My sister seduced him with her whorish ways,” said Amalric, his own voice hardening.

“He is your half-brother,” said the Old Demon, “my son.”

Amalric stepped back a step, eyes widening.

“I once thought he could embrace his blood, embrace his potential,” said the Old Demon. “I thought to make him the Destroyer. Instead he rejected both me and the gifts of his blood. He has chosen to live as a mortal, as a tame wolf among sheep.” The red gleam spread across the Old Demon's eyes like a bloody glaze. “Kill him.”

“I shall lay his head at your feet,” said Amalric, banging his fist against his breastplate.

“Good,” said the Old Demon. “Now go. Take what is yours by right.”

Amalric blinked, and the Old Demon was gone.

He drew his old sword from its scabbard with his left hand. Grand Master Malleus himself had given Amalric that sword, years ago. Amalric had slain a thousand foes with it, slaughtered pagans and druids alike, won great glory for the Dominiar Order.

He flung it over the rampart wall. It hurtled end over end towards the sea, struck a boulder, and  vanished into the waves.

With the sword of the Destroyer in hand, Amalric strode into Castle Caerglamm.

The castle had been taken and retaken many times during the Dominiars’ wars against the Old Kingdoms. Every conqueror had rebuilt the castle to suit their own whims, and added their own network of secret vaults and escape tunnels.

Only Amalric knew them all.

Deep below the earth, he opened a secret door and stepped into a torchlit vault.

Dozens of changelings huddled against the walls, muttering to themselves. Sir Roger Gravesend sat with the female changeling, rubbing his injured jaw. Straganis stood in the center of the vault, whispering spells to himself, the fingers of his good arm writhing. Bit by bit a new arm emerged from the bloody stump of the old one, wet and fish-pale.

“Archpriest! ” called Amalric, striding closer.

“Sir Commander,” said Straganis, hissing. “Have you something for me?”

“Yes,” said Amalric. “I do.”

###

Roger Gravesend would have complained, but it hurt to talk. The right side of his jaw was a half-healed gash, and he lived in terror of infection. The wound made it painful to talk, to drink, even to eat. Of course, the massive bruise across his stomach would have made painful to eat in any case.

He moaned again.

“Shut your damned mouth,” said Calibah, pacing besides him. “I am sick to death of your whining.”

Roger almost retorted, but she might have killed him. Besides, talking hurt too much.

He turned away, and saw Amalric Galbraith walking towards Straganis. Roger watched with both interest and dread. Interest, because he still wanted to kill Mazael Cravenlock. Dread, because he did not want to face Mazael Cravenlock again. It was only sheer luck that Mazael had not killed him. Roger was tired of fighting, tired of hiding, tired of pain. He wanted to flee, to never have anything to do with the San-keth or Mazael Cravenlock again.

Amalric said something, and lifted his sword.

Something about that sword sent a jolt of terror down Sir Roger's spine. It looked forged from red gold, its pommel carved in the shape of a raging demon's head. Somehow, the sword looked hungry, thirsty for blood.

And as Roger gazed fascinated at the weapon, the blade burst into raging red flames.

Amalric wheeled and took off Straganis's head with a single slash.

###

The sword of the Destroyer roared like an inferno

Straganis’s head rolled across the floor. The tongue flicked once, poison drooling from the fangs. The monstrous, deformed body went into spasms.

Amalric felt strength pouring into him like a river of molten steel. His own Demonsouled blood roared in response, filling him with power, encasing him in invincible armor.

Straganis's body went still. The changelings gaped at him in stunned silence.

“Master! ” shrieked the female changeling at Sir Roger's side. “Master! ” With a scream of rage she flung herself at Amalric, daggers in either hand, moving like a striking serpent.

Yet to Amalric she seemed so terribly slow.

He sidestepped and brought the sword hammering down. The blade ripped through her left shoulder, tore through her chest, and exploded from her right hip. She did not even have time to scream.

Amalric laughed.

The changelings rushed at him, yelling their rage. Sir Roger backed away, eyes wide.

Amalric walked to meet them, laughing.

###

Roger's back thumped against the stone wall. He heard a voice gibbering in utter horror, and realized it was his own.

Amalric strode unhindered through the ranks of the changelings. His blazing sword struck right, left, right, left, and every blow sent a dead changeling sprawling to the ground. Sometimes the changelings managed to land a blow, but Amalric's wounds healed in heartbeats.

Amalric laughed in fury the entire time. It reminded Sir Roger of Mazael Cravenlock.

But a thousand times worse.

Mazael Cravenlock was but a man. Amalric had become something alien. The rage in his eyes blazed like molten iron.

Then the last changeling fell, and Roger was alone with Amalric.

Amalric strode across the dead, kicking aside Calibah's head, his boots slapping against pools of blood. His sword blazed with the very fires of hell.

Roger raised his sword with a shaking hand. Amalric swung in an almost lazy slash. Roger's sword shattered, the shards gashing his face and hands. He fell to his knees with a scream, blood dripping into his mouth.

“Please,” he croaked, sobbing, “please, don't kill me, I'll serve you, I'll do anything. Just don't kill me...”

How had things ever come to this?

Amalric barely deigned to notice him.

The burning blade came down, and Roger Gravesend lived just long enough to feel it split his skull.

###

With nothing left to kill, the sword of the Destroyer went dim.

Amalric gazed at the ripped corpses littering the vault. How many had tried to kill him? Yet he had killed them all, destroyed every last one of them without trace of injury.

In fact, he had never felt better. The fires of his Demonsouled blood raged through him, filling him with rage and power.

His work was not yet done.

Amalric strode from the vault, leaving Straganis and his minions to rot. A short time later he pushed open a set of double doors and marched into Castle Caerglamm's great hall.

The officers of the Dominiar Order sat around a long table covered with maps. Grand Master Malleus himself sat at their head, pointing at one of the maps, and looked up when Amalric entered.

“Where have you been?” growled Sir Commander Aeternis. “The council started an hour past!”

“Peace! ” said Malleus, raising a hand. “We are all brothers here, after all.”

“No,” said Amalric, “we are not.”

Malleus's white eyebrows lifted in angry surprise. “I beg your pardon, Sir Commander?”

Amalric saw horrified shock flood into Malleus's eyes. Perhaps the bloodstains on Amalric's armor had warned the Grand Master. Or perhaps it was the fierce, exultant expression on Amalric's face, so different than his usual grim scowl. Whatever the reason, Malleus shot to his feet, fumbling for his sword, and so the blow that would have decapitated him plunged into his belly instead.

Malleus toppled to the floor, clutching his stomach, blood leaking from his fingers.

The sword of the Destroyer burst anew into raging flames.

The commanders and preceptors of the Dominiar Order jumped to their feet with cries of shock and rage, drawing their weapons, and came at Amalric.

“Traitor!” roared Aeternis. “You damned traitor!”

Amalric laughed and met their attack, the sword roaring in his hand. He killed two preceptors and a commander, sent their bodies crumpling to the floor in sprays of blood. Then the sheer number of his enemies caught him, slamming him against the wall. Hands grabbed at his throat and hair, and sword and dagger points plunged into him.

Aeternis's fingers dug into Amalric's throat.

Amalric seized Aeternis's forearm with his free hand. It was an utterly useless hold; he had no leverage, no grip.

Yet he snapped the bones of Aeternis's forearm. Aeternis fell back in pained shock, eyes bulging. Amalric heaved and pushed himself away from the wall.

The commanders and preceptors of the Dominiar Order went flying, chaff in the wind before his Demonsouled strength. The wounds inflicted by their swords and daggers vanished like smoke. Amalric howled with laughter, stepped forward, and the slaughter began.

He made it a point to kill Aeternis first. His boot slammed down, shattering Aeternis's sword hand. Aeternis rolled over with a groan, his useless arms held out before him. Amalric swung his blazing sword and reduced Aeternis's skull to bloody mush.

The commanders and preceptors were skilled, hard men, veterans of the campaigns against the Old Kingdoms, knights who had defeated dozens of foes in battle. Amalric had led most of them on campaign. None of them ran, and Amalric cut them all down, the sword of the Destroyer ripping through steel plate and chain mail like cloth.

The last Dominiar died with a gurgling scream, Silence fell over the bloodstained hall. Amalric turned a slow circle, surveying the carnage. He wondered if he ought to feel grief. After all, these men had been his colleagues for years, his comrades, and some had been his mentors. And he had just murdered them all without mercy. He ought to feel grief.

Instead, he felt nothing but a fierce joy, as if he had finally seized his destiny, as if he had finally become what he was meant to be.

A wire clicked, and something hard slammed into his back, a burst of pain rocketing through him. He looked down and saw a crossbow bolt jutting from his stomach, the head battered and bloody from its passage through his armor and innards.

Grand Master Malleus leaned against a chair, a crossbow clutched in his hands. His face was white and bloodless, his mouth twisted in a rictus of agony and rage. Amalric wondered how the dying old man had found the strength to aim the crossbow, let alone load it.

“You were a son to me!” said Malleus, his voice thick with pain. The crossbow fell from his trembling hands. “How could you do this? How? How?”

Amalric reached down and yanked the quarrel from his stomach. It ripped out a long gobbet of flesh. The wound burned like a hot coal, but pain no longer meant anything to Amalric. After all, the wound had already begun to close.

Malleus's eyes widened. “This…this can’t...”

Amalric strode across the room and shattered Malleus's elbows and knees in quick succession. The old man's howl of pain drowned out the snap of breaking bones. Amalric seized Malleus's collar and dragged him onto the balcony behind the great hall, overlooking the ocean far below.

Amalric lifted Malleus high and flung the old man over the railing.

Grand Master Malleus, the conqueror of the Old Kingdoms, screamed all the way down. He bounced off the cliffs once or twice and disappeared into the sea. Amalric watched the churning waters for a few moments, smiling, and walked back into the great hall.

Some Dominiars and a few servants stood in the hall, gaping in horror at the slaughter. A few had fallen to their knees, weeping.

“Sir Commander!” said one of the Dominiars, gazing at Amalric. “We had thought all the commanders were dead!”

“Lord Malden sent the San-keth to murder the Grand Master and the commanders,” said Amalric. “I barely escaped. You can find the bodies of the San-keth in the vaults below the castle.”

They stared at him.

“Move! ” he roared, gesturing with his sword. The fire of his Demonsouled blood entered his voice, filling his words with power. “Shall we let this grievous blow go unavenged?”

They ran.

Amalric laughed. It had been so easy.

###

“I will lead the armies of Knightrealm myself,” announced Lord Malden to the assembled vassals, standing on the dais of the Hall of Triumph. The squires had fitted him in his splendid silver-plated armor. Mazael stood below him, half-listening to the speeches, his thoughts dark and heavy.

A flicker of movement caught his eye.

A ragged, bloody man staggered from behind the nearest pillar. Dried blood caked his clothes, and Mazael glimpsed half-healed wounds through the rags. Yet the man’s hands remained sure and steady as they brought the crossbow up.

Mazael saw the yellow glint of a changeling’s eyes.

Somehow, one of them had survived.

“My lord!” bellowed Mazael, springing at Lord Malden. “Down!”

A pair of armsmen plunged their swords into the changeling, even as the crossbow fired. The errant bolt shot past Lord Malden’s ear and plunged into Sir Garain’s throat. The stout man fell down the steps of the dais, his head cracking hard against the marble floor.

“Garain!” shouted Lord Malden.

Mazael rushed to Garain’s side, ignoring the changeling’s dying scream. It was too late. Garain, Lord Malden’s eldest son, his chancellor and wisest counselor, had been dead even before he hit the floor.

Lord Malden fell to his knees, weeping. All the court of Knightcastle looked on, waiting for Lord Malden to rise in vengeful wrath, as he had when Belifane and Mandor had been killed.

Yet the old man did not rise, did not even look up as the priests and the physicians swarmed to his side.

“Oh gods.” Mazael turned as Morebeth joined him. Her hands flew to her mouth, her gray eyes wide. “Oh gods. How…”

“A changeling,” said Mazael, “the damned thing must have survived, must have hidden itself…”

“What will you do now?” said Morebeth, voice quiet.

Mazael looked at Lord Malden. Gerald and Tobias had joined their father, and Rachel was weeping. The Dominiars were coming with a child of the Old Demon, and the Lord of Knightcastle knelt  broken and weeping by his dead son.

“I don’t know,” said Mazael. “I don’t know.”

###

An hour later the army of the Dominiars marched north, making for Tumblestone. Amalric's speech had filled them with madness and bloodlust, with a desire to put the lands of Knightrealm to fire and sword.

Grand Master Amalric Galbraith rode at their head, the sword of the Destroyer in hand.

Chapter 10

1

Champion of Knightcastle

“You have to talk to him,” said Sir Tobias. For the first time that Mazael could recall, Tobias looked anxious, even frightened.

Mazael did not blame him.

Knightcastle had fallen into fearful paralysis. Lord Malden had disappeared into the Kings' Chapel, the ancient chapel of the Roland kings, and had not emerged since Sir Garain's murder three days past. The gathered armies of Knightrealm and the Justiciar Order waited outside Knightcastle, disturbed and uneasy.

And dark rumors came from the south. Some whispers said that Malleus had marched, slaughtering every peasant in his path. Other rumors claimed that Malleus had already laid siege to Tumblestone. And the darkest rumor said Amalric Galbraith had murdered Malleus and seized command of the Dominiars, and now rode at their head with a sword of hellfire.

“You have to talk to him,” said Tobias, again. His voice quavered. The realization that he was now the heir to Knightcastle had hit him hard.

“Why would he listen to me?” said Mazael.

He stood in the High Court with Morebeth, Tobias, Gerald, Trocend, and Rachel. All looked tired, and Trocend himself looked awful. Everyone had always assumed that one day Lord Malden would die, and Garain would become the new Lord of Knightcastle.

His death had been hard.

“He won't listen to us!” said Trocend. A slight tremor went through his blue-veined hands. “He sits in the chapel and broods over Sir Garain's body. Now is not the time for grief! The Dominiars are moving against us, and we can expect them to lay siege to Tumblestone any day. Yet Lord Malden does nothing.” He began to pace, shaking his head. “The vassals grow restless. Some want to return to their lands, to defend their keeps against the Dominiars. If that happens, we will lose Tumblestone, and the Dominiars will conquer us one by one. We must ride out and defeat them, with Lord Malden at our head.”

“I tried talking to him,” said Tobias. “He wouldn't listen. He just sat there, staring at nothing. I don't think he even noticed me. After a while I gave up and left.”

“Garain could have talked sense into him,” said Gerald. Rachel squeezed his arm. “Garain always did, when our father was bent on doing something foolish. And now...and now...”

They stood in grim silence for a moment.

“He won't listen to me,” said Mazael.

“He will,” said Rachel, trying to smile. “You shouted at him until he agreed to let Gerald marry me, didn't you?”

“You were the only one who could ever argue with him,” said Tobias.

Mazael lowered his head. He had tried to avoid this war, and now that the war had come, Lord Malden had lost the will to fight. It was a bitter irony. And if Lord Malden did not take command, did not lead his men to battle, the Dominiars would conquer Knightrealm

And Amalric Galbraith would become the Destroyer, and the Old Demon would triumph.

Mazael closed his fists. “I will talk to him.”

He walked across the High Court, towards the Kings' Chapel, Morebeth following after him.

“They need you,” said Morebeth.

Mazael stopped, looked at her.

“They need someone strong to lead them,” said Morebeth. Her face twisted. “Otherwise they will simply bicker and panic until Amalric comes to kill us all.”

Mazael stared at her. Did she know Amalric was Demonsouled? He thought about telling her. But then she might realize the truth about his own nature. He could not risk that.

“Amalric has to be stopped, whatever happens,” said Mazael. “We've...both seen what he is like.” Morebeth nodded, her gray eyes sad. “A man like him should not conquer a kingdom. He would become a tyrant.”

“And you alone are strong enough to stop him,” said Morebeth. “If Lord Malden will not lead...then you must.”

Mazael flinched. “Me?”

“You,” said Morebeth, taking his hands. “You must. Neither Sir Tobias nor Sir Gerald can. There is no one else. You were once one of Lord Malden's household knights, were you not? His men still remember you, still respect you. Even the Justiciars will follow you. You saved Sir Commander Galan's life, after all.”

“I'll do what I can,” said Mazael. “Wait here.”

Morebeth nodded. “I doubt Lord Malden would be pleased to see me.”

Mazael walked to the Chapel, opened the doors, and walked into the gloomy nave. Rays of colored light slanted through stained-glass windows celebrating the triumph of Rolands long dead. A half-dozen monks shuffled around the altar, burning incense, muttering prayers for Garain's soul. Garain himself lay on a bier, covered with a shroud, surrounded by a ring of candles.

Lord Malden sat slumped in the pew before the bier, head bowed, face hidden beneath his unwashed gray hair. He had not even bothered to put on a hat.

Mazael walked to his side. “My lord.”

Lord Malden did not move. For a fearful instant Mazael wondered if the old man had died of grief.

“My lord.”

Lord Malden looked up, tears glittering on his cheeks. “I wish to speak with no one. Leave me.”

“No,” said Mazael.

“Leave me!”

“No,” repeated Mazael.

Lord Malden's bloodshot eyes narrowed, and for a moment his old glare returned. Then looked away and slumped back into the pew. “Do as you wish. I care not.”

“You have to hold court,” said Mazael.

Lord Malden said nothing.

“The Dominiars have marched,” said Mazael. “They’re probably laying siege to Tumblestone as we speak. If Tumblestone falls, there will be nothing to stop them from marching into Knightrealm, maybe even to Knightcastle. You must act now.”

Still Lord Malden said nothing.

“Are you listening to me?” said Mazael. For a moment he wanted to strike the other man. He fought the urge down, fearing that it came from his Demonsouled blood.

“You were right,” said Lord Malden.

Mazael blinked.

Lord Malden looked up. He seemed to have aged twenty years in the last three days. Mazael had seen Lord Malden angry and sad, exultant and mournful. But never had Lord Malden looked so weary.

For the first time that Mazael could remember, Lord Malden looked genuinely old.

“You warned me, didn't you?” said Lord Malden. “I already lost both Belifane and Mandor to my wars. You said that if I went to war again, more of my sons would die.”

“I did,” said Mazael. He had forgotten that.

“Now war comes,” said Lord Malden. “And my son lies dead on this bier. He should have been the Lord of Knightcastle after me. He would have made a good Lord. A better Lord than I, I think. My folly has slain him. Now leave me.”

“You yet have two sons,” said Mazael. “Fight for them. And you have Knightcastle, and your lands, and your people. They need you to defend them.”

“Power and lands?” snarled Lord Malden, his voice shaking. “Those things are empty and meaningless. I thought you knew that already. Well, you'll learn it soon enough.”

“Are your oaths to your people meaningless?” said Mazael. “A lord swears to defend his people?”

“How many other fathers will see their sons die in the coming months?” said Lord Malden.

“And how many more will die if you do not act?” said Mazael.

“Leave me!” said Lord Malden. “I am weary of life. Go!”

“With or without Tumblestone, this war still would have come,” said Mazael.

“Then should I have simply given up Tumblestone?” said Lord Malden. “Should I have made Mandor's sacrifice meaningless?” He laughed, his voice shrill and unsteady. “But it seems I have, haven't I? Garain is dead, for nothing, and once the Dominiars take Tumblestone, Mandor will have died for nothing, too.”

“Even if you had given up Tumblestone, war still would have come, in the end,” said Mazael. He hesitated. “Amalric Galbraith is Demonsouled.”

“There's no such thing,” said Lord Malden.

“Don't be a fool,” said Mazael, his anger growing. Lord Malden flinched as if slapped. “I've seen San-keth and Demonsouled with my own eyes. And you have, too, at least the San-keth. Keep lying to yourself if you wish. It's Amalric who convinced Malleus to retake Tumblestone, Amalric who allied with the San-keth, and Amalric who is coming for your people. Perhaps it would mean nothing if Malleus conquered Knightcastle. Perhaps one lord is much the same as another, at least to the peasants. But a Demonsouled, Lord Malden...would you give your people over to his hands? You've heard the stories of what Amalric did the Old Kingdoms...will you let him do the same to Knightrealm?”

Lord Malden stared up at Mazael.

“You might,” said Mazael, “but I will not. If you will not defend your people then I will.” He turned to go.

“Wait.”

Mazael looked back.

Lord Malden rose. “I will hold court.”

###

A dusty, weary messenger knelt before Lord Malden.

Lord Malden sat on his throne in the Hall of Triumphs. The banners, the statues, the shields, the triumphs of long-forgotten wars, seemed to mock the grief-stricken man slumped on the throne. Mazael, standing by Lord Malden's side, wondered if he was paying attention.

“Rainier Agravain, Lord of Tumblestone, and your loyal vassal,” said the messenger, “sends word to you, Lord Malden, begging for your aid.”

Lord Malden stared down, his faced etched with despair.

“The host of the Dominiars has marched,” said the messenger. “They have burned every village in their path, seized all the crops.” He swallowed and made a sign to ward off evil. “They...slaughtered all the peasants in their path. Even the women and the children. The Dominiars...they impaled them. Mounted them on stakes ringed around the burning villages. I saw it with my own eyes, my lord. It was like a scene out of hell.”

A muscle in Lord Malden's face twitched, but he did not speak.

“Who commands the Dominiars?” said Mazael. “Malleus?”

“No, Lord Mazael,” said the messenger. “According to the rumors,” he glanced at Lord Malden, “our lord Malden sent San-keth assassins to murder Malleus and most of the Dominiar commanders. The Dominiar heralds call out the name of Grand Master Amalric Galbraith.”

Mazael saw Morebeth's lip curl into a sneer.

“They were marching up the coast,” said the messenger, “destroying every village in their path. Lord Rainier has only two hundred knights and a thousand militia from the city. The Dominiars have at least ten thousand men, a great host. Perhaps fifteen thousand, and maybe even twenty thousand. Lord Rainier dared not stand against them. He withdrew behind the walls of Tumblestone, along with many peasants fleeing the Dominiar armies.”

“Have they laid siege yet?” said Mazael.

“They had not when Lord Rainier sent me,” said the messenger, “though they were preparing to do so.” He shook his head. “Tumblestone will have fallen under siege by now. Lord Malden, you must not let the city fall. The Dominiars will slaughter everyone within the walls, if they can.” His eyes darted to Mazael, then back to Lord Malden. “My lord, we must march at once, if we are to lift the siege.”

“What hope is there?” said Lord Malden, his voice soft and cracked. “More death, more slaughter, more ruin...that is all that awaits us.” He lapsed into a grim silence.

An uneasy rustle went through the assembled lords and knights. Mazael scowled. If they fled back to their castles, there would be no way to stop the Dominiars, no way to turn back Amalric.

“Lord,” said Mazael. Lord Malden turned watery eyes towards him. “You must ride out. There is no else who can lead your vassals, your knights. Knightrealm will fall, unless you can find the will to defend it.”

“I am an old man,” whispered Lord Malden, “why will they not leave me in peace?”

“The Justiciar Order will ride to defeat the Dominiars,” said Sir Commander Galan Hawking, stepping from the Justiciar Knights. “With or without Lord Malden's help. The Dominiars are our ancient enemies, and once they enter Knightrealm they will come for us. We have five hundred knights and a thousand footmen here with us. Our Grand Master at Swordor will send more, but they will not arrive for at least a week. The Dominiars are stronger than us. We will have a better chance of victory if Knightcastle and Swordor stand together against the Dominiars.”

Lord Malden's mouth twitched.

“If you will not go yourself,” said Mazael, “then appoint someone to lead your army. Give the command to Sir Tobias, or Sir Gerald, or one of your vassals.” He scowled. “Even give it to the Justiciars. Someone must defend your lands.”

“Tobias,” said Lord Malden, his voice a thick rasp. “Come here.”

Sir Tobias approached the dais, his jaw set.

“You are my eldest son now,” said Lord Malden, “the heir to Knightcastle. I...cannot lead our host against the Dominiars. I no longer have strength or will. You must take command, my son, and defend our lands and people.”

“Father,” said Tobias, swallowing. “I cannot.”

“Why not?” said Lord Malden, scowling. “You have led men in battle before. You have ridden well in tournaments across the land. And more, you are a Roland. The right to command is in your blood.”

“I have never led the whole host of Knightrealm,” said Tobias. His face worked. “It...I am not ready. If I take command...we could very well be defeated. What would then become of our lands and people?”

Lord Malden snarled. “If you will not do your duty...”

“Give Lord Mazael the command,” said Tobias.

Mazael flinched. Morebeth smiled.

“He defeated the Dominiars once before at Tumblestone,” said Tobias. “We always claimed that Sir Mandor had won the victory...but he had been dead for days by then. It was Mazael who took command, Mazael who won Tumblestone for us. He defeated his brother and became Lord of Castle Cravenlock. And he won the great tournament, did he not? Give him the command.”

“I will follow Lord Mazael,” Sir Gerald, stepping forward. “It would be nothing new, after all.”

“If Lord Mazael takes command,” said Sir Commander Galan, “then I will follow his will. He is the best commander among us all.”

“I know my brother,” said Morebeth, her voice ringing like a trumpet. All eyes turned to face her. “He is a hard and ruthless man. He will not stop until the Dominiar banner flies over Knightcastle and the people of Knightrealm have been made his slaves. Lord Mazael is strong enough to defeat Amalric. You must give him this command, Lord Malden. It is your only hope.”

Lord Malden bowed his head, chin almost touching his chest. For a long moment he sat that way. Mazael wondered if he would ever look up again, or if the despair and grief had crushed his heart.

He looked up.

“Go, Lord Mazael,” Lord Malden said, his voice little more than a faint rasp. “I name you the Lord Champion of Knightcastle, and give you authority to lead my armies in battle and to defend Tumblestone from the Dominiars. Go and do as you will. It matters very little to me, any more.”

“I will, my lord,” said Mazael.

Lord Malden said nothing.

Mazael turned, saw the assembled court of Knightcastle staring at him.

“We fight,” he said.

###

The fields between Knightcastle and Castle Town rumbled with the clap of hooves, the tramp of boots, and the groan of cartwheels. Clouds of dust rose high, staining the blue sky. Mazael rode on Mantle, a squire leading Chariot by the reins.

He wondered if Adalar yet lived.

Behind him rode a gaggle of lords and knights.

“Lord Tancred,” said Mazael. The stout lord rode up. “Sir Garain was in charge of the train and supplies. Take over for him. Have the wagons and the mules ready by midday.”

Lord Tancred bowed and rode away.

“Gerald!” said Mazael. Gerald joined him, Wesson jogging after. “Take charge of the footmen. Get them ready to march. Again, I want to be gone by midday.”

Gerald nodded, then sighed. “Off to war against the Dominiars again, Mazael. You'd think the last time would have settled it.”

“You'd think,” said Mazael. Of course, five years ago the Dominiars had not been led by a Demonsouled, nor had Mazael known of his own dark nature. Life had been simpler. “Get going. We'll have plenty of time to reminisce on the march.” Gerald nodded again and rode off, Wesson racing after.

“Sir Tobias!” called Mazael. Tobias looked happier already, now that the burden of responsibility had been lifted from him. “Take charge of the household knights and the vassals. Terrorize the proud fools into obedience if you must, but get them ready.” Lord Malden's household knights, reliant upon Lord Malden's goodwill, were reliable, well-trained, and obedient. Lord Malden's vassals, each proud, ruthless, and commanding a band of knights and armsmen, were not. In the face of the disciplined Dominiar footmen and knights, an ill-timed charge from a glory-hungry vassal might get them all killed. “Have them ready to ride...”

“By midday,” said Tobias.

“Glad someone was listening,” said Mazael. “Go. Amalric will not wait upon our convenience.”

Tobias galloped away. Mazael put heels to Mantle and rode for Knightcastle's barbican. Sir Aulus rode before him, the Cravenlock and Roland banners streaming from his lance. Four other horsemen rode below the walls of Knightcastle, and Mazael saw Timothy, Lucan, Trocend, and Harune Dustfoot riding toward him.

“We are with you, my lord,” said Timothy, closing his fist. “I've seen tyrants like this Amalric before, and I won't let another one rise.”

“Yes,” said Lucan. He had abandoned his glamour of mind-clouding, choosing instead to disguise himself as a common armsman. Perhaps he wished to conserve his power. “And if Straganis comes for you again, you will need me.”

“Everything is at stake here,” said Harune, again hidden in his magical disguise. While Trocend had accepted the Ang-kath, Mazael doubted that anyone else would have done so. “We cannot fail. The cost would be to great.”

“Rather understating things, I daresay,” said Trocend.

“Good,” said Mazael, reining up. “Wait here. We'll join the rest of the host after I'm finished here.” He slid from the saddle and walked to the great arch of the gate. Many noble ladies stood there, watching their husbands ride off to war.

Rachel came up, hugged him. Mazael wasn't worried for her safety. The San-keth had tried to kill her, but the San-keth had been tools of Amalric. And Amalric's attention was focused upon war.

“Be safe,” she whispered. “Come back to us.”

“I will,” said Mazael. “And I'll bring Gerald back, too.” He hoped to the gods he found a way to do it.

She smiled, blinking back tears. “I...should be worried about Gerald. But I know he'll come back. I just know it.” She bit her lip. “It's you I'm worried about. I'm worried that you won't come back at all. Or that something terrible will happen to you.”

“I will come back,” said Mazael.

Rachel kissed him on the cheek. “Be careful.” She smiled again, sadly, and walked away.

Mazael watched her go, then saw Morebeth standing in the shadow of the arch. She came to him and gave him a forceful kiss that lasted for a long time.

“I think,” said Mazael, “that they can spare me for a few minutes.”

“No,” she said, eyes glinting, “they can't. But I'll be waiting for you when you come back. Make that bastard Amalric regret that he ever met you.”

“I will,” said Mazael, “if I can.”

“Of course you can,” said Morebeth. “You're stronger than he ever will be. You'll defeat him and the Dominiars.” She gave him a crooked smile. “Perhaps we'll have our wedding in the great hall of Castle Dominus.”

“Perhaps,” said Mazael. He gave her one last kiss, then went to rejoin his army.

2

The Battle of Tumblestone

They left at midday, crossing the Riversteel at Castle Town’s great bridge, and swung to the south. Lord Malden's household knights rode in the van, along with the vassals and their knights, followed by a long column of footmen. Behind the footmen came the rumbling chaos of the supply train, wagons with cursing drivers, mules burdened with supplies. The Justiciar Knights rode in their own columns, knights at the front, footmen marching behind.

Mazael rode back and forth along the host, watching the men. The knights were battle-ready and skilled with weapons, though lacking in necessary discipline. Most of the footmen were peasant conscripts, and Mazael saw some men who carried their weapons well, veterans of Lord Malden's last campaign against the Dominiars. He even recognized some.

But he saw far too many young men, little more than boys, too young to have marched against the Dominiars five years past. He doubted that any of them had ever seen a serious battle. How many knew how to use a spear?

For that matter, how many would lie dead in a week's time? How many more would lose a hand or an arm, maimed for life?  But if Amalric conquered Knightcastle, if he became the Destroyer, all these men would die, and many more besides. Mazael steeled himself. Mazael had fought to stop this war, but if war was the only way to stop Amalric, then he would wage it.

The Justiciars, at least, were disciplined, their footmen well-drilled and well-trained, the Knights riding in lockstep. Mazael might have no choice but to rely on Galan Hawking's men. The Dominiars were at least as disciplined as the Justiciars, if not more so.

They managed ten miles and made camp by the banks of the Riversteel. Mazael gave orders for the  men to dig ditches for defense and for latrines, forbidding them from relieving themselves into the river. He did not want the army dying of dysentery before they even reached Tumblestone. A few judicious whippings of offenders emphasized his point, and the Riversteel remained mostly clean. Mazael left watch duty to the Justiciars and the household knights and went to sleep, half-expecting to dream of the Old Demon.

But if Mazael dreamed, he did not remember it.

They resumed their southward march the next day, pulling away from the valley and into hillier country. The terrain, at least, did not hinder them. Generations of Roland lords had devoted themselves to road-building, reaping vast income from tolls, and Lord Malden had been no exception. The march remained smooth, despite the hills rising into the low mountain ridge that divided Knights' Bay and Tumblestone from the rest of Lord Malden's domain.

On the third day they saw standing-stones crowning some of the hills, ancient rings of weathered monoliths. The pagan druids of the Old Kingdoms had once worshiped in these hills, praying to their gods of earth and wind. The Rolands, the Dominiars, and the Justiciars had all set themselves to exterminating the druids, and now only their menhirs remained. Mazael gazed up at the ancient stones, lost in thought. Romaria would have hated the long-ago butchery, just as she would have hated Amalric's cruelty.

Shortly before midday, they came to the slaughtered village.

Only a few folk dwelt in the hills, miners and goat-herders, living in isolated villages of stone and timber. But stone walls had been knocked down, and most of the timbers burned. The remaining timbers had been set in a ring around the village.

And atop the jagged end of every timber dangled the impaled corpse of a villager, men, women, and children, their foreheads branded with the sign of the Dominiar Order.

“Find them,” snarled Mazael, staring at a dead girl. “Find them now.”

The outriders scoured the hills, and found no trace of any Dominiars. But Mazael had other resources at his disposal. Trocend and Timothy worked divinations, and found a band of a hundred Dominiar footmen lurking in a wooded ravine seven miles southward. Mazael marched the army south, sealed off the ravine, and sent in the men.

The battle was very short. The horror at the village had put a fire in every man, from the proudest vassal to the lowliest footmen. Lord Malden's justice was often harsh, and that of the Justiciars more so.

But no one did such things in Knightrealm and lived.

After the last Dominiar had been killed the army camped, and Mazael took counsel with his commanders.

“There are at least three more bands like this roving the hills,” said Trocend, face feverish. Divination spells seemed taxing work, and necessity had forced Trocend and Timothy to work their spells constantly. “Pillaging, burning, and murdering, I doubt not. Sent ahead of the main Dominiar host, most likely.”

Mazael scowled into the campfires. “That's not good.”

“No, it's not,” said Sir Commander Galan. “There's only one good pass through the mountains, and it leads straight to Tumblestone. If Amalric is confident enough to send parties ahead...that means Tumblestone has already fallen.”

“Or,” said Tobias, “Amalric is confident that Tumblestone will fall, and he can spare the men.”

“That,” said Gerald, “or that he has raised enough men that the absence of a few hundred does not trouble him at all.”

“None of those possibilities are good,” said Mazael. “But if Tumblestone had fallen, then Amalric and the main Dominiar host would be here already. He'd have left only a small garrison to defend Tumblestone. Trocend. Timothy. Are there any signs of the main Dominiar force coming through the pass?”

Trocend and Timothy shook their heads in unison. Mazael's eyes flicked over to a nearby tent, where Lucan leaned against a spear, disguised as a common footman, though that damned raven still perched on his shoulder. He gave a slow shake of his head.

“Though,” added Trocend, “I think there may be men in the pass. At least a thousand.”

“Damnation,” said Mazael. “Amalric sent men to fortify the pass. These marauders are just raiding parties, nothing more. Damn him. A thousand men could hold that pass against even a large army for weeks, if they were well-provisioned.”

“We don't have weeks,” said Tobias. “Tumblestone is strong, and Lord Rainier is a grim fighter...but not even Tumblestone's walls could turn the whole might of the Dominiar Order.”

“No,” said Mazael, “we have no time. None at all.” He thought for a moment, head bowed. “We will keep marching to the pass. We can do nothing until we see how matters stand there. If we have to force the pass, so be it.”

“Tumblestone might fall while we tarry,” said Gerald, his blue eyes flinty, “and its people fall into the hands of that butcher Amalric.” The slaughter at the village had filled him an icy, merciless fury. If Tobias died young and if Gerald came to the lordship of Knightcastle, then the Dominiars would have an enemy more implacable than Lord Malden.

“It might,” said Mazael, shaking his head. The thought filled him with disgust. “It might. Then we will face Amalric and the Dominiars in the pass or in the hills, and do what we can to avenge the folk of Tumblestone. But if we have the chance to save Tumblestone, then we must take it.” He looked to Trocend and Timothy. “Keep working your spells. If we come across any more raiding parties, we will take them. And if you find any scouts, kill them. I want no survivors to warn the men at the pass, or even Amalric himself. If we can take them by surprise, all the better.”

They carried out his orders.

###

The next day, the fourth from Knightcastle, they came to the pass.

The hills climbed sharply into craggy, weathered mountains. A single pass, little more than a steep-sided valley, cut through the mountains. After the conquest of Tumblestone, Lord Malden had built a broad road through the bottom of the valley.

Now the road had been dug up and piled into an earthwork across the narrowest part of the pass. Sharpened, fire-hardened stakes stood at angle before the earthworks. Behind the wall Mazael glimpsed the glint of armor, and the cold eyes of watching Dominiar footmen.

Mazael swore, at length, under his breath. He rode with his commanders towards the wall, stopping just out of bowshot.

“You were right, Mazael,” said Gerald. "This isn't good."

“Not at all,” agreed Mazael, watching the earthwork. It even had a sturdy wooden gate. “Not at all.” He half-hoped for the gate to burst open, for the Dominiars to launch a sortie. Mazael might then have a chance to storm the fortification.

But the gate remained closed.

“They even have a pair of catapults back there,” said Trocend, his left hand tracing spells, “and at least a half-dozen ballistas.” He grunted, fingers twitching. “Probably more.”

“Can we force it?” said Mazael.

“Probably,” said Sir Commander Galan. He shook his head. “Perhaps. But it would be a dreadful bloody slaughter. We'd lose...oh, perhaps a third of the footmen.”

“Gods,” muttered Mazael. That would come to over four thousand men.

“And that assumes our men will not break,” said Gerald. “In the face of such slaughter, they might turn and run.”

Galan gave him a look. “My armsmen will not break.”

“They won’t,” said Mazael, “but your footmen are professional fighters. Most of ours are peasant conscripts. Brave enough, aye, but if the battle turns against them, they'll run.” He glanced back at their army. “And your thousand aren't enough to force the pass.”

“So what do we do?” said Tobias.

Mazael didn't know.

“Might we lay siege?” said Lord Tancred, mopping his sweating brow. “If we cannot take it by storm?”

“We cannot,” said Gerald. “If we delay much longer, Tumblestone will fall.”

“We may have no choice but to let Tumblestone fall and face Amalric on a ground of our choosing,” said Galan.

Gerald scowled. “Then shall we sell the people of Tumblestone over to that butcher?”

“We can't besiege that fortification in any case,” snapped Mazael, cutting off Lord Tancred. “Sieges only succeed when you starve out your enemy. They can bring up as much provender as they need, I doubt not, and have ample supplies of water.”

“Tumblestone may have already fallen,” said Galan.

“No,” said Mazael. “If it had, the main Dominiar host would already be here.”

“I doubt we can save Tumblestone,” said Galan. “Let us then fortify this end of the pass, preparing our own earthworks and defenses. When Amalric comes, let him spend his men to break into Knightrealm proper.”

“We would fail,” said Mazael. “This pass is the quickest path from Tumblestone to Knightcastle, but it's only a day and a half ride around the mountains to the south. Amalric has only to swing around the mountains to come upon our flanks. Then we'll be trapped between him and the force in the pass.”

“Then let us march around the mountains ourselves!” said Tobias.

Mazael shook his head. “And a thousand men will watch us march away. They'll send warning to Amalric, and he'll be ready for us. Besides, it's a day and a half's ride, but a three days' march for an army of this size.” He paused. “Tumblestone will fall by then.”

“It might have fallen already,” muttered Galan.

“We can't go through the pass,” growled Tobias, “and we can't go around, and we can't wait for the Dominiars here. What are we going to do?”

It had been five years since Mazael had commanded this many men in battle, and he had not forgotten the weight, the fearful burden. If he made an error, if his judgment proved unsound, thousands would die. Of course, if he did nothing, then Amalric would kill tens of thousands anyway. He had to find a way to save Tumblestone, had to find a way to stop Amalric before he slaughtered more innocents. Mazael stared at the pass, eyes hard, mouth pulled into a grim line.

He saw a way to do both. It was a horrible risk, but Mazael saw no other choice. If he tried to force his way through the pass, his army might fall apart. If he tried to circle around the mountains, Amalric would meet him and destroy him. And if he sat here, thousands would die in Tumblestone.

“This is what we're going to do,” said Mazael.

The others looked at him.

“We'll dig in, as if for a siege,” said Mazael. “Arrange the footmen, facing the earthworks. Then the horsemen will slip away from the rear, and make their way south, around the mountains, and ride for Tumblestone.”

“Is that wise?” said Galan, frowning. “Splitting our force in the face of a stronger enemy?”

“Even with our full strength,” said Trocend, “we barely match the Dominiars for numbers. If just the knights reach Tumblestone, they will be badly outnumbered.”

“But,” said Tobias, “the Dominiars will be besieging the city.” His eyes glinted. “The footmen do all the work in the siege. The Dominiar Knights will be unhorsed, resting among the tents. If we come on them unawares, we might sweep them away.”

“Their scouts will see us long before we can surprise them,” said Galan, shaking his head.

“Trocend's arts can find their scouts,” said Mazael. “We can kill them before they warn Amalric. If we hit them hard and fast enough, we can throw them into flight, drive them off at our leisure.”

“Risky,” said Gerald and Galan, in near-unison.

“Oh, aye,” said Mazael, “but can you think of anything better?”

No one did.

“What if the Dominiars holding the pass try to break out, attack our footmen?” said Gerald. “They might put our footmen to flight.”

“We'll leave the Justiciar foot,” said Mazael. “Can your men stand a Dominiar charge?”

Galan scoffed. “We have fought the corrupt Dominiar Order for centuries. My men can stand a charge, and will hold your footmen firm.”

“So,” said Mazael. “The footmen will remain here. If we do it properly, the Dominiars in the pass will think our entire army remains. The knights will ride around the mountains, and with the aid of Trocend's and Timothy's arts, we will take the Dominiars besieging Tumblestone unawares.”

“What of supplies?” said Lord Tancred.

“Every man will take as much as he can carry,” said Mazael, “but no more. We will need to ride light and fast.”

“Suppose Amalric has foreseen this possibility?” said Galan, “and has more men lying in wait?”

Mazael shrugged. “Then we'll deal with them.”

No one said anything for awhile.

“Gerald,” said Mazael. “I want you to take command of the footmen.”

Gerald frowned. “I would rather ride with you and the knights.”

“I know,” said Mazael, “but if we fail...you and Sir Tobias are the only sons of Lord Malden. Lord Malden will have no more legitimate sons.” He looked at Gerald, at Tobias, and then back at Gerald. “One of you must come out of this alive.”

“It is a bold plan. We will be victorious,” said Tobias, banging his fist against his breastplate.

“Yes,” said Mazael, envying the younger man his confidence, “I'm sure we will. Get moving. Much work lies before us.”

###

“So,” said Lucan, “once more you need my help?”

“Aye,” said Mazael, swinging from Mantle's saddle. “I do.”

Lucan lounged before a campfire, still disguised as a common armsman, though the raven perched on his shoulder.

“You know what I plan,” said Mazael. “We must...we absolutely must...take Amalric unawares. Trocend and Timothy can find Amalric's scouts, rid ourselves of them. But if Amalric has the help of Straganis or another San-keth cleric with divinatory arts...”

“Then no matter how many scouts you kill,” said Lucan, “Amalric will still know you're coming.”

“He will,” said Mazael. “Can you stop Straganis again?”

“He almost killed me twice,” said Lucan, reaching into his ragged cloak. “He is my superior in both knowledge and power. I've defeated him twice, yes, but the first time was through mischance, the second through trickery. I'll not catch him off guard a third time. But I will face him again.”

He pulled out a small glass vial. It was filled with a viscous, dark fluid the color of congealed blood. The fluid writhed and twisted within the vial, boiling of its own volition. Just looking at it made Mazael's head swim.

“Do you know what this is?” said Lucan.

“No,” said Mazael.

Lucan smirked. “You don't recognize it?”

Mazael shook his head.

“Good,” said Lucan, tucking the vial into his cloak. “You're better off not knowing. It will give me the strength to defeat Straganis.”

“What is it?” said Mazael. “Something dark?”

“The darkest,” said Lucan. “But, fear not, there's no danger. At least not for you.”

“Don't do anything foolish,” said Mazael.

Lucan lifted an eyebrow. “Since I came to Castle Cravenlock, I have done nothing but foolish things. Yet I am still alive.”

Mazael shook his head and walked back to Mantle.

###

Lucan watched Mazael go, his fingers still wrapped around the glass vial.

It felt warm beneath his fingers, almost hot.

The distilled blood of Mazael Cravenlock, purified down to its essence, crackled with Demonsouled power. It would only give Lucan a few moments of strength, just a few heartbeats, but hopefully enough to crush Straganis once and for all.

“He's a mighty lord,” croaked Mocker-Of-Hope in the thief's voice, “so he is.”

“We will see,” said Lucan, “just how strong he is. And how strong am I.”

###

They left at once.

Mazael had the footmen encamp, digging trenches and piling earthwork walls. Soon a small city of tents rose before the Dominiar fortification. Mazael saw the Dominiar footmen climb to the top of their own wall, watching the work.

And as the Dominiars watched the footmen, Mazael and forty-five hundred horsemen slipped around the rear of the camp, riding fast through the rugged hills. They passed more villages ravaged by Amalric's raiders, villages ringed by impaled corpses.

Mazael felt his teeth grinding.

They rode as fast as they could while sparing the horses' strength. Trocend's spells found a band of Dominiar raiders, a hundred and fifty strong, marching north. Galan's Justiciars swept them away in one brief and bloody charge. Mazael left the bodies to rot, ordering the men to keep riding. The roads were poor and often overgrown, and they did not make the progress Mazael had hoped.

He drove them on after sunset, long after it had become too dark to see, and finally permitted the knights to stop and rest. They woke again before sunrise, and kept riding. A few hours later they came to the end of the mountain ridge, the country opening into the rocky hills and thin forests of Mastaria, the land of the Dominiar Order.

They rode into Mastaria, hooked around the southernmost crag of the mountains, and galloped north for Tumblestone. Soon they came upon an excellent road in good repair. Malleus must have rebuilt for his planned invasion of Knightcastle. The road showed signs of the recent passage of many thousands of men. They rode northward, passing many small Mastarian villages. The peasants watched with flinty, cold eyes. They looked hungry. Amalric had taken the last of their food to feed his men.

And so they sent no word, no runner or rider, to tell Amalric of Mazael's coming.

A few hours later Knights' Bay came into sight, a broad, hazy, blue expanse, a finger of the great western ocean. The sea breeze ruffled the banners dangling from Sir Aulus's lance. Mazael ordered the men to ride faster. He felt time slipping away. If Amalric took Tumblestone, Mazael and the knights might find themselves trapped between Tumblestone and the Dominiar force holding the pass.

Trocend and Timothy discovered a dozen scouts ranging through the country around them. Mazael dispatched bands of knights to hunt them down, and braced himself for the counterattack. Sooner or later, Straganis would sense Trocend's spells, and strike back.

But no arcane counterattack came. For that matter, no counterattack of any sort appeared. Asides from the scouts, they encountered no other Dominiars. For the first time since leaving Knightcastle, Mazael began to feel hope. Maybe Amalric had miscalculated, failing to anticipate an attack from behind. He had sealed off the pass, but left only scouts behind him. And maybe the full weight of Straganis's arcane strength had been unleashed upon Tumblestone, leaving him with no power to sense Trocend's divinations.

Or maybe Straganis and Amalric had fallen out.

Mazael shook his head. The Demonsouled dominated and destroyed. Straganis may have thought himself the stronger, but in the end, Amalric had become the master. Mazael looked over the long lines of armored horsemen behind him. He fought against his Demonsouled nature, Romaria had died to save him from his black soul, and yet he still had become a lord and a commander. Would he next become a tyrant?

Mazael shook aside his grim thoughts. He could not doubt himself now. If he failed, if he turned back, Amalric would become the Destroyer, and uncounted thousands would die.

Trocend and Timothy found another dozen scouts, who soon came to bloody ends. How long before Amalric noticed that his scouts were no longer returning?

They pushed far ahead, following the road alongside Knights' Bay. The sun dropped beneath the waters, turning the waves the color of blood. Mazael had seen such things in his dreams often enough, seas of real blood, and hoped it was not an omen. After darkness fell, they camped. It was only another few hours ride to Tumblestone, and Mazael wanted both the men and horses rested for the battle.

A faint red glow illuminated the sky to the north, shining even as the sun vanished. He wondered if Tumblestone had burned to ashes. Despite that grim thought, he managed to fall asleep for a few hours.

They woke again before the sun rose, and rode northward. The land opened into a broad, sandy plain between Knights' Bay and the mountain ridge. Small villages dotted the plain, home to fishing and farming folk who had once fed the townsmen of Tumblestone. Now plumes of smoke rose from burned timbers, stark against the dawn sky. Bloodstained stakes surrounded the ruins like grisly flowers, bloated corpses dangling from the jagged points.

Amalric had left no one alive.

Smoke filled the sky ahead. He heard the echoes of ringing swords, the groan of siege engines, and the throaty shouts of dying men. The land rose in a gentle swell, covered in patches of tough grasses. Mazael and his commanders reached the top of the hill, reined up, and looked down at Tumblestone.

The city sat on a small peninsula jutting into Knights' Bay, ringed by massive stone walls. South of the city lay a deep harbor, now filled with the smoldering husks of burned ships. A road led from the city's gates and into the mountain pass, past crumbling, weather-worn hills. The city took its name from the occasional rock slides that tumbled off the ridge and into Knights' Bay. Memories flooded through Mazael's mind. He had fought the Dominiars here, five years past, defeating Sir Commander Aeternis's army and trapping Grand Master Malleus on the wrong side of the mountains.

And now another Dominiar army filled the plain before Tumblestone.

Mazael stared at the sea of tents, at the siege towers, at the catapults, at the black-armored Dominiar footmen swarming towards Tumblestone like ants.

“Gods save us,” said Lord Tancred. “There are at least twenty thousand of them.”

Arrows shrieked from Tumblestone's battlements, raining down on the advancing Dominiar ranks. The Dominiar footmen locked their shields and kept coming. The siege towers groaned and rattled forward, pushed by straining soldiers. One of the catapults fired, flinging a ball of raging flame over Tumblestone's walls.

“They must have been fighting all night,” said Galan, sweeping his gaze over the battlefield. He pointed. “Look. A wrecked tower there, and there. And corpses everywhere. Lord Rainier must have beaten off a dozen assaults.” His frown deepened. “And there...”

Mazael followed his pointing finger, and glimpsed a figure carrying a sword that burned with crimson flames.

“But the Knights themselves!” said Tobias, waving his hand. “Look! The horses are tethered, the Knights lounging in their tents. Their footmen are pressing the siege. They're not prepared to fight horsemen! If we strike now, now, we can sweep them away!”

Mazael's hands tightened around Mantle's reins. His gamble had paid off. If they struck hard, they might drive the entire host of the Dominiar Order into the sea...

Or, of course, it might be a trap.

“Go to your commands,” said Mazael, voice hoarse. If this was a trap, then he had no choice but to walk into it, sword in hand. Perhaps the Old Demon had indeed manipulated everything to bring Mazael here. But if he had, then Mazael intended to die fighting. “Sir Tobias, take the left wing. Sir Galan, take your Justiciar Knights to the right. I will command the center myself. Ride them down, push them back from the walls, drive them into the sea. Kill as many of the Knights themselves as possible; if they can mount up and rally, we're finished. Go.” He wheeled Mantle around and galloped back to the lines. A squire hurried up, leading Chariot, while another carried Mazael's helmet, lance and shield. He pulled on the helmet and climbed up into Chariot's saddle, taking the shield and the lance. It was a heavy war lance, far stronger than the flimsy things used in tournaments. Chariot neighed and pawed the earth, sensing Mazael's worry and excitement. Mazael gave orders to the squires, who galloped off, carrying his orders to the men.

The army walked their horses to the top of the hill. The siege towers had moved closer to the walls. The catapults still flung balls of fire over the walls and into the smoldering city. At least most of the buildings inside the walls were stone. A battering ram crawled towards the gates, pulled by men safe beneath wooden panels.

Mazael waited as Lord Malden's household knights, vassals, and the Justiciar Knights formed up behind him. It was maybe a half-mile to Tumblestone, and they sat in clear view, yet the Dominiars were so focused on the falling city that they did not notice. More and more black-armored footmen marched towards the walls.

“Sir Aulus,” said Mazael, “now.”

Sir Aulus raised a trumpet and blew a long blast. The other standard-bearers blew their trumpets, the brassy notes ringing in Mazael's ears. Some of the footmen whirled, turned, staring up at the hill.

Mazael raised his lance and booted Chariot to a gallop, racing down the hill. Behind him the earth thundered as the knights spurred their own destriers forward, the air ringing with their shouts. A surge of panic went through the Dominiar army like a ripple through a pond. Mazael let Chariot's reins drop, balanced his shield in one hand and his lance in the other, and set himself.

An instant later the knights crashed into the ranks of the Dominiar footmen. The sound was like the heavens splitting asunder. Mazael’s lance caught a Dominiar footman through the throat, and another died in a screaming red flash beneath Chariot's hooves.

Some Dominiar footmen turned and fled. Most perished, either struck down or trampled.

Mazael and his knights thundered through the Dominiar army.

3

Brothers

Adalar drifted awake, his bloody chin brushing against his chest.

He sat inside one of the Dominiars' tents, his hands bound to a heavy wooden stake with thick rope. He had tried to break free, but the rope had rubbed his wrists raw. Then a Dominiar sergeant had entered and kicked him until he passed out.

Now Adalar felt awful, his head aching, his mouth drier than dust. He had vomited out his stomach hours ago, but his gut kept twisting. Adalar groaned and doubled over, then jerked upright as the rope grated against his bloody wrists.

He leaned back against the stake, drenched in sweat.

He wished Amalric would just kill him. But it amused the Demonsouled monster to keep him alive. He suspected that Amalric would kill him in front of Lord Mazael, just to satisfy his cruel nature.

Adalar sobbed into his shoulder. If only he hadn't believed Amalric's honeyed words. If only he had warned Lord Mazael.

It was all Adalar's fault.

He had seen terrible things, seen the Dominiars round up villagers, seen children impaled on stakes, screaming as the jagged wood tore through their flesh. He had watched Amalric ride through fields of bloody stakes, his laughter drowning out the screams. If only Adalar had warned Lord Mazael. None of this would have happened. The slaughtered villagers would yet live.

And Adalar would not sit in this tent, praying for death.

Someone shrieked in pain.

Adalar looked towards the tent's flap, blinking sweat from his eyes. A Dominiar footman staggered inside, face twisted with fury, blood frothing from his lips. He took a step towards Adalar, and then pitched over onto his face.

A broken war lance jutted from his back. A dagger rolled from his fingers, coming to a halt near Adalar’s boot. Through the tent flap he saw horsemen galloping past, fleeing Dominiar footmen, the flash of a Cravenlock banner.

Adalar felt a stab of terrified hope. Lord Mazael had come!

The gleam of the fallen dagger called to Adalar.

He strained and stretched out with his boot, trying to drag the dagger towards him.

###

Mazael's war lance killed another Dominiar footman, Chariot trampling still another. Most of the footmen had fled, and those that stood and fought were trampled. Mazael rocked in the saddle with every blow, his bones thrumming with the thunder of the charge. Everywhere he looked he saw the Dominiars throwing down their weapons, running.

He felt a surge of wild exaltation. They were winning.

The speed of their charge took them through the Dominiar camp, past the gates of Tumblestone. Many of the household knights and Justiciars, no strangers to warfare, had equipped themselves with torches before leaving the camp. Now the siege towers, catapults, and tents began blazing, greasy black smoke staining the sky. The orderly lines of the Dominiar army had broken, some fleeing towards the hills, others sprinting for the mountain pass. Mazael watched them go, his mind spinning new plans. They had to hunt down the Dominiars, force them to surrender, or else they would regroup, he had to send word for Lord Rainier to sortie from Tumblestone...

A new rumble went through the ground, a counterpoint to the horses' stamping hooves, and Mazael saw a great mass of black-armored horsemen wheel around the burning tents. There were at least two thousand of them, the standard-bearers carrying black banners adorned with eight-pointed silver stars.

Amalric, it seemed, had formed up the Dominiar Knights faster than Mazael had thought possible. The Dominiars lined up for a charge, presenting a wall of horses and black-armored Knights.

“Sir Aulus!” roared Mazael, riding to his standard-bearer's side. “Sound a halt! Now! Now!”

Sir Aulus nodded, wiping sweat and blood from his face, and trumpeted the halt. The other standard-bearers followed the call, trumpets ringing. The charge slowed to a halt, the knights and vassals reining up. The Justiciars and household knights, seeing the danger, formed up, and the vassals and their followers hastened to follow suit.

A storm of horns rang out from the Dominiars, and their Knights thundered forward in a black wave, banners flapping.

“Sir Aulus!” said Mazael, wheeling Chariot around. “The charge! Now!”

Sir Aulus blew the trumpet. Mazael put spurs to Chariot, and the big horse leapt forward with an excited whinny. Behind him Lord Malden's knights roared forward, and the two masses of horseman surged at each other like hammer blows. Mazael set himself in the saddle, shield ready on his left arm, lance raised in his right.

The charges smashed together with a thunderous crash, clouds of dust swirling, men and horses screaming, blood spilling into the ground. Mazael caught a lance blow on his shield, his arm burning with pain, and unhorsed a Dominiar in the same motion. The Knight fell backwards with a scream and vanished beneath the pounding hooves. The two armies disintegrated into pure chaos, into duels and battles between small bands. Mazael roared, giving himself over to the mayhem. Generalship was now useless; the outcome of a thousand different fights would decide the battle. He struck down a Dominiar trying to kill Sir Commander Galan, killed another on the verge of taking one of the household knights.

The Mazael wheeled, and saw Amalric Galbraith on horseback, encased head-to-foot in black plate, a lance in one hand and shield in another. Their eyes locked over the raging chaos of the battlefield.

The force of Amalric's gaze struck Mazael like a physical blow. Amalric's black eyes had developed a glowing reddish gaze.

Just like the eyes of the Old Demon.

Amalric wheeled his horse around, lance leveled.

Mazael yelled and spurred Chariot forward.

###

Adalar strained, every muscle groaning. The edge of his heel touched the dagger's edge. Adalar wrenched forward, almost yanking his arms from their sockets, and hooked his foot back.

His boot dragged the dagger a few inches closer. Adalar sank back, panting. If he could just drag the dagger to him, cut his bonds, and get out his this wretched tent...

He smelled something burning.

Adalar looked over and saw the tent catch on fire.

His fear burst into full-fledged panic. He kicked out, dragging the dagger closer. The fire spread to the tent's roof, billowing acrid smoke. Either Adalar would choke to death, or the tent would collapse and he would burn to death. He got the dagger to his knee and stared at it, wondering how he would get it to his bound hands.

The smoke sent Adalar into a coughing fit.

He twisted his hips, drawing back his legs, and clapped the dagger between his boots. Then Adalar rocked back, lifting his rigid legs. His knees and hips screamed with the strain, yet forced his legs back. His scrabbling fingers closed around the dagger's blade.

He dropped his legs, reversed the dagger, and began sawing at the rope, back and forth, back and forth. Adalar snarled in frustration and terror, still coughing. He was going to die here, the rope wouldn't break, the smoke would fill his lungs and choke him or the flaming canvas would fall...

The rope snapped. Adalar jerked to his feet, battered muscles cramping, and half-limped, half-fell from the burning tent. He flung himself to the ground, breathing great gulps of blessedly smoke-free air, his arms and legs twitching.

Some time later he managed to look up, saw the battle raging around him.

“Amalric,” Adalar spat, voice raspy from the smoke. He lurched to his feet, snatched up a discarded battle-axe, and limped into the battle. “Amalric!”

The Demonsouled monster would kill him, no doubt. But at least Adalar would die fighting the evil, rather in thrall to its subtle lies. He was through listening to Amalric.

Adalar limped in search of his enemy.

###

Chariot galloped towards Amalric, hooves tearing at the ground, Mazael’s hands tightening about shield and lance. Amalric thundered towards him like a storm, black cloak billowing out behind him.

They came together with a tremendous crash. The impact of Amalric's lance tore away the top of Mazael's shield, the lance's head scraping against Mazael's shoulder. But Mazael's lance slammed into Amalric's belly, the force of his charge sending the point through steel plate and chain. Amalric catapulted backwards out of the saddle and fell to the ground, armor clattering. His destrier panicked and bolted off into the melee. Chariot tore past, and Mazael reined up, wheeling his horse around, shifting his lance to an overhand grip. If he could strike before Amalric recovered, he could end this with one solid blow.

Amalric rose, cast aside his lance, and drew his sword. Red gold blazed in the sunlight.

Mazael kicked Chariot to a gallop. He had seen that sword before, in his dreams. The Old Demon had offered it to him, promising power and mastery of the world, if Mazael but murdered his brother and his sister.

Amalric's sword exploded into raging crimson flames, fingers of shadow crawling through the fire. The sense of power radiating from the weapon washed over Mazael, called to his Demonsouled blood. Chariot raced forward and Mazael raised his lance, preparing to pin Amalric to the ground. Amalric made no move to dodge, no move to run.

Then Amalric twisted to the side, moving so fast than Mazael only saw a blur of black steel and red fire. The sword of the Destroyer rose and fell in a screaming inferno, and tore through Chariot's neck in a single terrible blow. Chariot’s body managed a few more strides of its own volition and then collapsed, flinging Mazael from the saddle. He tucked his shoulder, rolled, and came to one knee, stunned and sore.

He had never seen anyone strike off a horse's head with one blow.

“Lord Mazael,” said Amalric, striding towards him. Mazael stood, drawing Lion. “My brother.” He laughed, a hideous grin twisting his face. His red-glazed eyes blazed with madness, stark against his pale face and black hair. Mazael sensed the strength in him, power that blazed like the sword of the Destroyer.

He wondered if the full weight of Demonsouled power had broken Amalric's mind, as had almost happened to Mazael.

“I knew you would come,” said Amalric. The battle raged around them like a storm. “I have been waiting for you, brother.”

“The Old Demon gave you that, didn't he?” said Mazael.

“My father,” said Amalric. “You betrayed him!” He spat, the red glaze in his eyes brightening. “I am the Destroyer! I will claim the throne of the Great Demon, and all the kingdoms of the earth shall be mine.”

“You damned fool,” said Mazael. “It's all lies. The Old Demon cares nothing for you. Listen to me! He'll let you wax strong, then murder you and harvest your strength for his own.”

“What do you know of power?” said Amalric. “You rejected your very blood. You are a wolf, and yet choose to live as a sheep.” He lifted his burning sword. “You are the fool, not I!”

“The Old Demon told me himself,” said Mazael, “when he tried to kill me, after I denied him. He will betray you!”

Amalric laughed, face twisted with the murderous glee Mazael knew so well, and took his sword in both hands.

Lion jolted in Mazael’s hand, the edges shimmering. The blade blazed with raging azure flames. Mazael felt a wave of eagerness rush into him from the sword as its ancient magic stirred to life.

Lion had been created to destroy the powers of darkness, and the sword yearned to fulfill its purpose.

Amalric hesitated, his eyes fixing on the sapphire flames, and then sprang forward with a roar. Mazael just got his damaged shield up in time.

The sword of the Destroyer tore through the wood as if it did not exist. The shield disintegrated in a spray of splinters, the blow knocking Mazael backwards. Amalric roared and struck again, the Destroyer's sword howling like an inferno. Mazael ducked under the blow, and the sword's edge clipped his helmet. Mazael lost his balance and fell backwards. Amalric sprang forward, sword raised for the kill, and Mazael just got Lion up to parry. For an instant he expected Amalric's sword to shatter Lion, for the blade to plunge deep into his skull...

Lion stopped the sword of the Destroyer with a clang, red flames and blue flames snarling at each other. Mazael heaved, shoving Amalric back, and leapt to his feet. He went on the attack, driving at Amalric, slashing and thrusting, Lion blazing in his fist. Amalric backed away, growling, the sword of the Destroyer blurring in his hands, seeming to shield him in a veil of flame and shadow.

He was too fast, too strong. Mazael could not land a blow. Amalric spun, twisting past Mazael's blade, and stabbed. The blow tore upon a wound on Mazael's forearm. Mazael staggered back, trying to parry. Amalric hacked again and again, Mazael trying to parry, his arms trembling with the effort. The flames of both swords snarled and howled. Amalric locked blades, strained, and shoved Mazael back. Before Mazael could regain his balance, Amalric struck his face with the pommel, opening a gash across his jaw.

Mazael stumbled back, spitting out blood. The wounds he had taken from the sword of the Destroyer burned like fire. Nor did they seem to be healing. Perhaps the sword’s power prevented Mazael's Demonsouled blood from closing the cuts.

He had not even hit Amalric once.

“Fool,” said Amalric, laughing. “Look at you. You could have become the Destroyer. You could have taken the Great Demon's throne for yourself. And look at you! You can barely hold that sword upright.” He laughed, deep and mocking. “Why did Morebeth think you strong? You’re nothing but another weakling mortal.”

“Then stop talking,” said Mazael, trying to hold Lion steady, “and strike me down already.”

Amalric's laughter sounded like a chorus of agonized souls. “If you wish.”

He sprang at Mazael, the sword of the Destroyer trailing a curtain of flame. Mazael charged him, their swords meeting with a scream. They flashed through a dozen blows in as many seconds, blue fire blazing, crimson flames snarling. Mazael stopped thinking, his hands moving faster than his mind. His teeth pulled back from his lips in a snarl, mirroring Amalric's grimace. The Demonsouled rage crept into his mind, bit by bit, filling his limbs with burning power. He dared not let it claim him, dared not let it dominate him.

Yet without it, he might not have the strength to defeat Amalric.

More fury burned it him. He parried, feinted, and slashed at Amalric's head. Amalric ducked, spinning away, and Lion clanged off Amalric's breastplate. Amalric growled and ducked back, launching a backhand at Mazael's face. Mazael parried again, sidestepped, and slashed, opening a gash across Amalric's left arm. Amalric roared in fury and stepped back, sword raised in guard, eyes on Mazael's face.

And even as Mazael watched, the wound on Amalric's arm disappeared. Mazael’s own Demonsouled healing had never closed wounds with such speed.

“Do you think,” rasped Amalric, the fires from his sword reflecting his eyes, “that you can kill me? I am the heir of the Great Demon! No mortal can strike me down.”

“The Great Demon said the same,” said Mazael, “and he is no more.”

Amalric howled and sprang at Mazael, the sword of the Destroyer raised over his head. Mazael sprang aside, the sword plunging past his shoulder. Amalric spun, his blade whirling into a slash for Mazael's knees. Mazael caught the blow, and Amalric turned the parry, sword flying up, and slashed open Mazael's thigh.

Mazael snarled in pain, fresh fury flooding him, filling him with new strength. He regained his balance and launched a furious attack at Amalric. Amalric backpedaled, whipping his blade back and forth to stop Mazael's attacks. Mazael lost himself to the rage, driving Amalric back. They fought across the battlefield, past the warring knights, past the fleeing footmen and the burning siege engines. The footmen took one look at their burning swords and fled. Their duel took to the bluff overlooking the harbor, to the lines of smoke rising from the smoldering ships.

Amalric's mouth tightened into a rigid line of concentration, the red glaze in his eyes brightening. He flung himself into the attack, slashing and stabbing like a madman. Mazael stood toe-to-toe with him, trading blow for blow, the swords ringing like bells. He saw nothing but Amalric, nothing but the raging flames of the swords. Mazael caught a descending blow, shoved, and sent Amalric stumbling back. Mazael spun and sent Lion slashing across Amalric's knee. Amalric bellowed, almost losing his balance. Mazael stabbed for Amalric's face. Amalric jerked back, Lion tearing a bloody gash across his forehead and jaw.

Amalric roared and seized the wrist of Mazael's sword arm. Mazael clawed at the hand, feeling the bones in his wrist strain. The sword of the Destroyer came up, moving for a killing slash. Mazael seized Amalric's sword wrist and shoved. They roared and grappled like fighting wolves, spinning like two mad dancers, tottering on the edge of the steep bluff. The sword of the Destroyer waved in Mazael's face, while he tried to break his sword hand free and stab Amalric. Amalric strained, bending Mazael's wrist backwards, the sheer strength of his arm pushing Mazael's hand back. Mazael felt his muscles straining, his bones groaning. He shoved forwards, his forehead slamming into Amalric's gashed face, his boot cracking against Amalric's knee.

Both men fell apart with a gasp of pain. Mazael fell to one knee, panting, sweat and blood sheeting down his face. Amalric reeled back a few steps, blood sliding down his black breastplate.

The gash on his face had healed.

“Fool,” grated Amalric, wiping the blood from his eyes. “You miserable fool. You cannot kill me. Look at you! You can barely stand!”

Mazael staggered back to his feet, raising Lion. The sword of the Destroyer had inflicted innumerable small cuts and nicks during their fight. None of them had healed, and every last one burned like fire.

“Wretch!” screamed Amalric. “Throw yourself down and worship me, and I might spare your useless weak life!”

“I denied and rejected your father,” said Mazael, raising Lion to guard, “and I deny and reject you!”

Amalric's roar could have shattered stone. He leapt forward like a tiger. Mazael beat aside the thrust and struck back, striking past Amalric's battered armor, opening a wound in his side.

Amalric ignored the blow, kept coming, kept attacking. Mazael gritted his teeth and tried to parry. The red-blazing sword of the Destroyer seemed everywhere, stabbing high, swinging low, slashing at Mazael's face.

Mazael stumbled back, to the edge of the bluff, and the loose earth beneath his boot crumbled away. He flailed for a moment, trying to keep from falling and rolling down the bluff. Amalric struck with a massive, two-handed swing, and opened Mazael's left leg from calf to thigh.

Mazael groaned, his leg exploding with agony. It buckled beneath him, and he fell hard on the knee, the jolt sending an explosion of pain from his toes to his teeth. Amalric's pommel caught him across the face, snapping his head back, blood flying from his face. The world spun around Mazael, and he could not stand, could not focus, could not even think.

“I am,” spat Amalric through clenched teeth, “the true heir of the Great Demon. Not you, not matter what she said!”

He raised the sword of the Destroyer for the killing blow.

###

Adalar saw Mazael fall, his left leg a bloody ruin, his face bruised and battered.

He had seen the flames of the magical swords from across the battlefield, had run through the chaos and the carnage, bellowing Amalric's name. And now Lord Mazael was on one knee before Amalric, about to fall to Amalric's blade.

And it was all Adalar's fault.

He sprang forward with a scream of denial and rage, the axe in both hands, raised high over his head.

Amalric, his attention focused on Mazael, did not even begin to turn until Adalar brought the axe hammering down with all his momentum and fury behind it, the heavy metal head cracking through both cuirass and chain to bury itself in Amalric's spine.

###

Amalric howled, his back arching, his sword slashing at the air. Mazael blinked his cloudy eyes just in time to see Adalar plunge a bloody axe into Amalric’s back. Amalric roared again and his fist sent Adalar flying. Adalar hit to the ground and did not move. Amalric staggered towards him, jerking and reeling, the sword of the Destroyer twitching in his hand.

The sight of Amalric stalking towards Adalar filled Mazael with fresh strength.

He sprang up, ignoring the agony in his left leg, taking Lion in both hands. With all his remaining strength he plunged Lion through the rent in Amalric's cuirass, into the wound Adalar had made. Lion plunged through Amalric's chest, the tip smashing against the inside of Amalric's breastplate.

Lion's azure fire exploded into Amalric's flesh.

Amalric wailed and wrenched free from Lion, reeling like a drunken man. Mazael lurched ahead, trying to land another telling blow. Lion clanged off Amalric's feeble parry, and Mazael overbalanced and tumbled into Amalric.

They toppled backwards, grappling at each other, and fell, rolling over and over each other down the bluff. Mazael kept his grip on Lion, his free hand clawing at Amalric's throat. They skidded to a stop at the bottom of the bluff, at the narrow beach before the lapping waves of the sea.

Amalric's cuirass clanged away, its leather straps torn, and Mazael had his last chance.

He stabbed at Amalric's chest, throwing all his weight behind the blow. He lost his balance and fell atop his sword, the lion's head pommel smashing against his ribs. But Lion's blade plunged into Amalric's chest, through his back, and into the sand. The azure flames blazed, streaming down the blade and into Amalric, like water pouring into a desert.

Amalric screamed, clawing at Mazael, shuddering up and down the length of the blade. Mazael sagged against the sword, partly to keep Amalric pinned, but mostly from exhaustion and pain. Amalric's right hand closed around the hilt of the sword of the Destroyer, trying to raise it. Mazael stomped down, his boot landing on Amalric's wrist and shattering the bones.

The crimson fires of the sword flickered madly, becoming more shadow than flame.

“Damn you!” howled Amalric, clawing at Mazael with his free hand. “Damn you!” His wounds glimmered with sapphire flame, blue sparks twisting through his blood.

Mazael stared down at Amalric, horrified. Lion had gone through Amalric's heart, the blade shining like a shaft of light. Yet Amalric still lived, still fought.

“Why won't you die?” croaked Mazael.

Amalric screamed again, blood frothing at his lips. The red glow in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a sharp blue glow, his arms and legs flailing.

Adalar came to Mazael's side, wiping blood from his face. He stared down at Amalric, expressionless.

“You'll pay for this,” spat Amalric, his voice weakening. A wave came to shore, the water brushing his hair. “My father...my father will...”

“He cares nothing for you,” said Mazael.

“She did this to me!” said Amalric, his eyes clouding. Blue flames danced in his mouth, writhing across his teeth. Lion's hilt trembled, shaking with Amalric's heartbeat. “That whore. That damned whore.” His lips peeled back in a vicious snarl. “My dear precious sister. She'll turn on you...just as she turned on me.”

Mazael shook his head. “You're raving.”

“My sister,” whispered Amalric. “Our sister.”

Mazael went cold. “What?”

“Our sister,” croaked Amalric. “She will destroy you as she has destroyed me. I...I....the child is mine! Mine!” He heaved against the sword once more. “I am the Destroyer! I will be the Destroyer...not...not her damned brat...”

Mazael stared at Amalric's face in shock.

“I am…the Destroyer…” said Amalric, groaning. Blue fire raged through him like a storm.

He shuddered once more, his eyes bulging as if in horror, and then went still, the madness and the life draining from his eyes.

Besides him the sword of the Destroyer shattered with a thunderclap, the red fire blazing once and then going out. The shards crumbled to smoking ash even as Mazael watched. He groaned, managed to stand, and wrenched Lion from Amalric's chest.

The sword's azure flames went out.

“My lord.”

Mazael turned, wincing at the agony in his leg.

“My lord.” Adalar was shaking, crying. “I'm sorry...it was all my fault. All of it.”

It took some time for Mazael to remember how to speak. “What?”

“He told me you were Demonsouled,” said Adalar, voice shaking. “I...I saw some of your wounds heal with uncanny speed. Amalric told me you were going to kill Lord Malden, take over Knightcastle for yourself. I believed him. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. He was Demonsouled, not you. He...he must have put a witchery in my mind, made me see those things.” He waved his hand at Mazael's torn leg. “I...you're...not healing now.”

“No,” said Mazael. The wounds the sword of the Destroyer had inflicted had not healed, but he felt the start of a tingle against the pain.

“I'm so sorry,” said Adalar, voice broken.

“It doesn't matter,” said Mazael, limping towards him. “It...a Demonsouled is full of guile. He deceived us.” He looked back at Amalric's corpse. “We...all were deceived.”

The implications, the terrible implications, of Amalric’s words filled him with horror. But everything that had happened since Blackfang had attacked Castle Cravenlock made sense, terrible grim sense.

“It doesn't matter,” said Mazael, tugging his shredded cloak over the wound in his leg. The tingling had intensified. “Come. Help me up the bluff. We've a battle to win yet.”

Adalar hastened to his side.

Behind them the rising tide washed away the Demonsouled blood of Amalric Galbraith.

Chapter 11

1

Queen of the World

But the battle was over when they reached the top of the bluff.

Footmen streamed from the pass, and for a moment Mazael thought that the Dominiars had counterattacked. But the front ranks wore Justiciar tabards and armor, and the rest had the ragged look of Lord Malden's levies. Gerald must have found a way to force the pass. The gates of Tumblestone stood open, and Mazael saw men in Lord Rainier's colors marching across the field.

Dead and dying men lay strewn across the field, the screams of the wounded piercing the air. Mazael limped across the bloodstained grasses, leaning on Adalar, Lion dangling from his fist. Justiciar footmen strolled along with long knives, finishing off the Dominiar wounded. Lord Malden's household knights rode stood guard over captured Dominiar footmen, watching as they threw down their pikes and stripped off their armor.

“I think we won,” said Adalar. Mazael managed to nod.

A band of horsemen galloped towards them, flying Roland banners, and Mazael saw Sir Tobias and Sir Gerald riding at their head.

“Lord Mazael!” called Gerald. “You're alive.”

“Barely,” said Mazael. “Find me a damned horse. They killed Chariot.”

Tobias barked an order, and one of the footmen found a horse, the saddle splashed with dried blood. Mazael swung up into the saddle with a wince, his torn leg twitching. His head spun and his stomach twisted, but he managed to keep his saddle.

“You're hurt,” said Gerald, “you need to...”

Mazael waved his hand. “It'll keep. What the devil are you doing here? I thought you were on the other side of the pass.”

“We were,” said Gerald, “but the Dominiar watchmen had grown lax. So some of the Justiciar footmen crept over the wall, murdered the watchmen, and opened the gate.” He shook his head. “They’ve done that sort of thing before, evidently. We broke the Dominiars, hastened through the pass, and came to Tumblestone in the midst of the battle. Just in time, too.”

“Where's Sir Commander Galan?” said Mazael.

“Dead,” said Tobias, face filthy with dust and sweat. “He was knocked from his saddle, and his own men trampled him before they could stop.”

“Damn it,” said Mazael.

“When we came down from the pass,” said Gerald, “the Dominiars had fled north, and we trapped them against the ridge. It was a sharp fight, but they threw down their weapons in the end.”

“What of Amalric?” said Tobias.

“Dead,” said Mazael, not wanting to speak of it.

“At Lord Mazael's hand,” said Adalar, with some fierceness.

Gerald and Tobias looked at him in surprise.

“He escaped,” said Mazael.

“What should we do with the prisoners?” said Gerald. “We have thousands.”

“Kill them all, I say,” said Tobias, his eyes flinty.

“No,” said Mazael. “Take their armor and weapons, but let them go.” He looked over the field of corpses. “There's been enough slaughter for one day.”

“We have won a great victory!” said Tobias. “The Dominiars' Grand Master dead, most of their commanders and preceptors killed, their host broken. Tumblestone belongs to the Rolands now and forever. We should follow up, take as much as Mastaria as we can.” His eyes glinted. “Perhaps we can even destroy the Dominiar Order entirely.”

“And if Amalric Galbraith was indeed Demonsouled...” said Gerald.

“He was,” said Adalar, “Sir Gerald, forgive me, but he was. Lord Mazael stabbed him through the heart, pinned him to the ground, but it still took him a long time to die.”

“Then it was a great victory over the powers of darkness,” said Gerald. “Though we never did find Straganis.”

“No,” murmured Mazael. “Straganis and the changelings were Amalric's tools, I think. Perhaps Straganis thought he was following the will of Sepharivaim, but he was doing Amalric's work the entire time. I'd wager Amalric killed Straganis and the changelings, once he had no further need of them.”

He looked at the bloody field, shaking his head. Amalric had been stopped, yes. He would not become the Destroyer. But the Old Demon still waited in the shadows. And if what Amalric had said was true...

“What should we do now?” said Gerald.

“Take command,” said Mazael, making up his mind.

“What?” said the brothers in unison.

“Take command,” said Mazael, turning his borrowed horse around. “Both of you. You are both sons of Lord Malden, and you should take command.”

“But this is your victory!” said Gerald

“I have to return to Knightcastle,” said Mazael. “Amalric said something before he died. There might be another San-keth assassin lurking at Knightcastle, instructed to kill Lord Malden if the Dominiars lost the battle.” The lie rolled easily off his tongue. “A...final revenge, you might say. I have to stop it.”

“Let us come with you,” said Gerald. “You might need our help.”

“No!” said Mazael. “Sir Tobias is right. You must follow up on our victory. Secure Tumblestone and take the army further south. With the Dominiar command broken...you'll be able to claim most of Mastaria before they recover. I must go alone. Though I will take Trocend with me, and Harune Dustfoot, and...” He almost asked for Lucan and caught himself. “If they are still alive.”

They were the only ones with the power to fight besides Mazael.

“They both are, so far as I know,” said Gerald.

“Good. Have them meet me at the pass,” said Mazael, turning the horse.

“Lord Mazael!” said Adalar, running to his side, “I will come with you.”

“No!,” said Mazael, stopping. Amalric had almost gotten the boy killed. Mazael looked at Adalar's weary, smoke-grimed face. Adalar did not look much like a boy, at least not any more. “You'll stay here, help Sir Gerald and Sir Tobias.”

“They've squires already,” said Adalar.

“I know,” said Mazael, “but not as a squire.” He rolled from the saddle, and pretended to wince in pain, even though his leg felt better. No sense in reawakening Adalar's old suspicions. “You saved my life, Adalar. Amalric would have killed me, if you hadn't struck him.”

“But...” said Adalar.

“Be quiet and kneel,” said Mazael, drawing Lion.

Adalar's eyes went wide, but he knelt. Mazael put the flat of the blade on one of Adalar's shoulders, and then the other, saying the ritual words as he did so.

“Now, rise,” said Mazael, “Sir Adalar Greatheart.”

“Thank you,” said Adalar, “Lord Mazael, thank you. I don't deserve this. Not after...”

“We all make mistakes,” said Mazael, climbing back into the saddle. He didn't need to fake a grunt of pain. And he had made far greater mistake than any Adalar would ever make. “Now, go.”

He didn't look back, but booted the borrowed horse to a gallop.

###

Mazael found Lucan walking among the tents, clad again in his black cloak and coat, and no doubt wrapped in his mind-clouding glamour. Lucan turned and looked up at him.

“It's done, then?” said Lucan.

“Yes,” said Mazael, “Amalric is dead.”

“Straganis must be dead,” said Lucan. “No one attempted any arcane attacks during the battle.” He laughed, smirking. “Amalric must have killed him, once he ceased to serve any purpose. And to think I made such efforts to prepare for our battle!”

“I thought as much,” said Mazael. “Lucan. I need your help again.”

“Such a surprise,” said Lucan.

“Are you with me or not?”

“Yes,” said Lucan, “yes, I suppose I am.”

“Then get a horse,” said Mazael.

###

Mazael rode north with Lucan and Harune and Trocend, leaving the army in the hands of Gerald and Tobias. He hoped they did not lead the men to disaster. But with Amalric dead, and the Dominiar Order shattered, they ought to face no serious opposition.

And something far more dangerous awaited Mazael at Knightcastle.

“Sister,” muttered Mazael to himself, over and over again, “sister.”

Two and a half days later, they reined up before the barbican of Knightcastle.

“What news?” shouted the armsman at the gate, looking at them. “Have we been defeated? Are the Dominiars coming?”

“We are victorious,” said Mazael. “Amalric Galbraith is slain, Tumblestone is safe, the Dominiars are broken, and Sir Gerald and Sir Tobias are leading the army into Mastaria.” He hesitated. “Where is Lady Morebeth?”

“Praying for victory in the Kings' Chapel,” said the guard. He grinned. “The gods must have heard her.”

“The gods,” said Mazael. “I'm sure.” He pointed up at the Hall of Triumphs, where the Roland banners blew in the breeze. “Go tell Lord Malden the good news. I...will say prayers for thanksgiving for our victory in the Kings' Chapel, then go to Lord Malden myself. Make sure I am not disturbed.”

“My lord,” said the guard.

Mazael rode through the tiers of Knightcastle, past the high stone towers, the mighty walls, and into the High Court. They reined up before the Kings' Chapel and slid from the saddle. Mazael thrust open the chapel doors and strode inside, the others following. Shafts of multicolored light shone through the stained-glass windows, throwing pools of color across the floor. A blaze of candles surrounded the altar.

Morebeth Galbraith stood near the altar rail, still in widow’s black, her red braids wrapped about her head like a crown. She turned to face him, keen gray eyes flicking over his companions, and then a brilliant smile cracked through her icy mask. It sent an electric jolt of desire through Mazael's nerves.

“My lord Mazael,” said Morebeth, “you have returned to me.”

“I have,” said Mazael. “Amalric is dead.”

“I knew you would defeat him,” said Morebeth. “I knew you were the stronger.” Her blood-red eyebrows creased. “Though why are you not with the army?”

“I know,” said Mazael.

“Know what?” said Morebeth.

“I know,” said Mazael, “that you are pregnant.”

A flicker of something, perhaps anger, but certainly not fear, flashed across Morebeth's face. “I told you that I could not have children. Do you mean to drag my shame before these rogues?”

“Don't lie to me,” said Mazael. “I know.”

Trocend muttered, “You dragged me away from the field for this tawdry...”

Morebeth shifted, gray eyes narrowing, and Mazael glimpsed the slight curve of her stomach, even beneath the heavy black fabric of her gown. “Perhaps I am. But maybe you are the father, my lord.”

Trocend kept muttering, and Lucan gave him a black look.

“No,” said Mazael. “You were already with child when I met you.”

“And,” said Morebeth, her eyes cold and sharp as knives, “who is the father?”

“Amalric Galbraith,” said Mazael. “Your brother.”

Morebeth said nothing.

“What?” said Trocend. “What is this? Are you accusing Lady Morebeth of incest? Why should we do such a thing? Why...”

“Because,” said Mazael, “Amalric Galbraith is...was...Demonsouled. And so is Lady Morebeth.”

Mazael stared hard with her cold gray eyes, eyes that were mirror images of Mazael's own.

“What?” rasped Trocend.

“The Old Demon came to our mother,” said Morebeth, her voice soft, “twenty-seven years ago. Nine months later Amalric and I were born. We were both children of the Old Demon.” Her eyes glittered. “As are you, my lord Mazael, my lover...my brother.”

Trocend rocked back, gray hair sliding across his waxy face. “Lord Mazael...you...you are Demonsouled?”

Mazael nodded, not turning around, not taking his eyes from Morebeth.

“I always knew I was different,” said Morebeth, her voice deadly soft. “After I had my first moon's blood, the Old Demon came to us, told Amalric and I the truth. We were the grandchildren of the Great Demon, heirs to a dead god...and the world belonged to us. He told us of the Destroyer, how one of his children would claim the Great Demon's throne.”

“And you believed him?” said Mazael. “He is a liar...”

“Of course he is!” snapped Morebeth. “Do you think me a fool?” She smirked. “Amalric believed every word, swore that he would prove himself, swore that he would become the Destroyer. He was always strong, but a fool.” She glared at Mazael. “He always thought of me as his servant, his footstool. So I swore that even if he became the Destroyer, the world would still be mine.”

“You are a madwoman,” said Trocend, voice hoarse, “a servant of dark...”

“Be silent, old man,” snapped Morebeth. There was such power in her tone, such dark iron, that Trocend flinched back. “You know nothing.”

“The child,” said Mazael. “Amalric's child.”

“He thought the child his,” said Morebeth, “but it is mine, now and always. A child of the Old Demon has power. You know it well. But...ah, if two children of the Old Demon lay together and had a child...what power would might child have? What strength? And if I guided that child from birth, ruled it all my life...it would become an extension of my will.” Her eyes shone with a fevered light, a light Mazael knew well. He had seen it Amalric's eyes, and had felt that same madness himself. “My child would become the Destroyer, and rule the earth...and I would rule the child. Let Amalric prance and rave, lead his armies of deluded fools, slaughter a few cities. I would rule him in the end.”

“But it's over,” said Lucan, stepping past Trocend. “Amalric is dead, and we know what you are.”

“It will never be done,” said Morebeth. “I seduced Amalric, let him impregnate me...and then I heard of Lord Mazael.” She turned her eyes on him, and they filled with such desire that Mazael felt his own tainted blood burn in response. “A child of the Old Demon who found the strength to defy our beloved father? I could not believe such a thing. I had to learn the truth of it.”

“So,” said Mazael, forcing out the words, “so you sent Blackfang and his San-keth changelings to kill me...to test me.”

“Yes,” said Morebeth. “Amalric thought the plan his own. But I said a few quiet words to him, just a few, and he sent Blackfang to kill you.”

“A foolish attempt,” said Lucan. “Blackfang was weak, and I crushed him.”

“All the San-keth are weak,” said Morebeth, “for their faith is in a god that failed them. My faith is in myself, and I am not weak.” She stepped towards Mazael. “And nor are you, my brother. I sent Straganis to test you, and still you survived. And then you came to Knightcastle and I saw you with my own eyes, ah, how my blood burned for you.” Her fingers brushed Mazael's face and lips, sending fire down his nerves. “You could have been the Destroyer...oh, there is such strength in you, Mazael. Such power.”

“Hawks,” whispered Mazael.

Morebeth lifted an eyebrow.

“You told me how much you loved falconry,” said Mazael, “how you could shape a hawk into a weapon of your will. Amalric was your hawk, wasn't he?” Morebeth gave him a slow nod. “And now...and now you've made me into your new hawk.”

“Yes,” said Morebeth, brushing his lips again with her fingertips. “Does that trouble you so?”

“It enrages me!” said Mazael. “I rejected the Old Demon...I will not become your slave.” And yet, and yet, she still made his blood race and his nerves crackle. She could make him king of the world, and she would be his queen...

“My poor hawk,” breathed Morebeth. “Always at war with yourself, always fighting against the power of your soul. Is that what you want? Always to be split in half, never to be whole, at one with yourself?”

“I...” said Mazael. “I...”

“I can make you more than you are,” said Morebeth, “help you to become what you should be. I can purge my womb of Amalric's spawn, and then you and I will have a child together. We can raise him to be the Destroyer, and then we will rule the earth, you and I.”

“The half of my soul that I fight,” said Mazael, “the half that you have embraced...it will make monsters of us. I know what it almost made of me. I have seen what it made of Amalric, what it made of you. Don't you understand?” His voice rose, pleading. “The Old Demon betrays his children. He makes us strong, then devours us in the end.”

“Do you still think me a fool?” said Morebeth, her voice cracking like a whip. “Do you think I did not know? I read it in his eyes. It is not his destiny to become the Destroyer, though he yearns to take the Great Demon's throne for his own. So instead he waits until one of us becomes the Destroyer...so he can devour us and usurp our power.” Her eyes gleamed like sword blades. “But I will become stronger first...and I will devour him. Come with me, Mazael. We can destroy the Old Demon, take the Great Demon's throne together, and rule over the earth as a god and a goddess.”

“No,” said Mazael. “What right do we have? And how many innocents will we slaughter? How many thousands, millions, will we kill? No. I rejected the Old Demon,” and it took all his will to keep speaking, “and I reject you.”

Morebeth stared at him for a long moment. “So you mean to kill me?”

Mazael drew Lion. “If I must.”

Morebeth laughed at him, long and high and mocking. “You mean to kill me? Yes, four strong men to kill one lone, unarmed woman?” She sounded amused, not at all frightened.

“Demonsouled or not,” said Trocend, his mouth in a grim line. “I think the four of us are more than strong enough to destroy you.”

“Are you, old man?” said Morebeth. Her gaze swept over them. “Mazael could be a god, but he rejects his heritage, and cripples himself. And you, false monk? Will you stop me? I know what I am. But you have spent your life pretending to be something you are not. Can your lies stand against my truth?”

Trocend did not answer.

Her gaze shifted to Lucan. “And you, Dragon's Shadow. The son of Richard Mandragon, but he rejected you. The apprentice of Marstan, yet you were nothing to him but a means of immortality. You could be a necromancer of power, yet you reject what you are. You reject yourself. You think to stop me?”

“I swore,” said Lucan, voice cold and dark as his eyes, “that what happened to me would happen to no other. I will not let you inflict on others what I have endured.”

“And you,” said Morebeth, looking at Harune Dustfoot. “You. Ang-kath. Oh, I know you. Do not think your shabby disguise can fool my eyes. Your kind has always fought to defend the mortal races. Yet do they honor you, or even know of your sacrifices? Those that do know of you fear and loathe you. When you fall here, will anyone know? Or care?”

“The path of justice and righteousness,” said Harune, “is my path, whatever the cost.”

“Fools all,” said Morebeth. She turned from them and walked to the altar.

And then, to Mazael's astonishment, she began to undress.

She slipped off her shoes, kicking them across the floor. Her hands undid the back of her gown with quick, sure motions, and she slid out of the garment and flung it aside. The sight filled Mazael with desire, made his Demonsouled blood burn, even knowing what he now knew about her. She pulled off her undergarments and stood naked and pale before them. One of her red braids came lose, stark against her white shoulder.

“What is this?” said Trocend, half-laughing. “Harlot! Do you think to throw yourself at us in exchange for mercy?”

“Strange,” murmured Morebeth. She showed no sign of shame, or even embarrassment. “How did Lord Malden become so powerful with a fool like you for an adviser?” Her eyes flicked to Mazael. “Tell me. Did our father try to devour you?”

“He did,” said Mazael, his heart racing from a mixture of lust and sudden alarm.

“Yes,” said Morebeth. “He changed...didn't he?”

“He became a monster,” said Mazael, “his true form.”

“It is a power only the greatest of Demonsouled possess,” said Morebeth. Her eyes began to glimmer with red light, not the haze that Amalric's eyes had possessed, but a fierce, piercing glow deep in her pupils. “To shed their moral guise, to become something more than human...my dear Brother Trocend. Do you think I took off my gown to seduce you?” She laughed. “It is a fine gown. I don't want to get your blood on it.”

She took a quick, gliding step forward, and then another.

Lion jolted in Mazael's hand, shimmering with azure flames.

And then Morebeth changed.

Her blood-red hair spread over her entire body, crimson bristles like iron spines rising from her pale flesh. Muscles writhed beneath the skin, her arms and legs bulging. Her flanks rippled, the flesh parting like clay, and four more spindly legs emerged from her belly, clawed and ridged, armored with spine-like hairs. Curving, pincer-like fangs burst from her mouth, her teeth sharpening into fangs. Her entire body bulged and rippled, swelling and growing larger.

The entire transformation took place in less that three heartbeats. Morebeth had become a monstrous, crimson spider, her body the size of a large horse, limbs like tree trunks, curved fangs gleaming with bubbling slime.

“A giant insect?” said Trocend, his voice shaking, his face ashen, “is that the best you could do...”

The spider moved like a storm.

Mazael did not even have time to get Lion up before a foreleg struck him like a falling boulder. The blow knocked him back into a pew, the wood shattering to kindling. Mazael groaned and clawed back to his feet, trying to ignore his groaning bones.

Harune gripped his sword, his human guise slipping away. His scales flared an angry red. Lucan and Trocend both began chanting, tracing arcane sigils with their fingers. The air rippled, and a half-dozen ghostly wolves appeared before Lucan, while Trocend summoned a pair of monstrosities that looked like winged squids. Mazael raced back towards Morebeth, while Lucan's and Trocend's spirit-creatures circled around her, keeping out of reach of her spined legs and poisoned fangs. Mazael quickened his pace, readying Lion for a decisive blow. If the spirit-creatures distracted her, Mazael could get close enough...

Then the spider jumped.

Morebeth blurred over the spirit-creatures in a red arc, landing behind Lucan and Trocend. They both whirled, chanting spells. Morebeth was faster. She lashed out with a foreleg, sent both Trocend and Lucan sprawling to the chapel floor. Harune leapt at her, moving with the speed of a striking serpent, his sword stabbing like a snake's forked tongue. Morebeth skittered and danced, claws clacking against the flagstones. She struck out, sent Harune flying into the wall, and then Trocend's and Lucan's spirit-creatures sprang upon her. The wolves scrambled over her bulbous back, biting and clawing, while the squid-things lashed at her fanged head. Morebeth bucked and heaved, ghastly snarls coming from her inhuman jaws, and for a moment Mazael thought she was finished.

But Morebeth sprang up in a single leap, smashing her back against the vaulted ceiling. The spirit-wolves fell from her back, sprawled across the floor, and vanished into mist. Morebeth flipped over and gripped the ceiling, racing along the ribbed vaulting. Her pincers closed about one of the squid-things, tearing it to shreds. She caught the other between a pair of legs and ripped it in half. Mazael circled under her, Lion raised for a stab. She would have to come down sooner or later, and maybe he could spear her upon Lion...

Morebeth raced along the ceiling, spun, and fell. Mazael expected her to pounce upon him, or to drop onto Lucan or Harune.

Instead, she landed before Trocend and Lucan, even as they struggled to rise. Mazael sprinted towards them, Lion blazing like a torch in his fist.

Trocend scrambled backwards, hands waving as he tried to cast a spell. Morebeth stalked after him, crouching, preparing to spring. Trocend picked up the speed of his incantation, lights blazing around his fingertips.

Morebeth jerked forward, just a little bit, and her pincers ripped off Trocend's hands. Trocend fell to his knees with an agonized scream, blood jetting from the frayed ruins of his arms. Morebeth speared him through the belly, lifted him close, and bit off his face.

Trocend's wails ended in thick gurgle. Morebeth flung aside his ruined carcass and wheeled towards Harune. Mazael yelled and sprang at Morebeth, Lion raised high, and struck a blow along her flank. Black blood, shimmering with red fire, oozed from the gash. Morebeth shrieked, the sound writhed into Mazael's ears, and struck back. A leg smote his chest like an iron rod and sent him to the floor.

Harune ran at Morebeth, shouting a battle cry in the Ang-kath tongue. He slid past Morebeth's thrashing legs in a sinuous blur of scaled limbs, and stabbed his sword into her side again and again. She whirled, claws clacking, and slashed one of her pincers across Harune's chest, opening a shallow cut across his ribs. Harune staggered back a few steps, leaning hard on his thick tail. He hissed, sprang back up, sword ready.

Morebeth backed away, legs creaking. Mazael groaned and dragged himself back up, leaning on Lion like a cane.

Harune took a step forward, then stopped. His scales turned a deep purple, laced with writhing lines of pale green. His arms and legs began to jerk. Yellowish foam bubbled in his mouth, stained his fangs.

The gash on his chest frothed and bubbled with Morebeth's poison. Harune groaned and sank to his knees, sword clattering from his grasp.

Mazael roared and raced towards Morebeth, the Demonsouled rage flooding into him, blanketing the pain in a layer of strength. He threw himself at Morebeth, hacking and slashing, Lion a blur of azure flame in his hands. Lion's point slashed through Morebeth's leathery hide, black blood dripping across the ground. Morebeth backed away, stabbing with her legs, pincers clacking. She sprang backwards in a single mighty leap, climbed up the wall, and perched on the balcony ringing the nave. Mazael waited, preparing for her inevitable spring.

Instead she whirled, her rear legs lashing like whips, and struck the stone image of Joraviar. The statue shattered, chunks raining at Mazael. He leapt aside, but a stone arm crashed hard into his knee, and the statue's head smashed into his shoulder. He stumbled back, just keeping his balance. Morebeth whirled again, smashing another statue, the debris raining across Mazael. A shard raked across his jaw, sent him falling back. Morebeth tensed, legs creaking, ready to spring down upon him. Mazael tried to stand, tried to get his legs beneath him, but his head kept spinning...

Then a storm of rubble whirled into the air and slammed into Morebeth. She backed away, forelegs raised to ward off a barrage of broken statues. Mazael saw Lucan stalking across the chapel floor, arms raised, lips bared in a snarl of strain. He gestured, and a pew exploded, a barrage of wooden shards raining into Morebeth. Some stabbed themselves in her thorax, drawing trickles of black blood.

Mazael staggered back to his feet with a groan, the Demonsouled rage burning through him. He felt his battered bones strengthening, his bruises and cuts fading.

Lucan shouted a spell and thrust out his hand. A thunderous roar went through the air, and unseen force seized Morebeth and crushed her against the chapel wall. For an instant Mazael thought the Lucan had won, had broken her.

But Morebeth twisted over and caught the wall, raced along the balcony railing, and leaped. She landed before Lucan, legs couched to catch the impact of her fall. Lucan stepped back, beginning another spell.

Morebeth slapped him across the face with a foreleg. Lucan sputtered, losing the incantation. Morebeth surged forward and speared Lucan through the stomach. Lucan shrieked and went rigid, the tip of Morebeth's clawed leg bursting from his back. Mazael raced towards them, Lion trailing a long stream of sapphire fire. Morebeth flicked her leg, and Lucan crumpled into the pews and did not move.

She turned to face Mazael, Lion's fire reflecting in the black orbs of her eyes.

She had killed all three of his allies, leaving him to face her alone.

She had saved him for last.

Mazael took Lion in both hands and waited for her to spring.

###

Lucan wanted to howl like a dying dog, but could not scream, could not breathe through the blood filling his mouth.

He felt nothing below his waist. Morebeth's blow must have severed his spine. A small blessing, that. Everything else hurt.

The back of his head rested against the cold stone floor. A deathly chill filled his ruined body, and blackness flooded his vision. He could not die here! Damn it all, he had vowed to outlive both his brother and his father...

His twitching hand fell into his torn cloak and closed about something warm, a cylinder of hot glass.

The vial holding the distilled essence of Mazael Cravenlock's blood.

A sudden wild hope seized Lucan. He fumbled for the vial. His fingers felt stiff and cold. He pried the cork free, the vial trembling in his weak fingers. Gods, to spill it now! He lifted the vial to his lips, threw back his head, and swallowed Mazael's blood, along with a good quantity of his own.

For a moment nothing happened.

Then fire exploded within him, burning fingers tearing through his flesh. Lucan screamed, his arms shuddering, his legs kicking of their own volition. His head filled with flame, and for an instant Lucan thought he would burn into a pile of smoldering ashes.

Then the power hammered through him.

All at once Lucan felt better. He looked down and saw that the ghastly wound in his stomach had healed, that he could feel his legs again. He sprang to his feet with a single, easy movement. He had never felt so healthy, so strong, in his entire life.

The rage burned through him, mingled with the power. Lucan yearned to kill, to slaughter everyone who had ever opposed him. First he would kill Morebeth, then Mazael, and then he would return to Swordgrim and slaughter his father and his brother, make himself King of the Grim Marches!

The Demonsouled power thundered in his mind. Why had Mazael rejected this marvelous strength? The fool!

Lucan saw Mazael and Morebeth locked in a deadly duel. Mazael wielded Lion with powerful strokes, the sword blazing in his fist. Morebeth skittered back and forth, pincers snapping, claws rapping against the floor.

Lucan laughed and strode towards them, raising a hand. A spell, ancient and terrible, rose in his mind. Marstan had known it, and the knowledge had passed to Lucan, but neither man had possessed the power to cast it.

But with the Demonsouled power raging inside him, Lucan could do anything.

He gathered his will, using the Demonsouled fury to fuel the spell. A rune of fire appeared on his outstretched palm, blazing like a shard of the sun. Lucan focused his mind and power upon Morebeth, and thrust out his shining palm.

There was a thunderclap and a dazzling flash. The rune appeared across Morebeth's back, burning its way through her thick hide and deep into her flesh. The great spider keened and reared back, legs lashing at the air. Lucan strode forward, beginning another mighty spell.

Then, all at once, the power drained from him.

Lucan reeled, clutching a pew to keep from toppling. He felt ghastly, his very bones caked in filth. It was as if the power had burned all away, leaving only its madness, its corruption.

Gods, gods, how did Mazael live with this in his mind?

###

Burning light exploded across Morebeth's back, etched in a rune of fire the size of a man. She reared back, thrashing like a mad thing, claws tearing at the floors and walls.

It was Mazael's last chance. Reeling from the wounds she had inflicted, the slashes, the bruises, the cracked bones, he ran at her. She lashed at him with a massive leg, but Mazael ducked under the blow, his sword cutting another gash in her side.

Morebeth shuddered, legs buckling, and Mazael sprang upon her back. The bristly spines covering her hide tore at his legs and knees, but he ignored the pain. Morebeth slammed up and down, trying to dislodge him, but Mazael held on.

He raised Lion high over his head, both hands locked around the hilt, and brought the point down with all his strength. It plunged through the back of Morebeth's neck, the blue fire blazing down the blade and into her flesh.

Morebeth lurched once, shuddering, and flung Mazael from her back. He struck the floor, his right hand clenched around Lion's hilt, his left arm shattering with the impact. Mazael groaned and rolled over, expecting Morebeth to fall on him, rending and tearing.

Instead she thrashed and bucked, her form beginning to blur. Mazael levered himself up, and as he did, Morebeth shuddered back into human shape.

The back of her neck was a bloody pulp, and blood dripped from a gaping wound between her breasts. The strange rune had been burned into her right thigh and lower back, the flesh scorched down to the bone. She looked dazed, and stunned, and in mortal agony.

Then her eyes fell on him, and filled with such hatred that Mazael flinched. She staggered towards him, her lips peeled back in a snarl, her hands twisted into claws.

Then her eyes dimmed and she crumpled to the floor, dead.

Lion's flame dimmed and went out.

Mazael stared down at her, grief and exhaustion churning through him. She had been his half-sister, his lover. She had tried to kill Rachel, slaughtered thousands, and done her best to transform him into a monster. And yet...and yet...she had made his blood burn as it never had before. If she rose up now, offered to give herself to him again...he did not know if he had the strength to refuse.

A boot scraped against the stones.

Lucan hobbled towards him, face pasty, black hair plastered with sweat. He looked downright crazed. For an instant Mazael thought Lucan would attack him.

“You're alive,” said Mazael.

“I...” said Lucan, his eyes wandering. His gaze settled on Morebeth's corpse. “Is...is it over?” He sounded younger than Mazael had ever heard him.

“Yes,” said Mazael. “It's...”

Morebeth's corpse shuddered. Lucan gasped and raised his hand. Mazael's fingers tightened around Lion's hilt as Morebeth's belly bulged and distended

The child, the Demonsouled creature in her womb, was trying to claw its way free.

With a yell of horror and disgust Mazael slammed Lion down. The blade flamed to life once more, azure fire pouring into Morebeth's cooling flesh.

The child, the unborn Destroyer, went still. Mazael yanked Lion free.

“Now,” he said, not bothering to blink back the tears, “now it is over.”

Chapter 12

1

Hall of Triumphs

On the day of the wedding, Mazael walked alone through the Arcade of Sorrows, his heavy cloak rustling against the floor. His tunic itched, and his new boots did not grip his feet well. Mazael walked into Audea's Garden, past the grasses and the fresh-blooming flowers, and leaned against the stone rail. He watched the hazy dawn sunlight glimmer through the valley, the Riversteel glinting like a silver ribbon. A small cluster of tents stood near the barbican; Sir Tobias's and Sir Gerald's knights, back from the ongoing conquest of Mastaria.

Mazael was so tired. He was tired of Knightcastle, tired of the endless intrigue of  the court, tired of the war.

Silk rustled whispered against the grass.

Mazael turned and saw Rachel standing, brilliant in her white bridal gown.

“Rachel,” said Mazael.

She hiked the voluminous lengths of her skirts and crossed the grass to his side.

“I thought,” Mazael said, “that the bride was supposed to remain in seclusion until the wedding.”

“It is a tradition, aye,” said Rachel, “but just a tradition. Besides, it's not as if I've crept out to see Gerald.”

Mazael shook his head. “The poor fool's terrified. In the past month he's survived assassins, the second battle of Tumblestone, and half a hundred minor skirmishes. Now ask him to stand before the archbishop of Knightrealm and wed a woman, and his courage turns to mush. I'd get him drunk, if he didn't think it ungodly.”

“Mazael,” said Rachel, looking at the railing. “I'm...I'm sorry about Lady Morebeth.”

Mazael touched her shoulder. “I know.”

Both Morebeth Galbraith and Trocend Castleson had been assassinated by a San-keth, or so everyone in Knightcastle believed. Mazael had discovered the assassin an instant too late, but avenged Morebeth’s and Trocend’s deaths.

No one wondered why the body of the San-keth assassin had arms and legs. Harune Dustfoot had been a loyal friend and ally, and Mazael regretted the need to lie about him, even in death. It pained Mazael to see Harune's body hanging from a pike over Knightcastle's gates.

But Harune, who had dedicated his life to the secret war against the San-keth, would have understood.

“It's not fair,” said Rachel. “You loved Romaria and she died. And then you loved  Morebeth and she was killed...”

“I didn't love her,” said Mazael. What he felt for Morebeth had been something rawer than lust, more elemental than love. The mad power in her Demonsouled spirit had called to the same fire within him. But he could tell none of this to Rachel, and the that made him even wearier. Morebeth, despite her madness, had understood him very well.

But she was gone.

“I didn't love her,” said Mazael quietly. “But it would have been a good marriage.”

Rachel looked away. “Did Gerald tell you yet?”

Tell me what?” said Mazael.

“That we're...that he's going to leave your service after the wedding, that we're going to stay at Knightcastle,” said Rachel, the words tumbling out in a rush.

“Yes,” said Mazael, “he told me.” In fact, it had been partly Mazael's idea. With both Sir Garain and Trocend dead, Lord Malden needed new advisors. He needed Gerald. “It's time, I think, for Gerald to come home. And you should enjoy living at Knightcastle.”

Rachel hesitated. “I wish I could come back home with you.”

“No,” said Mazael. “You don't, not really.” Castle Cravenlock held nothing but black memories for Rachel. There she had been dominated by cruel Lord Mitor, there she had fallen into despair until she drifted into the serpent cult and pledged herself to a San-keth cleric. Perhaps at Knightcastle, she could begin anew, and be happy.

“No,” said Rachel. “I suppose I don't. But I will miss you, Mazael.”

“I know,” said Mazael. “And I will miss you.”

He looked down at her smiling face with its green eyes. He had wanted her to wed Gerald, wanted that marriage as a shield between Lord Richard and Lord Malden. How many had died to bring this day about? How many sons, husbands, and brothers lay dead on the fields outside Tumblestone, never to return to their mothers and wives and sisters?

But if Morebeth had worked her will, had made Mazael into her hawk, then uncounted millions would have perished. Things had been bad, but they could have been far worse.

And that, Mazael supposed, was the only comfort he could draw.

That, and seeing Rachel happier than he could ever remember.

Someone called out. Mazael saw a half-dozen women hurrying down the Arcade of Sorrows, skirts flapping around their legs.

“It seems,” said Mazael, “that your maids have discovered your escape.”

“Bother,” said Rachel. “I'll see you at the wedding?”

“You will,” said Mazael.

“I love you,” said Rachel.

“And I love you,” Mazael echoed.

The maids gathered around Rachel like a flock of clucking birds and led her away.

###

Rachel Cravenlock wed Gerald Roland in the Hall of Triumphs, before a throng of lords and knights.

Mazael walked down the length of the Hall, Rachel on his arm, a pair of noblewomen carrying the long train of her gown. He stopped before the altar, bowed, and placed Rachel's hand in Gerald's. The archbishop of Knightrealm began droning into the ceremony. Mazael walked to Lord Malden's side.

Lord Malden leaned heavily on his cane, his face haggard and his eyes bloodshot. In the last month he had lost both his eldest son and his closest advisor. Both losses had taken their toll on the once-vigorous old man. Mazael wondered if the old lord would live out the year, if Sir Tobias might become Lord Tobias within a few months.

Mazael's eyes wandered, and he saw the Old Demon.

His father stood beside one of the columns, wrapped in his black robes, his shape ghostly and translucent. No one else seemed to see him. He looked at Mazael, and the fury in his red-glazed eyes washed over Mazael like a wave of acid.

His voice hammered into Mazael's thoughts like a hammer of glass.

Do you think yourself triumphant?

The hellish red light in his eyes brightened. The archbishop kept droning. Gerald and Rachel smiled at each other, holding hands.

Do you think yourself victorious? The Old Demon stepped towards Mazael. You have slain two of my children. There are others. There are many others. One of them will become the Destroyer, and I will seize his destiny for my own and destroy you. His lips pulled back, revealing fangs both jagged and yellowed. I have forces at my command that you can neither understand nor resist. Throw yourself down and die, foolish boy. Struggle as you will, but in the end, I will have you.

For a moment Mazael saw the futility of his life, the endless succession of battles against Demonsouled and San-keth that would lead to nothing but death and ruin. Sooner or later one or another would take his life...

Then he laughed, quietly, drawing an annoyed glance from the archbishop.

That was what the Old Demon wanted him to think, was it not?

Mazael focused and found that he could speak to the Old Demon in the same way the Old Demon had spoken to him.

I don't care. The Old Demon's snarl tightened. I denied you once before, and I deny you now. Something like white fire, bright and pure, rose up in Mazael's mind. So come here before me, and we'll settle this, once and for all!

The Old Demon's eyes blazed like orbs of hellfire. I will crush you!

Mazael let his hand fall to Lion's hilt. Then come and crush me, father.

The Old Demon snarled once more. For a moment he loomed like a vast shadow, wings rising up against the vaulted arches, a mountain of darkness that would fall and crush Mazael.

Then he vanished and did not return.

Mazael stood, and watched Rachel leave his family and become Gerald's wife.

###

Days later, after the celebration and feasting had finished, Mazael walked at dawn to the stables near Oliver's Keep. Mantle waited for him there, along with three new destriers, gifts from Lord Malden. None of them were as good as Chariot, but perhaps they would grow better, in time.

Sir Adalar waited for him at the stables, leading out Mantle and the destriers. All four horses had been prepared for travel.

Adalar bowed. “Lord Mazael.”

Mazael smiled. “Sir Adalar.” He walked over, gripped the young knight's shoulder. “You're not my squire any more.”

Adalar shrugged. “No one else would have done it properly.”

Mazael laughed.

Adalar straightened up. “My lord...I'm not going back to Castle Cravenlock.”

“I know,” said Mazael.

“You did?”

Mazael nodded. “I heard Tobias and Gerald talking about it.”

“Sir Gerald offered to let me ride with him when he returns to the Mastarian campaign,” said Adalar. “We've already taken the northern third of the country and Castle Dominus itself.” Adalar shook his head. “The Dominiar Order has collapsed. What's left of their commanders are warring amongst themselves. And the people are glad to see us. Lord Malden is not a lenient lord, but he's still kinder than the Dominiars.” He shrugged. “Though the Mastarians do not like the Justiciars very much. Amalric Galbraith and the Dominiars betrayed me badly. I...would like to see this through to the end, my lord.”

“Plus there are lands and castles a bold young man can claim for himself, eh?” said Mazael.

Adalar nodded.

“Good luck,” said Mazael. “Find yourself a castle and a good woman.”

Adalar sighed. “A good woman. I always thought a true knight slept only with his lady. And I thought Amalric a true knight. Maybe...you have the right of it, my lord. Maybe I was wrong.”

“No,” said Mazael, swinging up into Mantle's saddle. “No. Do not betray yourself, Adalar. You're going to be a lord yet, I think. And there are far too many corrupt lords and false knights.”

“Thank you,” said Adalar. Mazael nodded and urged Mantle to a walk, leading two of the destriers behind him.

“My lord!” said Adalar. “Your third horse?”

“My horse?” said Mazael, glancing back. “That's yours, sir knight. Ride him well.”

“Thank you, my lord!” said Adalar, grinning.

Mazael grinned back and rode off.

###

His knights waited for him at the barbican. Sir Aulus sat at their head, the Cravenlock banner dangling from his lance. He looked distraught at the prospect of returning home to his wife. Timothy leaned back in his saddle, yawning. The rest of the knights seemed eager to be off.

A single horseman, wrapped in a dark cloak, turned to face Mazael. None of the others paid attention to him.

“You appear grieved,” said Lucan. He looked to have aged ten years since the battle in the chapel, though his sardonic matter had reasserted itself. Mazael wondered what manner of dire spell had permitted him to survive Morebeth's killing blow.

“Perhaps I am,” said Mazael. “Why should I not be? I came to Knightcastle with my sister, my armsmaster, and my squire. I expected to ride home in the company of my new wife. Now I am going home without any of them. I've every right to be grieved.”

“You're alive, aren't you?” said Lucan.

Mazael nodded.

“And a dark power has been destroyed,” said Lucan.

“One dark power,” said Mazael. “And there are many, many more.”

“Then you still need my help, do you not?” said Lucan.

“I would have died a dozen times in the last four months without your help,” said Mazael. “I still need your aid.”

They gripped hands briefly.

“A mad necromancer and a child of the Old Demon allied against the powers of darkness,” murmured Lucan. “Who would have thought it?”

“Who indeed?” said Mazael, riding to the head of his men. He looked out the opened gate, towards the road home.

He had never thought he would look forward to seeing the grim towers of Castle Cravenlock.

“Let's go home,” said Mazael, urging Mantle forward.

They rode out the gate and left Knightcastle behind.

THE END

Thank you for reading "Soul of Tyrants". Turn the page for the first chapter of Mazael's next adventure! For immediate notification of new releases, you can sign up for my email newsletter here, or watch for news on my Facebook page.

Soul of Serpents Bonus Chapter

Here is the first chapter of Soul of Serpents, the next book in the series.

Chapter 1

1

Warband

Mazael Cravenlock awoke from a dream of a great black wolf.

For a moment the wolf's howls still seemed to echo in his ears.

He sat up in bed, blinking.

The howls continued.

Those weren't howls, he realized. They were horns, the horns carried by the night guards posted upon the castle walls.

Castle Cravenlock was under attack.

Mazael surged to his feet just as his bedroom door burst open. A boy of twelve years stood in the doorway, clad in the black-and-silvery livery of the Cravenlocks. Usually the boy's expression was cold, chilly arrogance, but now his eyes were wide with fear.

"My lord," said Rufus Highgate, "my lord, the sentries, the horns..."

"I know," said Mazael. "Find one of the pages, send him to Sir Hagen. Tell Sir Hagen to rouse the garrison. Then get back here and help me with my armor. Go!"

Rufus sprinted off. Mazael paced around his bed, his bare feet sinking into the carpet. His rooms atop the King's Tower were sparse, the way he preferred. A bed, a desk for writing, a wardrobe for his clothing and racks for his armor and weapons. The only concession to comfort was the thick carpet - the floors got rather cold in winter.

And the rooms had a superb view of the castle and the surrounding countryside.

Mazael hurried onto the balcony, seventy feet above the courtyard below. He saw the night guards upon the curtain wall, crossbows in their hands. Torchlight blazed in the courtyard as men raced back and forth. Sergeants bellowed commands to armsmen, while knights ran for the stables, their squires hurrying after. Good - Sir Hagen had already raised the garrison. Yet where was the attack?

Light flashed in the darkness, beyond the curtain wall. Cravenlock Town, an overgrown village of perhaps four thousand people, lay a half-mile or so in that direction. Mazael saw firelight from the town, and realized he could hear the distant sound of steel on steel, the shouts and screams of men and women.

The town was under attack.

His hands tightened into fists, rage curling within him. These were his people, his lands. And someone dared to attack them? He would make these attackers pay, he would sweep them like straw before him, he...

Mazael closed his eyes, throttled back his rage.

Fury was not a luxury that a child of the Old Demon could afford.

For a moment he remembered a blue-eyed woman lying sprawled on the cold stone floor, black hair pooled around her head.

He knew where such rage ended.

Rufus hurried into the room, breathing hard from his run up the tower stairs.

"My lord," he said, "I've sent the message..."

"Good," said Mazael, turning from the balcony. "Help me with my armor."

He'd worn the same armor for years, but it had been destroyed last year during the great battle below the walls of Tumblestone. Lord Malden had given Mazael a new set. A chain mail hauberk, with a steel cuirass, and plates for his shoulders. Gauntlets backed with steel plates, and armored boots. Mazael pulled on the armor with Rufus's help. The boy was nervous, but his hands did not shake, and he worked quickly. That was good. He would make a capable knight.

Assuming he lived through this attack.

Mazael tugged on a black surcoat adored with the sigil of the Cravenlocks, three crossed swords, blades pointing down. Rufus fetched his sword belt, and Mazael buckled it about his waist. A dagger hung on his left hip, and a longsword on his right. The longsword's pommel had been forged in the shape of a golden lion's head, with glittering rubies for eyes. Lion, Mazael named the sword, and it was worth more than his castle and everything in it.

Older than his castle, too.

He took one last thing. A silver coin, the size of his thumb joint. A small hole had been drilled in the coin, threaded with a fine chain, and Mazael tucked it into his belt.

"Come," said Mazael, and he left his rooms, Rufus following. He hurried down the spiraling stairs of the King's Tower and into the courtyard. Chaos still reined in the courtyard, but it was an ordered chaos. Mazael's knights sat atop their horses, lances and shields in hand, their armor flashing red in the torchlight. His armsmen had also been mounted, each man carrying a torch, sword and mace ready at their belts.

Two hundred men. Mazael hoped it was enough.

"My lord!"

A grim-faced man, built like a boulder and just as solid, strode to Mazael's side. He wore a Cravenlock surcoat over a mail hauberk, eyes flashing over a close-cropped black beard. One hand rested on his sword hilt, and the other bore a shield adorned with the sigil of a burning bridge.

"Sir Hagen," said Mazael. "What news?"

"The town lit the alarm beacon in the church tower," said Sir Hagen Bridgebane, Mazael's armsmaster. "The night guards saw it and once, and summoned me." He scowled, shook his head. "It's too dark. We can't see any details. But I think the town militia is holding. For now."

"Who is attacking?" said Mazael. "Bandits?" But it would take a daring band of bandits indeed to attack a walled town. Who else, then? The Elderborn tribes? But they rarely left the Great Southern Forest. One of Mazael's vassals? Some of Mazael's knights and vassals hated him, but none would be bold enough to stage such a raid.

Was it Lord Richard Mandragon? Mazael thought he remained in his liege lord's good graces. But Lord Richard the Dragonslayer was feared for a reason. If he decided that Mazael was an enemy, he would not hesitate to strike.

"I don't know, my lord," said Hagen. "But they've no horses, I'm sure of that. We're ready to ride when you give the command." A grimace flickered over his face. "But the wizards want to speak with you first."

"Good work," said Mazael. "We'll ride when I give the word. Leave the squires here. I don't want any of them killed fighting in the dark."

Hagen bowed and hurried to his horse, shouting commands.

Rufus brought out Mazael's war horse, a vicious-tempered destrier Mazael had named Challenger. The huge horse looked as eager for blood as any knight. Mazael swung up into the reins, accepted a lance and a shield marked with the Cravenlock sigil from Rufus.

"I should accompany you, my lord," said Rufus. "It is only honorable."

"No," said Mazael. "Stay here with the other squires. I'll not explain to your father why I got you killed in a night battle."

Rufus scowled, but obeyed. Mazael kicked Challenger to a walk, steering the beast with his knees. Sir Hagen waited near the barbican, along with three other men. The first was old and tough as an ancient oak tree, clad in mail and leather. The hilt of a greatsword jutted over his shoulder, and a mace and war axe waited at his belt. Sir Nathan Greatheart claimed to have retired, but the old man still fought with the skill of a much younger man.

The other two men wore black cloaks and black coats adorned with a number of metal badges. The older of the two was in his middle thirties, with tousled hair and a pointed brown beard. The second was barely over twenty, the cowl of his cloak pulled up. A black metal staff rested across his saddle's pommel.

None of Mazael's men went close to the two wizards. Especially the younger one.

"Lord Mazael," said Timothy deBlanc, the older wizard. "My war spells are at your command."

The younger wizard looked up, black eyes glittering in the depths of his cowl.

"And you'll need them," said Lucan Mandragon. Younger he might have been, but he was the more powerful by far. Men called him the Dragon's Shadow, and dared not meet his eye as he passed. "My wards were triggered. At least one of the attackers is using magic. Possibly more."

"Can you take them?" said Mazael.

"We shall do our best, my lord," said Timothy.

Lucan's contemptuous sneer expressed more confidence than any words.

"Good," said Mazael. "Sir Hagen!"

The armsmaster spurred his destrier forward, lance and shield ready. "My lord?"

"Tell the armsmen to keep watch," said Mazael. "They're to close the gate after we leave, and not to open it until we return. The knights and mounted armsmen are to stay in formation. Any fool rides off on his own, I'll have his hide." Hagen nodded and bellowed the orders to the sergeants. "Sir Nathan!"

The old knight turned his horse. "Lord?"

"Take command of the knights," said Mazael.

Nathan frowned. "I am no longer armsmaster of Castle Cravenlock, and I..."

"Yes, yes, I know," said Mazael. "Do it anyway."

A flicker of a smile went over Nathan's seamed face. "As you bid, my lord."

"Sir Hagen!" said Mazael. "We ride."

Hagen gave the orders. The portcullis slid open with a metallic groan, the chains rattling. Mazael kicked Challenger to a trot and rode through the gate, the drum of hooves filling his ears as the knights and armsmen fell in around him. Sir Aulus Hirdan, Mazael's herald, rose at his side, the Cravenlock banner fluttering from his lance. Though Mazael doubted anyone could see it in the dark.

The road to Cravenlock Town sloped down the side of the castle’s crag, the torches light throwing back the darkness. The sounds of fighting grew closer, along with a strange, bestial roars. Had the attackers brought war dogs? Timothy shifted in his saddle, fumbling with a chunk of quartz crystal wrapped with copper wire. Mazael had seen him use that spell before. It bestowed a sort of limited clairvoyance, letting Timothy sense the presence of enemies. Timothy held up his fist, and the crystal flashed with a pale white light.

“Timothy!” said Mazael. “How many?”

“I…I do not know, my lord,” said Timothy, shouting over the drum of the hooves. His eyes darted back and forth, tracking things unseen. “At least…two hundred. Probably three hundred. They’re held at the town gates for now. But…my lord…”

“What is it?” said Mazael. “Are they in the town already?” Gods, he hoped not. Street fighting would negate the advantage of his horsemen.

“No,” said Timothy. “But…I’ve never sensed anything like them before. It’s as if…it’s as if they’re not human…”

Lucan gave Timothy a sharp look, hand tightening around the black length of his metal staff.

“The San-keth?” said Mazael. “Or the changelings?”

“No,” said Timothy. “No, I know what their sense is like. This is…different. Darker, considerably.”

Demonsouled, then? The thought of three hundred Demonsouled gathered in one place made Mazael’s blood run cold. But Mazael doubted that any number of Demonsouled could cooperate on anything.

He knew very well the sort of homicidal madness brought by Demonsouled blood.

“Whatever they are,” said Mazael, “they’re still flesh and blood, and we’ll sweep them away. They’re massed near the town gates?”

Timothy gave a sharp nod, eyes still twitching.

“Then we’ll hit them there,” said Mazael. “Sir Hagen! Get the men in line. Once the enemy is in sight, we’ll charge and ride them down.” With luck, the attackers would be focused on the gate, and would not spot Mazael’s horsemen until it was too late.

Hagen and Nathan bellowed orders, the knights and armsmen falling into a wide line. The horses moved forward at a trot, ready to leap into a gallop at Mazael’s command. Cravenlock Town came into sight, the rooftops rising above the thick stone wall surrounding the town. Lord Mitor, Mazael's predecessor and elder brother, had let the wall fall into disrepair. Mazael had ordered it rebuilt, despite the expense. He had also insisted that the town men's form a militia, training regularly, despite their grumbling.

He doubted anyone would grumble after this.

Torches blazed atop the fifteen foot wall. Militiamen fought atop the walls, wielding crossbows and spears. A dozen ladders had been flung against the wall, and Mazael saw dark-armored shapes scrambling up the ladders, spears and axes in hand.

The invaders.

Mazael took a look at them, a good look, and his eyes got wide.

The invaders were not bandits. Nor were they were Mazael's vassals, or Lord Richard's men.

They weren't even human.

Mazael had never seen creatures like them before.

They looked almost like men, albeit men with leathery, hairless gray skin and long, pointed ears. Their eyes were colorless, milky white, yet they seemed to have no difficulty seeing. The creatures wore greasy leathers, ragged furs, and black chain mail. Dozens of them lay dead below the gate, covered in black blood. Yet the creatures seemed to show neither fear nor pain, and flung themselves at the defenders with mad abandon, roaring and howling like beasts.

Lucan swore, very softly.

"What are they?" said Mazael.

"I had never thought to see them," said Lucan.

"Damn it, what are they?" said Mazael.

Lucan looked at Mazael, his eyes reflecting the firelight. "Malrags."

"Malrags?" said Mazael. "Malrags are a legend, like..."

"Like the Elderborn?" said Lucan. "Like the San-keth?"

Mazael growled. "Legend or not, they are still flesh and blood. Sir Hagen! Sir Aulus! Sound the charge..."

The air crackled, and a sudden gust of wind blew over the town's walls. Then a bolt of green lighting screamed down out of the cloudless sky, so bright that it filled the plains with ghostly light. It struck the arch over the gates with terrific force, blasting the stone and wood to glowing shreds. Smoking debris rained over the Malrags and the town militia alike, knocking them to the ground, and the horses whinnied and stamped in terror.

For a moment the battlefield remained motionless, the echoes from the lightning blast rumbling into silence.

Then the Malrags began racing for the ruined gate.

"The charge!" said Mazael, raising his lance. "Now!"

Sir Aulus lifted a horn to his lips and loosed a long blast, a thunder of a different sort rolling over the plain. Mazael put his boots to Challenger's sides, and the big horse surged forward with an excited snort. Behind him the knights' and armsmen's horses exploded into motion, the earth rumbling beneath steel-shod hooves.

The Malrags near the gate turned, beginning to form a line of spears, but it was too late. The Malrags were a disorganized mob, and the knights moved too fast. Mazael caught a brief glimpse of a Malrag at the forefront of the mob. The hands gripping the spear had six fingers, he noted, black veins throbbing and pulsing beneath the leathery gray skin. Then the Malrag disappeared beneath Challenger's hooves in a flash of black blood, even as Mazael drove his war lance through the face of another Malrag. He ripped the lance free and plunged it into another Malrag as Challenger thundered forward, his knights crashing into the Malrags around him. Horses screamed and stamped, men shouted, and the Malrags bellowed their bestial battle cries.

Mazael stabbed his lance into another Malrag, the heavy blade crunching past armor and sinking into the creature's neck. Yet the Malrag showed no fear, no sign of pain, even pulling itself up the lance shaft to claw at Mazael's arm. Mazael plunged the spear into the creature's chest again, and the Malrag toppled, wrenching the lance from Mazael's hand.

Challenger galloped through the Malrag mob, breaking free on the other side, below the ruined gates. Mazael wheeled the big horse around, drawing Lion from its scabbard with a metallic hiss. The ancient steel blade glimmered in the torchlight, seeming to flash and flicker.

And then Lion jolted in Mazael's hand. Power seemed to flow up Mazael's arm, and the light reflecting in the sword's blade turned blue. A halo of sapphire light crackled around the sword, and then the blade burst into raging azure flames. Lion had been forged long ago, by the great wizard-smiths of ancient Tristafel, created to destroy things of dark magic.

It seemed that the Malrags, whatever else they were, were also creatures of dark magic.

But this was the time for action, not musing upon the past. Mazael shouted, kicked Challenger into motion, and rode back into the fray, striking right and left with Lion. The Malrags had shown no fear of steel weapons, even of wounds and death, yet they flinched away from the blue flame raging around Lion. And Lion's blade seemed to sink deeper and harder into Malrag flesh, black Malrag blood sizzling and spitting against the sword. Mazael struck the arm from one Malrag, and the head from another, Lion blazing like an inferno in his fist. The Malrags reeled back, flinching from the azure flame, and Mazael's knights and armsmen fell upon them.

The Malrags broke and ran. The creatures did not seem to care about pain or injury, but they feared Lion's flame, and Mazael's men were more numerous and better armed. Dozens of them sprinted into the darkness around the town. But others turned and fell back through the ruined gate, vanishing into the streets of the town.

Damnation. They could go from house to house, killing. Or hide themselves in the cellars and attics, and strike out at will. For that matter, the ones fleeing from the town could band together, raid some of the smaller villages.

"Sir Hagen!" said Mazael. Hagen rode to Mazael's side, his sword and armor splattered with black Malrag blood. "Take seventy men. Try to hunt down as many of the fleeing Malrags as you can. I'll deal with things here." Hagen nodded. "Sir Nathan!" The old knight turned, greatsword in one hand. How he managed to use such a massive sword so effectively from horseback, Mazael had no idea. "Get the rest of the men together. We'll have to go from street to street, finish off the Malrags."

Sir Nathan shouted the commands, and Lucan spurred his horse to Mazael's side, that strange black staff laid across his saddle.

"My lord," said Lucan. "Listen to me. The ancient records about Malrags. Every Malrag warband has two leaders. A shaman, a spell caster. Probably the one that cast that lightning bolt upon the gate. And a chieftain, a war leader...a 'balekhan', in the Malrag tongue. The Malrags will not give up until both of them are dead."

"Then we'll simply have to kill them both," said Mazael. "You and Timothy can deal with the shaman, I trust?"

Lucan sneered. "Please."

Mazael nodded and turned Challenger toward the ruined gates. He rode into the town, his men following. Some of the militiamen followed, while Mazael ordered others to stay guard over the ruined gates and deal with any Malrags that returned. Hooves rang against the cobblestones, but Mazael saw no sign of any Malrags. Where had they all gone? He thought at least a hundred had made their way into the town.

Then he heard the sounds of fighting coming from the town square. Two major buildings sat on the town square. The Three Swords in, a four-story building of mortared stone and trimmed beams. And the town's church, a massive domed structure, dating from the old kingdom of Dracaryl. When the town was under attack, the women and children fled to the church...

The women and children.

The sounds of fighting grew louder.

Mazael cursed and kicked Challenger to a gallop, his knights and armsmen following.

Follow this link to continue reading Soul of Serpents.

I would like to thank Bob Neumann, Maria Poston, and Mark Moeller, all of whom read this book long before it had any chance of ever seeing the light of day.

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 and Ghost Dagger. Get the first three books bundled together in The Ghosts Omnibus One.

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, and Frostborn: The Undying Wizard, along with the short stories The Orc's Tale and The Mage's Tale.

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.

About the Author

Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair 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.

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.

Table of Contents

Book Description

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Soul of Serpents Bonus Chapter

Other books by the author

About the Author

SOUL OF SERPENTS

Jonathan Moeller

Description

A story ten years in the making, here at last is the triumphant third book of the "Demonsouled" series.

Mazael, now Lord of Castle Cravenlock, faces his darkest challenge yet. A horde of inhuman fiends has descended upon the Grim Marches, slaying and killing. The priests of the serpent god lurk in the shadows, scheming vengeance upon Mazael...and upon his family.

But both the fiends and the priests of the serpent god serve another master, one who plots to seize the throne of the heavens itself, a foe that even Mazael's skill and valor may not be able to defeat...

Other books by the author

The Third Soul Series

The Testing

The Assassins

The Blood Shaman

The High Demon

The Burning Child

The Outlaw Adept

The Black Paladin

The Tomb of Baligant

Computer Beginner's Guides

The Ubuntu Beginner's Guide

The Windows Command Line Beginner's Guide

The Linux Command Line Beginner's Guide

The Ubuntu Desktop Beginner's Guide

The Windows 8 Beginner's Guide

The Linux Mint Beginner's Guide

The Ghosts Series

Child of the Ghosts

Ghost in the Flames

Ghost in the Blood

Ghost in the Storm

Ghost in the Stone

Ghost in the Forge

Ghost Dagger (World of the Ghosts novella)

Ghost Aria (World of the Ghosts short story)

The Demonsouled Series

Demonsouled

Soul of Tyrants

Soul of Serpents

Soul of Dragons

Soul of Sorcery

Soul of Skulls

Soul of Swords

The Dragon's Shadow (World of the Demonsouled novella)

The Wandering Knight (World of the Demonsouled short story)

The Tower of Endless Worlds Series

The Tower of Endless Worlds

A Knight of the Sacred Blade

A Wizard of the White Council

The Destroyer of Worlds

$1.99 Dark Fantasy

Driven and Other Stories

The Devil's Agent

Angel Sword and Other Stories

Copyright 2011 by Jonathan Moeller

Cover design by Clarissa Yeo

Ebook edition published August 2011

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.

Epigraph

"For thou hast said in thine heart, I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt my throne above the stars of God...I will ascend above the heights of the clouds; I will be like the most High."

-Isaiah 14:13-14

"Lies, endless lies I spoke to serve my purpose.

Now I gainsay them all and feel no shame.

Long years I planned. Now it is done."

-Aeschylus, Clytemnestra

Chapter 1 - Warband

Mazael Cravenlock awoke from a dream of a great black wolf.

For a moment the wolf's howls echoed in his ears.

He sat up in bed, blinking.

Yet the howls continued.

Those weren't howls, he realized, but a blast from the horns carried by the night guards upon the castle’s walls.

Castle Cravenlock was under attack.

Mazael surged to his feet, and his bedroom door burst open. A boy of twelve years stood in the doorway, clad in the black-and-silvery livery of the Cravenlocks. Usually the boy wore an expression of chilly arrogance, but now his eyes bulged with fear.

"My lord," said Rufus Highgate, "my lord, the sentries..."

"I know," said Mazael. "Find one of the pages, send him to Sir Hagen. Tell Hagen to rouse the garrison. Then get back here and assist with my armor. Go!"

Rufus sprinted off. Mazael paced around his bed, bare feet sinking into the carpet. His rooms atop the King's Tower held only a bed, a desk for writing, a wardrobe for his clothing, and racks for his armor and weapons. A thick carpet to guard against the winter chill was the only concession to comfort.

That, and the rooms had a superb view of the castle and the surrounding countryside.

Mazael hurried onto the balcony, seventy feet above the courtyard. The night guards stood upon the curtain wall, crossbows in their hands. Torchlight blazed in the courtyard as men raced back and forth. Sergeants bellowed commands to armsmen, while knights ran for the stables, followed by their squires. Good - Sir Hagen had already roused the garrison. Yet where was the attack?

Beyond the curtain wall, light flashed in the darkness. Cravenlock Town, an overgrown village of four thousand people, stood a half-mile in that direction. Mazael saw firelight from the town, and heard the distant sound of steel on steel, the shouts and screams of men and women.

The town was under attack.

His hands curled into fists. These were his people, his lands. And someone dared to attack them? He would make these attackers pay, he would make them suffer...

Mazael closed his eyes, forced himself to calm.

Fury was not a luxury that a child of the Old Demon could afford.

For a moment he remembered a blue-eyed woman lying on a cold stone floor, black hair pooled around her head.

He knew where the rage of the Demonsouled ended.

Rufus sprinted into the room, breathing hard.

"My lord," he said, "I've sent the message..."

"Good," said. "Help me with my armor."

He'd worn the same armor for years, but it had been destroyed last year during the great battle below the walls of Tumblestone. So Lord Malden had made Mazael a gift of a new set. A chain mail hauberk with a steel cuirass, and gauntlets backed with steel plates and armored boots, all crafted by Knightcastle’s finest smiths. Mazael pulled on the armor with Rufus's help. The boy was nervous, but he worked quickly and without error. That was good. He would make a capable knight.

Assuming he lived through this attack.

Mazael tugged on a black surcoat adored with the sigil of three crossed swords, the symbol of the Cravenlocks. Rufus fetched his sword belt, and Mazael buckled it around his waist. A dagger hung on his left hip, and a longsword on his right. The longsword's pommel was a golden’s lion head, glittering rubies in its eyes. Lion, Mazael called the sword, and it was worth more than his castle and everything in it.

Older than his castle, too.

He took one last thing. A silver coin, the size of his thumb joint, threaded with a fine chain. Mazael tucked it into his belt.

"Come," said Mazael, and he left his rooms, Rufus following, and hurried from the King’s Tower. Chaos still reined in the courtyard, but it was an ordered chaos. Mazael's knights sat atop their horses, lances and shields in hand, armor flashing in the torchlight. His armsmen had also been mounted, sword and mace ready at their belts.

Two hundred men. Mazael hoped it was enough.

"My lord!"

A grim-faced man with the shoulders and chest of an ox strode to Mazael's side. He wore a Cravenlock surcoat and a mail hauberk, eyes glinting over a close-cropped black beard. One hand rested on his sword hilt, and the other bore a shield adorned with the sigil of a burning bridge.

"Sir Hagen," said Mazael. "What news?"

"Someone lit the alarm beacon in the town’s church tower," said Sir Hagen Bridgebane, Mazael's armsmaster. "The night guards saw it and summoned me." He scowled, shaking his head. "It's too dark. We can't see anything. But I think the town militia is holding. For now."

"Who is attacking?" said Mazael. "Bandits?" It would indeed take a daring band of bandits to attack a walled town. But who else? The Elderborn tribes? One of Mazael's vassals? Some of Mazael's knights and vassals hated him, but none were bold enough to stage such a raid.

Lord Richard Mandragon, perhaps? Mazael remained in his liege lord's good graces. But Lord Richard the Dragonslayer was feared with reason. If he decided that Mazael was an enemy, he would not hesitate to strike.

"I don't know, my lord," said Hagen. "But they've no horses, I'm sure of that. We're ready to ride when you give the command." He grimaced. "But the wizards want to speak with you first."

"Good work," said Mazael. "We'll ride when I give the word. Leave the squires here. I don't want any of them killed fighting in the dark."

Hagen hurried to his horse, shouting commands.

Rufus brought out Mazael's war horse, a vicious-tempered destrier named Challenger. The huge horse looked as eager for blood as any knight. Mazael swung into the saddle and accepted a lance and a shield marked with the Cravenlock sigil from Rufus.

"I should accompany you, my lord," said Rufus. "It is only honorable."

"No," said Mazael. "Stay here with the other squires. I'll not explain to your father why I got you killed in a night battle."

Rufus scowled, but obeyed. Mazael urged Challenger to a walk, steering the beast with his knees. Sir Hagen waited near the barbican, along with three other men. The first was old and tough as an ancient oak tree, clad in mail and leather. The hilt of a greatsword jutted over his shoulder, and a mace and war axe waited at his belt. Sir Nathan Greatheart claimed to have retired, but the old knight still fought with the prowess of a much younger man.

The other two men wore black cloaks and long black coats adorned with metal badges. The older of the two was nearing forty, with tousled hair and a pointed brown beard. The second was barely over twenty, face shadowed beneath his cowl. A black metal staff rested across his saddle's pommel.

None of Mazael's men went close to the two wizards. Especially the younger one.

"Lord Mazael," said Timothy deBlanc, the older wizard. "My war spells are at your command."

The younger wizard looked up, black eyes glittering in the depths of his cowl.

"And you'll need them," said Lucan Mandragon. He was younger than Timothy, but far more powerful. Men called him the Dragon's Shadow, and dared not meet his eye as he passed. "My wards were triggered. At least one of the attackers is using magic. Possibly more."

"Can you take them?" said Mazael.

"We shall do our best, my lord," said Timothy.

Lucan's contemptuous sneer expressed more confidence than words.

"Good," said Mazael. "Sir Hagen!"

The armsmaster spurred his destrier forward, lance and shield ready. "My lord?"

"Tell the armsmen to keep watch," said Mazael. "They're to close the gate after we leave, and leave it closed until we return. The knights and mounted armsmen will stay in formation. Any fool rides off on his own, I'll have his hide." Hagen nodded and bellowed the orders to the sergeants. "Sir Nathan!"

The old knight turned his horse. "Lord?"

"Take command of the knights," said Mazael.

Nathan frowned. "I am no longer armsmaster of Castle Cravenlock, and I..."

"Yes, yes, I know," said Mazael. "Do it anyway."

A flicker of a smile went over Nathan's seamed face. "As you bid, my lord."

"Sir Hagen!" said Mazael. "We ride."

Hagen gave the orders. Chains rattled, and the portcullis slid open with a metallic groan. Mazael kicked Challenger to a trot and rode through the gate, the knights and armsmen falling in around him. Sir Aulus Hirdan, Mazael's herald, rose at his side, the Cravenlock banner fluttering from his lance. Though Mazael doubted anyone could see it in the dark.

The road to Cravenlock Town sloped alongside the side of the castle’s crag. The sounds of fighting grew closer, accompanied by strange, bestial roars. Had the attackers brought war dogs? Timothy shifted in his saddle, fumbling with a fist-sized chunk of wired-wrapped crystal. Mazael had seen him use that spell before. It bestowed a sort of limited clairvoyance, letting Timothy sense the presence of enemies. Timothy held up his hand, and the crystal flashed with a pale white light.

“Timothy!” said Mazael. “How many?”

“I…I do not know, my lord,” said Timothy, shouting over the drumming of the hooves. His eyes darted back and forth, tracking things unseen. “At least…two hundred. Probably three hundred. They’re at the town gates for now. But…my lord…”

“What is it?” said Mazael. “Are they in the town already?” Gods, he hoped not. House to house fighting would negate the advantage of his horsemen.

“No,” said Timothy. “But…I’ve never sensed anything like them before. It’s as if…it’s as if they’re not human…”

Lucan gave Timothy a sharp look, hand tightening around his black staff.

“The San-keth?” said Mazael. “Or the changelings?”

“No,” said Timothy. “No, I know how they feel to my arcane senses. This is…different. Darker, considerably.”

Demonsouled, then? The thought of three hundred Demonsouled gathered made Mazael’s blood run cold. But Mazael doubted that any number of Demonsouled could cooperate for any length of time.

He knew very well the sort of homicidal madness carried by Demonsouled blood.

“Whatever they are,” said Mazael, “they’re still flesh and blood, and we’ll sweep them away. They’re massed near the town gates?”

Timothy gave a sharp nod, eyes still twitching.

“Then we’ll hit them there,” said Mazael. “Sir Hagen! Get the men in line. Once the enemy is in sight, we’ll charge and ride them down.” With luck, the gate held the attackers' attention, and they would not spot Mazael’s horsemen until it was too late.

Hagen and Nathan bellowed orders, the knights and armsmen forming a wide line. The horses moved forward at a trot, ready to leap into a gallop. Cravenlock Town came into sight, the rooftops rising above the thick stone wall surrounding the town. Lord Mitor, Mazael's predecessor and elder brother, had let the wall fall into disrepair. Mazael had ordered it rebuilt, despite the expense. He also insisted that the town men's form a militia, training regularly, despite their grumbling.

He doubted anyone would grumble after this.

Torches blazed atop the stone wall. Militiamen fought from the ramparts, wielding crossbows and spears. A dozen ladders rested against the wall, and Mazael saw dark-armored shapes scrambling up the rungs, spears and axes in hand.

The invaders.

Mazael took a look at them, a good look, and blinked in disbelief.

The invaders were not bandits. Nor were they were Mazael's vassals, or Lord Richard's men.

They weren't even human.

Mazael had never seen creatures like them before.

They looked almost like men, albeit men with leathery gray skin and long, pointed ears. Their eyes were colorless, milky white, yet they seemed to have no difficulty seeing. The creatures wore greasy leathers, ragged furs, and black chain mail. Dozens of them lay dead below the gate, covered in black blood. Yet the creatures showed neither fear nor pain, and flung themselves at the defenders with abandon, roaring and howling like beasts.

Lucan swore, very softly.

"What are they?" said Mazael.

"I had never thought to see them," said Lucan.

"Damn it, what are they?" said Mazael.

Lucan looked at Mazael, his eyes reflecting the firelight. "Malrags."

"Malrags?" said Mazael. "Malrags are a legend, like..."

"Like the Elderborn?" said Lucan. "Like the San-keth?"

Mazael growled. "Legend or not, they are still flesh and blood. Sir Hagen! Sir Aulus! Sound the charge..."

The air crackled, and a bolt of green lighting screamed out of the cloudless sky, so bright that it filled the plains with ghostly light. It struck the arch over the gates with terrific force, blasting stone and wood to glowing shreds. Smoking debris rained over the Malrags and the town militia alike, knocking them to the ground, and the horses whinnied and stamped in terror.

For a moment the battlefield remained motionless, the echoes from the lightning blast rumbling into silence.

Then the Malrags raced for the ruined gate.

"The charge!" said Mazael, raising his lance. "Now!"

Sir Aulus lifted a horn to his lips and loosed a long blast, a thunder of a different sort rolling over the plain. Mazael put his boots to Challenger's sides, and the big horse surged forward with an excited snort. Behind him the knights' and armsmen's horses exploded into motion, the earth rumbling beneath steel-shod hooves.

The Malrags near the gate turned, forming a line of spears, but it was too late. Mazael caught a brief glimpse of a Malrag at the forefront of the mob. The hands gripping the spear had six fingers, black veins throbbing and pulsing beneath the leathery gray skin. Then the Malrag disappeared beneath Challenger's hooves in a flash of black blood, even as Mazael drove his war lance through the face of another Malrag. He ripped the lance free and struck again as Challenger thundered forward, the horsemen crashing into the Malrags. Horses screamed and stamped, men shouted, and the Malrags bellowed their battle cries.

Mazael stabbed his lance into a Malrag, the heavy blade crunching past armor and sinking into the creature's neck. Yet the Malrag showed no fear, no sign of pain, even pulling itself up the shaft to claw at Mazael's arm. Mazael plunged the lance into the creature's chest again, and the Malrag toppled, wrenching the weapon from Mazael's hand.

Challenger galloped through the Malrag mob, breaking free on the other side. Mazael wheeled the big horse around, drawing Lion from its scabbard with a metallic hiss. The ancient steel blade glimmered in the torchlight, seeming to flash and flicker.

And then Lion jolted in Mazael's hand. Power flowed up Mazael's arm, and the light reflecting in the sword's blade turned blue. A halo of sapphire radiance crackled around the sword, and then the blade burst into raging azure flame. Lion had been forged long ago by the great wizard-smiths of ancient Tristafel, created to destroy things of dark magic.

It seemed that the Malrags, whatever else they were, were also creatures of dark magic.

Mazael shouted, kicked Challenger into motion, and rode back into the fray, striking right and left. The Malrags had shown no fear of steel weapons, even of wounds and death, yet they flinched away from Lion’s raging blue flame. Mazael struck the arm from one Malrag, and the head from another, Lion blazing like an inferno in his fist. The Malrags reeled back, and Mazael's knights and armsmen fell upon them.

The enemy broke and ran. The creatures did care about pain or injury, but they feared Lion's flame, and Mazael's men were more numerous and better armed. Dozens of Malrags sprinted into the darkness around the town. But others raced through the ruined gate, vanishing into the streets of the town.

Damnation. They could go from house to house, killing. Or hide themselves in the cellars and attics to attack later. For that matter, the ones fleeing from the town could band together and raid some of the smaller villages.

"Sir Hagen!" said Mazael. Hagen rode to Mazael's side, his sword and armor splattered with black Malrag blood. "Take seventy men. Hunt down as many of those devils as you can. I'll deal with things here." Hagen nodded. "Sir Nathan!" The old knight turned, greatsword in one hand. How he managed to use such a massive sword so effectively from horseback, Mazael had no idea. "Get the rest of the men together. We'll have to go from street to street, finish off the Malrags."

Sir Nathan shouted the commands, and Lucan rode to Mazael's side, that strange black staff laid across his saddle.

"My lord," said Lucan. "Listen to me. I’ve read the ancient records. Every Malrag warband has two leaders. A shaman, a spell caster. Probably the one that cast that lightning bolt upon the gate. And a chieftain, a war leader...a 'balekhan', in the Malrag tongue. The Malrags will not give up until both of them are dead."

"Then we'll simply have to kill them both," said Mazael. "You and Timothy can deal with the shaman, I trust?"

Lucan sneered. "Please."

Mazael turned Challenger toward the ruined gates. He rode into the town, his men following after. Some of the militiamen hurried from the walls, while Mazael ordered others to stand guard over the ruined gates. Hooves rang against the cobblestones, but Mazael saw no sign of any Malrags. Where had they all gone? At least a hundred had made their way into the town.

He heard the sounds of fighting coming from the town square. The square held two large buildings. The Three Swords Inn, four stories of mortared stone and trimmed beams. And the town's church, a massive domed structure, dating from the old kingdom of Dracaryl. When the town was under attack, the women and children fled to the church...

The women and children.

The sounds of fighting grew louder.

Mazael cursed and kicked Challenger to a gallop, his knights and armsmen following.

Chapter 2 - Balekhan

Five Malrags lunged out of a narrow alley, brandishing their weapons. Lion's flame burst to fresh life, and Mazael swung, the blade ripping into a Malrag's neck. Around him the other horsemen crashed into the Malrags, trampling them to the ground.

Then the street was clear of enemies, and Mazael's men flooded into the town square.

Forty or fifty of the town's militia stood in ranks before the church's doors, forming a line of spears and shields. Perhaps a hundred Malrags charged at them, howling and roaring, black axes and spears in hand. Yet the militiamen held, and did not run, even as the Malrags ripped into them. They were fighting to defend their wives, their children, their homes.

They were Mazael's people, and he would make the Malrags regret ever having set foot in the Grim Marches.

"At them!" he bellowed, lifting Lion high as he kicked Challenger to a gallop. The horsemen thundered forward, and a cheer went up from the beleaguered militia. The Malrags spun, turning to face the new threat, but too late. The horsemen ripped into them, Malrags dying beneath stamping hooves and flashing weapons. Mazael brought Lion down in a massive overhead blow, splitting a Malrag skull,. He spun Challenger in a circle, looking for any sign of the shaman or the balekhan.

The air tingled. It was Mazael's only warning before a bolt of emerald lightning screamed from the sky, painting the church and the struggling men with ghostly light. The bolt exploded into the square's center, throwing chunks of molten stone into the air, the blast knocking men and horses to the ground. Challenger whinnied in alarm, rearing up on his hind legs. The big horse had been trained withstand the sight of blood and violence, but not lightning bolts raining from the sky. Mazael lost his balance and fell, his armor clattering against the cobblestones.

He scrambled back to his feet, ignoring the ache, and looked around for the source of the lighting bolt.

He spotted the Malrag shaman. The creature perched on the rooftop of the inn. It was thinner and smaller than the other Malrags, almost spindly. It wore a ragged robe of black leather, sparks of green light crackling around its clawed fingertips.

And unlike the other Malrags, a third eye, blazing with cold emerald light, rested in the center of its forehead.

"Lucan!" shouted Mazael, running towards the inn.

###

Lucan Mandragon flung out a hand, muttering an incantation under his breath. Power welled up within him, and his magical senses reached out, searching for the source of the spell that had summoned the lightning.

He found the source atop the inn, crouching over the battle, ragged robes blowing in the nighttime wind.

So. A Malrag shaman. Such a creature had not been seen in the Grim Marches for over a century. Lucan wondered why the Malrag warband had attacked Cravenlock Town, of all places. The Malrags must have crossed Great Mountains to enter the Grim Marches, and Castle Cravenlock was six days' march from the nearest foothills.

Which suggested the unpleasant possibility that other Malrag warbands had crossed the mountains, and roamed the Grim Marches even now.

But Lucan could worry about that later, after he had crushed the Malrag shaman.

He knew quite a few spells to destroy things. Places. People.

It wasn't by choice. His master, Marstan, had been a respected master wizard. He'd also been a necromancer, and tried to use his spells to steal Lucan's body for his own. Lucan had fought him off, killing him in the process...but not before he had received Marstan's powers. His knowledge.

His memories, full of blood and death and torture and misery.

Well. Lucan would put that knowledge to good use now.

He lifted a hand, gathering more power, and muttered a spell. Magical force gathered, and Lucan clenched his fist, loosing a psychokinetic blast that would hurl the Malrag shaman from the rooftop and smash it against the street below.

The shaman spun, the glowing third eye in its forehead narrowing, and worked a spell of its own, clawed hands flickering through intricate gestures. The air around the creature shimmed, and Lucan's spell shattered against the power of the creature's ward.

His eyes widened in astonishment. That spell should have killed the shaman. There were master wizards who lacked the power to block Lucan's strike.

And even as Lucan drew in power for another spell, the shaman gestured. Green lightning fell from the sky, swallowing Lucan.

###

Mazael sprinted towards the inn’s door, Lion in hand. He had to kill the Malrag shaman, before the creature could rain more spells upon his men. Could Lucan defeat the shaman? But even if Lucan distracted the creature, that might be enough for Mazael to reach the roof and plunge Lion into the shaman’s back.

The shaman gestured, its third eye narrowed, and another bolt of lightning thundered out of the black sky. Lucan and his horse vanished in the green flash, and the shockwave knocked Mazael off balance. He staggered several steps and crashed into a Malrag. The creature snarled, exposing jagged yellow fangs beneath its gray lips, and drew back its spear for a stab.

Mazael was faster. He bashed the Malrag across its face with his shield. Black blood and yellowed fangs flew from its jaw. He twisted, and ripped Lion through the Malrag's throat with a single powerful blow. The Malrag fell, choking on its own blood. Mazael stepped past the falling corpse, looking around.

There was no sign of Lucan Mandragon.

Mazael struck down another Malrag and started for the inn.

And then he froze.

A Malrag was staring at him.

But this Malrag was different than the others, different from the shaman. It stood eight feet tall. Instead of black chain mail, it wore elaborate black plate, the armor adorned with scenes of dismembered men and women. White eyes glimmered behind its masked helm, and it carried massive serrated sword in its left hand.

The first Malrag he had seen, Mazael realized, carrying a sword.

Which meant that this was the Malrag war leader, their chieftain.

The balekhan raised its sword in a black blur and sprang at Mazael, roaring.

###

Lucan staggered to one knee, leaning hard upon the black metal staff in his left hand.

His wards, his defensive spells, had turned the worst of the Malrag shaman's lightning strike. They had not saved his horse, which lay in pile of smoldering char a few feet away. Around him the fight raged, militiamen and knights struggling against Malrag warriors. One of the Malrags looked at Lucan and grinned, hefting a black axe.

Lucan snarled, muttered a spell, and made a hooking motion with his right hand. A patch of gray mist swirled before him, and a creature sprang out of nothingness. It looked like a deformed hybrid of a tiger and an octopus, and was even more hideous than the Malrag. It was a predator of the spirit world, bound and summed by Lucan's will.

The Malrag hesitated for just a moment, which was long enough for the deformed thing to loose a hideous shriek and spring upon the Malrag, fangs and talons tearing. The Malrag collapsed, the spirit creature's barbed tentacles glistening with black blood.

"Guard me," commanded Lucan, climbing back to his feet.

He turned his attention back to the Malrag shaman, gathering his magical strength for another strike.

And no sooner had he done so than another blast of lighting ripped out of the sky. Lucan changed his spell, casting a ward instead, and flung out his hands. The lightning bolt snarled around him, sparking and spitting, and leapt back to strike the shaman.

But the Malrag shaman cast a spell of its own. The lightning bolt rebounded from its outstretched hands and ripped into the inn, blasting away half of the roof in a spray of burning splinters. Lucan made a slashing motion, and loosed invisible force to hammer at the shaman. Some of the remaining shingles shattered into dust, but the Malrag shaman cast another ward, absorbing the Lucan's attack.

And the shaman loosed still another lightning bolt. Again Lucan raised a ward, the lightning shattering against his spell to splinter against the ground in crawling emerald fingers. This time Lucan lacked the strength fling back the bolt at the shaman.

Yet the lightning was just as strong as the first strike. If anything, it was stronger.

Lucan reeled, dizziness washing through him, head spinning with the effort. The shaman was stronger, he realized. Thanks to Marstan's memories, Lucan had the greater skill. But a man with a scalpel would not win in a fight against a man with a hammer, and Lucan's subtle skill simply could not stand against the shaman's raw power.

Not for very long, anyway.

The shaman flung another lightning bolt, and this time it took all of Lucan's skill and strength to stop it from devouring him.

###

The balekhan leapt at Mazael, the black sword falling like an avalanche.

Mazael got his shield up just in time.

He almost died anyway. The blow struck with terrible force, tearing a chunk from the shield, and Mazael stumbled back several steps. The balekhan leapt forward with catlike grace , sword looping for Mazael's head. He ducked the blow, sidestepped, and brought Lion around in a backhanded swing, the blade crunching into the armor plates across the balekhan's side. The balekhan snarled and jerked away, black sword coming up in guard.

Mazael lifted his shield and took a cautious step forward, Lion ready in his fist.

The balekhan regarded him for a moment, and then began to speak, the first Malrag Mazael had heard use words. The creature's voice was a snarling growl, its language strange to his ears.

And yet...and yet the meaning of the words echoed in his mind. As if the creature spoke directly to his thoughts.

-So you are the one-

Mazael circled to the side, the balekhan following his movement. Again the creature spoke.

-We have heard of you. Child of the Great Demon. I see the power blazing in your soul. Had you claimed your birthright, I would kneel before you and name you the Destroyer, as is only proper. But instead you have made yourself weak and pitiful-

"I have heard such boastings before, creature," said Mazael, "and from the lips of those more powerful than you. Weak or not, you dared to attack my lands, and you will die for it."

The balekhan laughed.

-Mortal fool! A worthy warrior you are, but still a fool. I have died many times before, and I shall die again, ere the Great Demon is reborn. But you shall not be there to see it-

The balekhan surged forward, black sword leading. Mazael dodged the attack and swung Lion, the burning blade connecting with the Malrag’s armored shoulder. The balekhan roared in fury and brought its fist around in a massive backhand for Mazael’s face. He got his shield up in time but the punch rocked him, splinters flying from the shield. The balekhan whipped the massive sword around, and this time the strike ripped the top third from Mazael’s shield.

He paced back several steps, moving out of the balekhan’s range. The creature was strong – stronger than any man he had ever fought, stronger than Mazael himself.

And Mazael was Demonsouled. His arm and shoulder ached from the pounding they had taken, but he already felt the pain lessen as the demon power in his soul healed his wounds, restoring his bruised flesh.

But he doubted even his Demonsouled nature could heal him if the balekhan cut him in half.

The Malrag leader roared, sword whipping over its head, even as more green lightning fell from the sky.

###

Lucan’s cloak and coat smoldered, wisps of smoke rising from their edges. He had only just turned the last lightning strike aside. Two or three more, he realized, and he would be finished.

And yet the Malrag shaman showed no signs of tiring. Crude its skill might have been, but the creature had a vast reservoir of magical power.

Power that Lucan could not match.

The summoned spirit creature kept the lesser Malrags at bay. For an moment he thought about summoning more creatures to attack the shaman, but dismissed the idea. He barely had enough to magic left to maintain the binding over the first creature, let alone to summon additional ones.

His hand tightened around the black staff, its sigils digging into his palm. Did he dare to…

Then he saw Timothy.

The older wizard sat atop his horse, hands flying through a spell. Timothy could not match Lucan's skill and power, but the other wizard did not lack for courage. Timothy flung out a hand, and a fist-sized blue spark leapt from his fingers to smash against the shaman’s defensive wards. The wards turned the spell aside with ease, and the shaman spun to face Timothy, claws flashing with green lighting.

But Timothy kicked his horse into motion, and the lightning blast missed him by a dozen yards. His horse whinnied and screamed, but Timothy kept the beast under control, and even managed to fling another blue spark at the shaman.

It gave Lucan all the opening he needed.

He drew in his remaining strength, muttering a spell, and loosed a blast of invisible force at the Malrag shaman. Its defensive wards screamed beneath the strain, and for a moment Lucan thought he had the creature.

But the wards held. Barely, but they held. The shaman turned to face Lucan, beginning the spell to summon lightning once more.

And Lucan was left with no other choice.

He poured his will into the black staff , bending all his thought upon it. The staff shivered beneath his skin, like something alive, and grew cold against his fingers. Crimson light flickered in the depths of the carved sigils, as if the staff had been filled with burning blood.

And then power flooded into Lucan, power beyond anything he had ever used on his own, sweet and intoxicating. His weariness and pain fell away, as if his veins had filled with fire.

Was this, he wondered, what Mazael Cravenlock felt all the time?

Lucan had learned about Mazael’s Demonsouled heritage a year ago. The blood of the Demonsouled held great power, but the blood of a child of the Old Demon held even greater might. Lucan had stolen a vial of that blood, and only its strength, its power, had allowed him to survive the brutal fight with Morebeth Galbraith in the Kings’ Chapel of Knightcastle.

But the power of that blood had burned away in moments.

So Lucan had created this staff with a vial of Mazael’s blood, stolen as the Lord of Castle Cravenlock slept. Then Lucan forged the staff in his secret workshop below Castle Cravenlock, imbuing it with the power of Mazael’s Demonsouled blood.

Power that Lucan could now draw upon at will. He had not told Mazael. Mazael recognized the need to fight dark powers, but not the necessity to use any tool available in that fight.

Lucan screamed out a spell and thrust the staff, the carved sigils ablaze with crimson light. His spell struck the Malrag shaman and hammered through its wards with overpowering force. The top off the inn exploded, the remaining tiles and most of the roof beams shattering. Lucan’s will seized the Malrag shaman, flung it from the roof, and hurled it against the cobblestones of the square like an insect beneath a boot.

Bones shattered, black blood splattering against the inn’s walls, and the light of the shaman’s third eye went out.

Lucan bellowed in triumph and turned, the staff blazing in his hand. He would crush the Malrags, first, destroy them one by one. None of them could stand against his power! And then he would kill Lord Mazael and his men, seize control of Castle Cravenlock. And from there, Lucan would destroy his father and his brother, make them pay for all they had done to him. The Grim Marches were his! The world was his! He would…

The crimson light winked out, smoke rising from the staff’s carvings.

And the power drained away from Lucan, along with the madness inspired by Demonsouled magic.

He fell to his knees as pain wracked him. His stomach twisted, and Lucan empted his guts onto the cobblestones. It got worse, every time. Every time he drew upon the staff’s power, the madness grew more violent, the aftereffects more painful.

Using the staff could kill him, Lucan knew.

Yet he could not stop using it, could not stop craving it. It was just as well the staff only sustained short bursts of power. If it did not, he would use the Demonsouled power until it drove him insane and he killed everyone in sight. Or until the Cravenlock armsmen overwhelmed him and killed him.

Not for the first time, Lucan wondered how Mazael managed to live with such dark power in his mind.

###

Mazael and the balekhan spun in their mad dance.

He held Lion’s hilt in both hands. The balekhan’s great black sword had long since smashed Mazael’s shield to kindling, the torn leather straps still dangling from his armored forearm. The balekhan was far stronger than Mazael, far stronger than any human, but Mazael was faster, even in his armor. He danced around the balekhan’s armored form, Lion stabbing and thrusting at the weak points in the black plate . He scored three hits on the balekhan, minor wounds that sizzled beneath Lion’s azure flame, wounds that had slowed the huge Malrag.

Yet the creature remained as strong as ever.

The battle rage filled Mazael, making him stronger, faster. But he dared not give into it. He knew that if he surrendered to the Demonsouled rage, it would consume him, make him into a monster. A woman he loved had died to save him from his darker half.

He would not let her death be in vain. Not now, not ever.

But he would take down this damned Malrag for daring to attack his people and his lands.

Mazael caught the descending black sword in a high parry, arms trembling with the strain. There was no way he could hold a parry against the balekhan’s strength. So he rolled his wrists and sidestepped, Lion’s blade licking at the gap in the balekhan’s shoulder plates. The huge Malrag reeled in pain, yellowed fangs bared in a snarl. It might have been stronger, but Lion’s azure flame seemed to hurt the balekhan far more than the physical wounds. He thrust at the balekhan’s face before it could react, and the Malrag flinched back, eyes narrowed against the sword’s fire. If Mazael could get close enough, he could drive Lion through the helm’s eye slit and end the fight.

And then the inn exploded.

The thunderclap rang over the square. For a brief instant the battle paused as the struggling knights, militiamen, and Malrags looked at the Three Swords Inn. Mazael glimpsed Lucan, standing in a halo of blood-colored light, a burning staff clenched in his fists. He saw the inn's roof rip apart, as if torn by invisible hands, saw the Malrag shaman driven to the ground with terrific, bone-crushing force.

That blood-colored light shining from Lucan’s staff. Something about it called to Mazael, made his tainted blood rise, as if in recognition…

The balekhan recognized Mazael’s distraction and surged forward.

Mazael just got Lion up in time to beat aside the thrust aimed for his heart, but the sword banged off his shoulder, denting the armor. Mazael rocked back on his heels as the balekhan came at him, its sword a storm of flickering black metal. Mazael retreated, working Lion left and right to beat aside the attacks.

Then the balekhan’s sword came around in a massive sideways cut, and Mazael could not dodge in time. The blow bounced off his cuirass with a scream of tortured metal, and the force sent Mazael falling hard to the ground. He scrambled backwards, trying to get out of reach, but the balekhan loomed over him, sword raised for the killing blow.

A dark shape sprang past Mazael, snarling.

The balekhan hesitated, turning to meet the new threat, and the dark shape leapt upon the Malrag leader. Mazael had a brief glimpse of black fur, of flashing white fangs and teeth. The balekhan fell to one knee with a cry of rage, greatsword blurring, but the dark shape twisted to the side, and avoided the blow.

It was Mazael’s opening.

He surged to his feet, ignoring the ache in his chest, all his strength and weight behind Lion’s point. The blade drove through the slit in the masked helm, plunging deep into the Malrag’s left eye. Fire exploded from Lion, erupting out the balekhan’s nostrils and fanged mouth.

The balekhan fell at Mazael’s feet with a clatter of black armor. He wrenched Lion free from the smoking helm and looked for the dark shape that had assisted him.

A great black wolf stood a few paces away, watching him. It was the biggest wolf Mazael had ever seen, almost the size of a small horse. Its claws and fangs were like ivory daggers, and its jaws looked as if they could bite through steel plate. The wolf's eyes were blue, like polished sapphire mirrors.

And in every way, the wolf was identical to the one Mazael had seen in his dream.

He gazed at the wolf in astonishment. Was he hallucinating? Had he gone mad? But no - some of the nearby militiamen gazed at the wolf with unease.

Mazael took a step towards the wolf.

It turned and fled, moving with terrific speed, and vanished into the darkness.

Chapter 3 - The Wolves Gather

The battle was over by dawn.

With the balekhan and shaman slain, the Malrags lost both their leadership and the advantage of the shaman's magical power. Caught between the militiamen and the knights, the Malrags fell one by one. Some groups of Malrags broke and ran, escaping down the town's streets or vanishing through the ruined gate.

Bands of militia hunted the Malrags in the streets, while those who escaped through the gate found Sir Hagen and his knights.

As the sun rose over the carnage in the town square, Mazael stood on the church steps. Sir Hagen, Sir Nathan, and Timothy stood with him, along with a short, lean man in leather armor splattered with Malrag blood. Neville was the mayor of the town, and the captain of the militia.

There was no sign of Lucan.

"How many?" said Mazael.

He heard singing coming from within the church, as the priests gave thanks for their deliverance. And weeping, as well.

Not everyone had been delivered.

"The lads are counting," said Neville. "Three hundred Malrags, we think. Maybe three hundred and twenty-five."

"How the devil did three hundred damned Malrags get so close to the town without anyone noticing?" said Hagen, scowling. He had come through the fight unscathed, his sword and armor dark with Malrag blood. "We send out patrols every day."

"Odds are those men are dead," said Nathan, voice quiet. "The Malrags may look like beasts or devils, but they are cunning. Undoubtedly they slew the scouts to mask their approach." He shook his head. "Some of the Malrags had heads dangling from their belts. Our scouts, I fear."

"The legends say Malrags live in mountain holes," said Hagen. "We're six days' march from the Great Mountains, my lord. If three hundred Malrags made it all the way to Cravenlock Town...there are undoubtedly other warbands loose on the plains."

"An invasion, then," said Timothy.

"One problem at a time," said Mazael. "How many men did we lose?"

"Nine knights," said Hagen. "Seventeen of the armsmen."

"Thirty-five of my militiamen," said Neville. He shook his head and looked at the bodies laid out before the church steps, their faces covered by cloaks. "We've a lot of widows, this morning."

"Forty-five men wounded," said Timothy. He looked exhausted, his coat and face smudged with blood, both Malrag and human. "Perhaps thirty of them will see another sunrise."

"Damnation," said Mazael.

"It could have been much worse," said Nathan. "Sixty-one of our men slain, for three hundred of the Malrags? Devils these things might be, but one mounted man is still worth seven men, or devils, on foot."

"Aye," said Neville. "I was certain we could not hold, my lord. It is well you arrived when you did."

Mazael looked at the shrouded corpses. "Not soon enough."

"But we were victorious," said Hagen.

"For now," said Mazael. "There are undoubtedly more of those things on the plains. We'll need to prepare, at once."

"Your commands, then?" said Nathan.

"First, get the gate rebuilt," said Mazael. "If more Malrags show up, I want to be ready for them. Once the gate is done, dig a ditch around the wall. We don't have any water to flood it, but anything that slows the Malrags down will be useful."

"It shall be done, my lord," said Neville.

"Keep the militia ready," said Mazael. "Daily drill. The town must be guarded at all times. I want no more Malrags to set foot in Cravenlock Town. And if these Malrags were part of a larger host, we may need to take the field against them. The militia must be ready for that."

Neville swallowed, but bowed. "My lord."

"Sir Hagen," said Mazael. "Send patrols. Knights and mounted armsmen, well-armed and equipped. They're to scout the countryside for two days' ride in all directions and report back. I want no more surprise attacks."

"As you say," said Hagen, looking over the town with a grim eye. "If any Malrags come within five leagues of castle or town, they shall regret it sorely."

"Good," said Mazael. "Timothy, see to the wounded. You set a warding alarm over the castle against undead and San-keth." An alarm that had saved their lives last year, when the San-keth cleric Blackfang had attacked. "Can you ward the town and castle against the Malrags?"

"I can, though it shall take time," said Timothy. "And I will need Malrag blood for the spell," he looked over the square, "though it seems plenty is it hand. And I shall certainly need Lucan's assistance."

"Where the devil is Lucan, anyway?" said Mazael. "Did that shaman strike him down?"

"I don't know," said Timothy. "He...almost lost the fight, I think. But I was able to distract the shaman, draw its attention long enough for Lucan to strike back."

"Which he did with vigor," said Mazael, looking at the ruined top floor of the Three Swords Inn.

"He was still alive then," said Timothy. "After that, he disappeared." He hesitated. "Perhaps one of the Malrag warriors slew him."

"I doubt that," said Mazael. It would take more than a mere Malrag warrior to strike down Lucan Mandragon, the Dragon's Shadow. "When he is found, tell him to attend to me at once. Meanwhile, we all have a great deal of work to do."

They went about their tasks. Mazael found Challenger and rode from one end of the town to the other, from the ruined gate to the church steps and back again. He praised the militiamen, knights, and armsmen who had shown conspicuous valor during the battle. He bade the workmen laboring at the gate and moat to work hard, reminding them that the lives of their wives and children depended upon their efforts. He spoke with the women who had lost husbands and sons during the fight, promising that they would receive their share of charity from the church, and that anyone who tried to prey upon the widows and orphans of Cravenlock Town would feel his displeasure.

In truth, he had little work to do. But Mazael had led armies in battle before, and he knew that above all else, armies needed leadership. The men needed to know that their lord would look after their safety, that he appreciated and relied upon their efforts, that he had a plan for crushing their enemies.

So he rode through the town, speaking to his people.

Sometimes, when he spoke to the widows, he fingered the silver coin hanging from its chain at his belt. Romaria had carried that coin, had used it as a focus for the minor spells she knew. At least, she had carried until that terrible day when the Old Demon killed her before the altar of Castle Cravenlock's chapel.

Ah, but he wished she were here now. The people of Castle Cravenlock and its town were Mazael's - his to defend, his to protect.

His, and his alone. A burden he could share with no one.

Later that morning, the squires arrived from the castle, summoned by Sir Hagen to tend to their knights. Rufus Highgate looked at the carnage with shocked eyes. The boy had seen bloodshed before - almost all noble-born children had - but never on such scale.

And certainly he had never seen a dead Malrag before.

Yet the boy summoned his resolve, and tended to Mazael's armor and weapons. Mazael bade him to fetch some food, and Rufus returned with a skin of wine and half a loaf of dark bread. The wounded had been laid out in the church, and the Three Swords' common room had been taken over by Neville and Sir Hagen, so Mazael circled around to the back of the church, to the graveyard, to sit and eat.

And to rest. Just for a moment.

Most of the town's dead were buried outside the walls, and so the graveyard was ancient, its monuments and crypts centuries old. Mazael sat against the low stone wall encircling the graveyard.

Just a moment to eat and rest.

He fell asleep before taking a bite.

###

And as he slept, Mazael dreamed:

He stood alone in the Grim Marches, Lion in his hand. The empty grasslands stretched away in all directions. A cold wind blew past Mazael, tugging at his cloak and setting the grasses to rustling. Storm clouds writhed and danced overhead, flashing with lightning.

Green lighting. Like the lightning the Malrag shaman had called down.

Mazael looked to the east. Far in the distance he saw the dark mass of the Great Mountains, the division between the lands of the kingdom and the barbarian realms beyond. He had seen those mountains dozens, hundreds of times, in his life. Yet now they crawled with dark shapes, misshapen figures beyond count.

Malrags, tens of thousands of Malrags.

They were coming. A great host of Malrags, bent upon destroying and burning everything in their path. He gritted his teeth and set himself, raising Lion. Let them come! He would carve his way through them, make them pay in blood for every step they took upon his lands...

The Malrag horde moved.

But they did not go west, towards Castle Cravenlock and the Grim Marches.

Instead they went south.

Mazael blinked. South? Why go south? There was nothing to the south. Only the Great Southern Forest, inhabited by the Elderborn tribes. And Deepforest Keep, somewhere in the Forest's vast heart. But why would Malrags go there, when the Grim Marches lay close at hand?

Mazael turned, watching the Malrag horde, and saw the great black wolf staring at him.

The wolf's blue eyes blazed like Lion's blade, its black fur ruffling in the wind.

"Who are you?" said Mazael.

The wolf made no answer.

"You aided me," said Mazael, taking a step towards the wolf, "against the balekhan."

The wolf backed away, fur bristling, white fangs bared in rage.

And in fear.

"I mean you no harm," said Mazael. "Who are you?"

A voice thundered down from the sky.

"Lord Mazael! Lord Mazael!"

###

Mazael awoke to Rufus's voice, the squire shaking his shoulder.

"Lord Mazael," said Rufus.

Mazael grunted, looked up at Rufus.

"Sir Nathan sends word, my lord," said Rufus. "He needs to speak with you at the inn. Letters have arrived from my father."

Mazael nodded, got to his feet with a grunt. "Aye. Go to tell Sir Nathan I'll be along presently."

Rufus nodded. His face had returned to its usual haughty mask, but there was fear in his eyes.

"Your father," said Mazael. "His letters...they hold ill news?" Castle Highgate guarded the sole pass through the Great Mountains to the lands beyond. If the Malrags had attacked, had broken into the Grim Marches...

Rufus shrugged. "My father must still be alive, to have written the letters. But these Malrags, my lord...I've never seen anything so terrible."

"I have," said Mazael. "I have seen both San-keth and Demonsouled, and faced them. Yet I am still here, am I not?"

That seemed to reassure the boy.

"Go," said Mazael, turning, "go and..."

He saw Lucan Mandragon.

The wizard stood a short distance away, shrouded in his black cloak, cowl pulled up. He leaned heavily upon the sigil-carved staff, both hands wrapped around it. He almost looked like a monument himself, a grave marker carved of black marble.

"My lord?" said Rufus. "Is something amiss?"

The squire couldn't see Lucan. Which meant Lucan was using his mindclouding spell, a kind of magic that let him move unnoticed among crowds.

Which meant he had something unpleasant to tell Mazael.

"Go," said Mazael. "I need a moment to collect myself. Tell Sir Nathan I will attend him presently."

Rufus bowed and ran off.

"That boy," said Lucan, drawing back his cowl, "reminds me of his father. Lord Robert is an arrogant bore, and the boy seems keen to follow in his footsteps."

"He'll make a capable knight one day," said Mazael. "Are you well?"

Because Lucan did not look at all well. Dark rings encircled his black eyes, and his gaunt face was paler than usual. Sweat glittered on his jaw and forehead, pasting black locks of hair to his brow. He looked like a man in the early stages of a terminal fever.

"Not particularly," said Lucan. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, his fingers tightening against the black staff. "Defeating the Malrag shaman took...rather more that I expected. But I'm not dead yet."

"I had a dream," said Mazael.

Lucan blinked. "The Old Demon?" Mazael had told Lucan about his father's dreams, how the Old Demon sometimes sent nightmares to torment Mazael.

"No," said Mazael. "When I fought the balekhan, it almost had me. Yet a great black wolf attacked the balekhan, distracted it, gave me the opening I needed to slay it."

Lucan frowned. "A wolf?"

"I dreamed of that wolf," said Mazael. "Last night, ere the horns woke me. And again just now."

Lucan's frown deepened. "This wolf...did it seem like a dream of the Old Demon?"

"No," said Mazael. "The Old Demon's dreams were different. Full of dread and blood and death. This was different. The wolf simply...watched me. Nothing more. It was angry with me, and afraid of me. It ran when I approached it. And that was the entirety of the dream."

Lucan sighed. "I wished I had more of an explanation for you. At least you may be sure the wolf does not wish you harm. Otherwise it would not have helped you against the balekhan. Which was an impressive feat, by the way. Few have managed to slay a Malrag balekhan in single combat."

"So you know more of these Malrags, then?" said Mazael.

"Aye," said Lucan. His mouth twisted. "Or, rather, Marstan did. Which amounts to the same thing."

"Then tell me what you know," said Mazael. "My dreams mean little, compared with the danger the Malrags bring to my people."

"Little is known about their origins," said Lucan. "There are differing stories. One says that the Great Demon created them, to replace mortal men after he slew them all. Another says the Old Demon bred them, to use them as soldiers to overthrow Tristafel. Still another says they are the consequence of man's sins, wickedness given physical form to punish us." His lip curled. "I think that one unlikely, myself."

"So my father created these things?" said Mazael. The Old Demon had not forgotten about him, he knew. Had the Old Demon sent the Malrags to the Grim Marches in vengeance?

"Possibly," said Lucan. "Or possibly not. The truth isn't known. But what is known is that Malrags will follow a Demonsouled of sufficient strength. They are almost...compelled to do so. The Malrags, you see, are not mortal, not in the way we understand the term."

"Not mortal?" said Mazael. "They died easily enough upon my sword."

"But they will be reborn," said Lucan. "The Malrags are neither men nor women. They do not give birth, or lie together to make children. They are demon spirits, bound in flesh. The Malrags grow in great hives, hidden in deep caverns. When a Malrag is…born, for lack of a better word, one of these demon spirits is bound into the body. The balekhan you slew and the shaman I defeated have probably been killed dozens of times before. Should they be reborn within our lifetimes, no doubt they will try to take vengeance upon us.”

“So if they are immortal, if they can be reborn again and again,” said Mazael, “how can I defeat them?”

“They are immortal, in a sense, but not invincible,” said Lucan. “As you saw yourself. A Malrag might wait decades to be born. And, it is true, they are all exceedingly cunning and clever. Living life after life is an excellent way to acquire new knowledge and skills. And yet, for all their knowledge, for all their skills, the Malrags are…limited.”

“Limited?” said Mazael. “How?”

“They have no free will.”

Mazael frowned. “Then they are like…animals? Or mindless slaves?”

“Not at all,” said Lucan. “You misunderstand me. Mortal men can choose to do good or evil. Even the stupidest and weakest man can choose between good and evil…as can the strongest and cleverest. The Malrags cannot. They are incapable of choosing good. A Malrag only understands pain – the pleasure of inflicting it, and the fear of enduring it. Nothing else.”

“Then how are they able to function?” said Mazael.

“Usually, they do not,” said Lucan. “The Malrags form into warbands under the strongest balekhans, and fight amongst themselves, dying and being reborn over and over. Or the balekhan is slain and replaced by one of the other warriors. There is a reason the Malrags have not been seen in the Grim Marches for over a century. The only thing that can unify them is something stronger than themselves.”

“A Demonsouled,” said Mazael, closing his eyes.

“Aye,” said Lucan. “Usually it is a powerful Demonsouled that forces the Malrag warbands to come together in an army. Not always, though. Sometimes the San-keth have done it, or even a wizard of surpassing magical power. Though it is a dangerous course. If the Malrags sense the slightest trace of weakness in their leader, they will tear him apart.”

“A Demonsouled of surpassing power,” said Mazael. “So someone like Amalric Galbraith is commanding the Malrags.”

“Or Morebeth Galbraith,” said Lucan. His hand twitched towards his stomach, where Mazael’s Demonsouled half-sister had impaled him. Mazael still had no idea how Lucan had managed to survive such a dire wound. “She was, I think, more powerful than Amalric. But, yes. Almost certainly a Demonsouled of great power is commanding the Malrags. Quite possibly another child of the Old Demon.”

“A dire prospect,” said Mazael, hand closing into a fist. Amalric had almost killed him, and Morebeth had almost corrupted him. He did not relish the prospect of facing another child of the Old Demon in battle.

“But one that offers hope,” said Lucan. “If we find and kill this Demonsouled, the Malrag army will disintegrate. The Malrag warbands shall turn upon each other, and we can hunt them down one by one.”

“Assuming this really is an army,” said Mazael, “and not just a lone Malrag warband.”

Lucan raised an eyebrow. “A lone Malrag warband that managed to penetrate six days’ ride into the Grim Marches, kill all your scouts, and attack Cravenlock Town? That is unlikely. I rather doubt those letters from Lord Robert contain good news.”

“I know,” said Mazael, rising to his feet and adjusting his sword belt. “And I had best attend to them.”

He headed towards the graveyard’s gate, stopped.

“Lucan,” he said. “Could I command the Malrags?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Lucan. “But only if you let your Demonsouled essence consume you. I would not recommend it. The use of Demonsouled power carries a…steep price.” His hands tightened around the black staff. “As I’m sure you know better than I.”

"Yes," said Mazael. "There is a line that I will not cross."

"You still carry that?" said Lucan.

Mazael looked down. His hand was curled around the silver coin on its chain.

"Yes," he said. "So I remember what my Demonsouled blood cost me."

"You don't," said Lucan, "seem likely to forget."

"Nor will I," said Mazael, turning towards the graveyard gate. "Now, come. Let us see what is in Lord Robert's letters."

###

The news, as it turned out, was all bad.

Lord Robert's stronghold, Castle Highgate, occupied the high pass leading from the Grim Marches to the barbarian lands beyond. Three weeks ago a force of ten thousand Malrags had appeared, burning the mountain villages and killing everything in their path. Lord Robert and his forces fell back to the castle, preparing for a siege.

And while they did, Malrags entered the pass. Thousands of them, tens of thousands. More than Robert's men had been able to count. They streamed through the high pass, descending to the Grim Marches like a storm of black-armored locusts, breaking into smaller warbands to spread more chaos. Lucan had been right. This was no mere raid, no band of Malrags looking for blood and plunder.

This was an invasion.

"The militia will remain in service, every last one of them," said Mazael to Neville and Sir Hagen after reading the letter. "Also, I want every man and boy over the age of fifteen and able to hold a weapon enrolled in the militia. Even if they cannot march in the field, we can use them to keep watch over the town."

"But what of the planting, my lord?" said Neville. "Spring is almost upon us. These Malrag devils may have no need to eat, but we do. If we do not get crops into the ground, we'll be boiling our boots for soup come winter."

"We have more arable land than hands to work it," said Mazael. "If necessary, we will put the women to work in the fields. Or we will rotate the militia in shifts."

But as it happened, such plans were unnecessary.

###

The refugees began arriving the next day.

At first a trickle, only a few small bands. Then dozens of them, in larger and larger groups. Terrified children, weeping in fear, or silent with shock. Hollow-eyed women, faces tight with fear and strain. Ragged men, many wounded, faces streaked with dirt and blood. Their stories were all the same. The Malrags had struck in the night. Black-armored devils had forced the walls of their village, or burned their barns and houses. The Malrags had shown no mercy, cutting down men and women and children alike. One weeping man told a story of how a Malrag balekhan had run through his pregnant wife, laughing all the while. Mazael accepted some in the castle, giving them places to sleep in the halls and courtyard, while he lodged others in the town, ordering the townsmen to open their homes to the refugees. He put the refugees to work digging the moat, improving the town wall, and preparing for the sowing.

Some of the villages had held, and sent messengers to Mazael begging for aid. He dispatched what men he could spare, with orders to fortify the villages and raise militias.

And from some villages, no word came at all, whether refugees or messengers. Mazael suspected the Malrags had wiped out those villages, killing every last man, woman, and child.

He vowed to make them pay for that blood.

###

The Malrags did not give up.

Over the next week, Mazael’s scouting parties spotted no fewer than four warbands, all of them heading towards Cravenlock Town. Each time he gathered his knights and mounted armsmen, leaving the castle and town garrisoned with militia, and rode out to face them. Every time he was victorious. The Malrags, for all their ferocity in battle, had no cavalry. Which was not surprising, given how horses hated and loathed the creatures. A Malrag warband, caught in the open upon the plains, was vulnerable to a mounted force a third, even a quarter, of its size.

It was Mazael's only advantage. Each Malrag warband easily outnumbered Mazael’s horsemen. If the creatures gathered together, he would have no choice but to withdraw to Castle Cravenlock and endure a siege.

###

More letters arrived, from other lords.

Every lord whose lands bordered on the Great Mountains faced Malrag attacks. Lord Astor Hawking reported that a force of three thousand Malrags had attacked his castle of Hawk’s Reach and been repulsed. Lord Jonaril Mandrake had faced two thousand with his mounted men and broken them, though he had taken heavy losses.

“We have no choice,” said Sir Nathan to Mazael after the last letter arrived. “The Grim Marches are under attack. You must send word to Lord Richard.”

Lucan scowled at the mention of his father. Lord Richard the Dragonslayer and Lucan the Dragon’s Shadow were not on good terms.

“Aye,” said Mazael. “He’s right, Lucan."

Lord Richard Mandragon kept order among his vassals with a mixture of open-handed generosity and utter ruthlessness. He showered his loyal men with gifts of land and gold…and crushed anyone who betrayed him. Or anyone who might betray him. Mazael had won Lord Richard’s consent to marry his sister Rachel to Gerald Roland last year. But the warning had been clear. If Mazael ever thought of siding with Gerald’s father, Lord Malden Roland, Lord Richard would crush him utterly.

And if Lord Richard ever learned that Mazael was Demonsouled…

“I will write the letter myself,” said Mazael. "And I may need to send word to Lord Malden, as well."

Lucan raised an eyebrow. "And I know my father will not approve of that." Lord Richard Mandragon and Lord Malden Roland were mortal enemies. Lord Malden had never forgiven Lord Richard for the death of Belifane Roland seventeen years past, and Mazael doubted that the old man's hatred had waned.

"It may not matter," said Mazael. "If the Malrags come at us in sufficient numbers, we will need every man able to ride a horse and hold a blade. And Gerald Roland married my sister. The Rolands are tied to me by blood. Lord Malden will send some aid, if I ask."

"Assuming, of course," said Lucan, "that my father and Lord Malden simply do not go to war, the Malrags be damned."

Later that day a messenger in the livery of the Mandragons, black with a crimson dragon across the chest, arrived at Castle Cravenlock. Lord Richard sent word to all his vassals. The Malrags had brought sword and fire to the Grim Marches, and he commanded every lord and knight to raise every able-bodied man and assemble at Castle Cravenlock. From there the armies of the Grim Marches would march under Lord Richard’s banner to destroy the Malrags.

The Grim Marches were at war.

Chapter 4 - The Lady and the Knight

Rachel, once of House Cravenlock, now of House Roland, began the morning by making love to her husband.

It had been two months since their son had been born, and it was time. Gerald had been so patient with her – he was always patient, always kind – but he still had a man’s needs. And Rachel was ready. She was twenty-five, and they had been married for only a year. Most noblewomen Rachel’s age had been married since the age of sixteen or seventeen, and had three or four children, if not more.

She loved her son, she loved her husband, and she wanted to make more children with him.

Afterward she lay against him, her head resting on his chest.

“That was…unexpected,” said Gerald.

She smiled. “You didn’t complain.”

“Certainly not,” said Gerald. He was a year younger than she was, tall and strong with pale blue eyes and blond hair. Their son had inherited his eyes and her black hair. "Won't Aldane be awake soon?"

She sighed and pressed tighter against him. "Not quite yet. Another half-hour, perhaps. And if he wakes up, Sarah can tend to him until I join her."

"I'm still surprised you didn't take a wet nurse," said Gerald. "Most noblewomen do."

Rachel levered up on one elbow, looked him in the eyes. "Aldane is my son. I will nurse him. I...waited so long for him, Gerald. For him, and for you."

Gerald smiled, kissed her. "Whatever pleases you, my dear."

"You should spend the day with me," said Rachel. "With me, and Aldane. That would please me. Very much."

"If only I could," said Gerald. "I'll need to meet with Father and Tobias and the Justiciar Commander this morning. They'll want to discuss the situation in Mastaria, of course."

"Why isn't the war over by now?" said Rachel. A year ago, her brother Mazael had smashed the assembled forces of the Dominiar Order below the gates of Tumblestone. With their leadership destroyed and their army broken, the Dominiar Order collapsed, and Lord Malden Roland's vassals claimed the Dominiars' lands for their own. Mastaria swore fealty to Knightcastle now. A few Dominiar remnants had tried to carry on the fight, but they had been destroyed one by one, or fled to the east and the north. "Surely the Dominiars cannot have the strength left to fight?"

"They don't," said Gerald. "In fact, the Dominiar Order, save for a few renegades, no longer exists. The church has even withdrawn its support for the Order. And the Dominiars were cruel lords - it seems the Mastarians much prefer my father's lordship. No, it's not the Dominiars. Some of our younger lords and knights are flush with conquest, and want to invade the Old Kingdoms."

"But that's foolish," said Rachel.

"It is," said Gerald. "The Old Kingdoms suffered cruelly under the Dominiars. Now that they've regained their freedom, they'll not give it up again with a sharp fight. Invading the Old Kingdoms would be folly, but some of our rasher vassals desire new lands, and the Justiciars want to wipe out the pagan faiths and bring them to the Amathavian church."

"Men," said Rachel. "No matter how much money and land you have, it's never enough. You always need more."

"Well, I can hardly fault their ambition," said Gerald. "A man needs lands and incomes to win a wife." His hand slid down her bare back. "And if the prize is so lovely as you...why, who can fault their daring?"

"Flatterer," said Rachel, closing her eyes. "And I am no prize."

She wasn't, whatever Gerald might think. She had done things in her past, things she did not like to remember. In the depths of her despair, she had prayed to Sepharivaim, the cruel god of the San-keth serpent people. She had pledged herself to marry Skhath, a San-keth cleric, and promised to let him father half human, half San-keth changelings upon her. But Mazael had saved her from all that.

Mazael, and Gerald.

"Normally I would not worry," said Gerald, "but Tobias is enamored of the idea. And Tobias has great influence with Father, ever since Father sank into his...depression. Tobias is hotheaded, true, but he can listen to reason. I will talk sense into him and the Justiciar Commander, and that will be that."

"Good," said Rachel, not opening her eyes.

They lay in silence for a moment.

"Do you remember Romaria?" said Rachel.

"Yes," said Gerald. "The woman from Deepforest Keep, the one Simonian of Briault killed. I think she was the only woman your brother ever loved, Rachel."

"She was," said Rachel.

"Why do you ask?" said Gerald.

"You mentioned the Old Kingdoms," said Rachel. "It...put something in my mind. I remembered Romaria talking to Mazael about the Old Kingdoms, how she hated what the Dominiars had done there. So keeping Tobias from invading the Old Kingdoms would have made her happy. And that will have made Mazael happy. Which will make me happy."

“That is all it takes to make you happy?” said Gerald. “Who knew it was so easy?”

She laughed and gave him a gentle punch on the shoulder. “It would make me happier if you could spend the day with us.”

“I cannot, if I am to talk Tobias out of invading the Old Kingdoms,” said Gerald. “But…after that, yes. After the midday meal. We will spend the rest of the day together. And we’ll take dinner together. Just you, me, and Aldane. And the servants, of course. A daughter of House Roland cannot be expected to cook, after all.”

“Of course not,” said Rachel. “I am a noblewoman. I would make a dreadful cook.”

“There is one other thing I need to discuss with Tobias and Father,” said Gerald. “These rumors from the Grim Marches.”

“Rumors?” Rachel lifted her head. “What rumors?”

“You haven’t heard?” said Gerald. “If you haven’t…I don’t wish to disturb your mind.”

“Tell me,” said Rachel.

“We received word from Tristgard and the other towns along the border,” said Gerald. “Some refugees have been arriving from the Grim Marches.”

“Fleeing what?” said Rachel.

“We don’t know,” said Gerald. “There have been rumors. A plague, for one. Or that the lords of the High Plain or the Stormvales have attacked Richard Mandragon. Or that devils have taken physical form and stalk the Grim Marches.”

Rachel snorted. “Who would be foolish enough to invade the Grim Marches? Mazael would destroy them. He defeated the Dominiars twice, after all.”

A piercing cry cut into her words. She had moved Aldane’s crib to the anteroom last night, under Sarah’s watchful eye, so she could make love to Gerald in peace. But even the bedroom door, thick iron-banded oak, did little to block the baby’s voice.

“Ah,” said Gerald. “He sounds hungry.”

“Your son,” said Rachel, “will take after his father and uncle, and command armies in battle. You could hear his voice even over the clamor of a battlefield, I’m sure.”

###

After Gerald left, Rachel dressed in a robe and fed Aldane.

It was almost spring, so Rachel sat on the balcony outside her bedroom. The rooms she shared with Gerald were in Ideliza's Tower, which rose from Knightcastle's highest tier. According to the story, the tower had been named for the doomed lover of a long-dead Roland knight, back in ancient times when the Rolands had still ruled as kings, rather than lords, over Knightcastle.

She sat on a bench, cradling Aldane as he nursed.

From the balcony she had a grand view of Knightcastle, its towers and parapets and walls, the three concentric curtain walls ringing the vast stone maze of the castle. Beyond she saw the silver ribbon of the Rivesteel, shining in its valley, and the rooftops and towers of Castle Town. Barges moved along the river, carrying cargo from Knightport, and shipping goods down the river.

It was a beautiful view. Rachel loved Knightcastle, loved its grandeur and beauty, loved the stories and legends attached to it. It was so different from the bleak walls and towers of Castle Cravenlock, looming on its crag. Rachel had grown up at Castle Cravenlock, but the castle had too many dark memories for her. Her cold father. Mitor's brutality. Skhath and the San-keth temple below the castle.

No, she didn't want to remember that.

Knightcastle was her home now. Gerald and Aldane were her family.

She looked at Aldane's red face, his eyes closed as he suckled, and smiled.

Though she did miss Mazael. Perhaps she could travel to Castle Cravenlock for a visit, once Aldane was old enough. Still, she hoped to be pregnant again soon, and the roads were no place for a pregnant woman. Perhaps she would ask Gerald to invite Mazael to visit Knightcastle. Aldane was his nephew, after all.

"My lady?"

Her maid Sarah stepped into the balcony, holding a plate. She was a young woman, younger than Rachel, with a gaunt face and black hair cut into ragged spikes. The hair and the dress hanging on her thin frame made her look slovenly, but Rachel had no cause for complaint. She had hired Sarah in the sixth month of her pregnancy, and the maid had given loyal service ever since.

"Your tea, my lady," said Sarah, setting the plate on the stone bench by Rachel's hand. "And some cheese and fruit. You should eat more. You need to keep up your strength, my lady. Nursing a baby is...hungry work."

Rachel laughed. "You worry too much, Sarah."

"Only for your son, my lady," said Sarah, lowering her eyes. "He is...he is such a handsome boy. I worry for him so."

"That is kind of you," said Rachel.

Sarah bowed. "I will leave you to your breakfast, my lady."

"No, don't go," said Rachel. "It would be nice to talk."

Sarah hesitated. "That...may not be proper, my lady. And will not Lady Rhea be visiting you this morning?"

Rachel sniffed and adjusted her hold on Aldane. "I shall speak with whom I wish." At Castle Cravenlock, Mitor had forbidden her from speaking with the servants. Now she delighted in flaunting that rule. "Besides, Lady Rhea is a most...formidable woman." Gerald's mother knew her mind, and as the chief noblewoman of Knightcastle, was not afraid to speak it. "It is difficult to simply talk to her, one woman to another."

For a moment Sarah hesitated, gazing at Aldane, her face going blank.

Then she smiled. "As you wish, my lady." She bowed once more and sat besides Rachel on the bench.

"It is a fine day, isn't it?" said Rachel.

"It is," said Sarah, looking again at Aldane. "And he is indeed a handsome boy. I...had several brothers who did not live to their first year. Aldane is so much stronger than them."

"Do you have a large family?" said Rachel.

"Oh, yes, very large," said Sarah. "I have many brothers and sisters. And many half-brothers and half-sisters." Her smile grew distant. "My father was somewhat...indiscreet, my lady."

"Perhaps you'll have many children of your own, someday," said Rachel.

Sarah sighed. "No, I fear not. I had a...pox, as a child. It left me barren."

"Oh! I didn't know. I'm so sorry to have mentioned it."

"It is all right," said Sarah, looking at Aldane again. "I made my peace with it long ago. I shall have to live to serve others, I suppose. And it will make me happy to see your son grow up strong."

"He will," said Rachel. "I'm sure of it."

"Yes," said Sarah, smiling again. "He will."

###

Later that day Rachel sat in the courtyard outside Ideliza's Tower, enjoying the sun. Aldane lay sleeping in a basket at her feet, while Sarah stood nearby, humming a tune to herself. Rachel sewed, working on one of Gerald's surcoats. Mitor had encouraged her to sew, believing it ladylike, but Rachel enjoyed it anyway. It kept her fingers busy, her mind from dwelling upon the darkness of the past.

She smiled to herself.

Boots clicked against the flagstones, and Rachel looked up. Gerald walked past the barren gardens, clad all in blue, his cloak held in place with a silver brooch shaped like the greathelm sigil of the Rolands.

His was face grave.

"What is it?" said Rachel, rising and taking his hands. "Did Tobias go to war against the Old Kingdoms?"

"Tobias?" said Gerald. "No, no. It was easy to talk him and the Justiciar Commander out of the idea. We had other news by that point."

"Other news?" said Rachel. "Gerald, what happened?"

He took a deep breath. "We received a letter from Mazael."

"Mazael?" said Rachel. "Is...he safe? Is anything wrong?"

"He is well," said Gerald. "At least for now. Rachel, the stories were true. The Grim Marches are at war."

"With who?" said Rachel. "The lords of the High Plain? Or did Lord Richard turn on Mazael?" That thought filled her with fear. She knew well the ruthlessness of Richard Mandragon. If he had decided Mazael was an enemy...

"No," said Gerald. "Worse. Malrags."

Sarah looked up, frowning, and then looked away again.

For a moment Rachel did not recognize the word.

"Malrags?" she said at last. "No, no, that's...impossible. Malrags are only a story, a myth, like..."

"Like the San-keth?" said Gerald, and Rachel fell silent. "Mazael writes that Malrag warbands have been raiding the Grim Marches. One even tried to attack Cravenlock Town, though he destroyed them."

"Of course he did," said Rachel, her mind numb. Malrags? First the San-keth, and then the Demonsouled wizard Simonian of Briault. Hadn't Castle Cravenlock already suffered enough? "It will take more than Malrag devils to defeat Mazael Cravenlock."

"Undoubtedly," said Gerald. "But Mazael asks for aid. The Malrags have come down from the mountains in great numbers, and he and all the lords of the Grim Marches are hard-pressed. I am of a mind to take a thousand men and ride to his aid, if Father and Tobias approve." He sighed. "If they approve."

"Why would they not?" said Rachel. "Mazael is their kinsman by marriage now. Theirs, and yours."

"True," said Gerald. "But he is also the vassal of Richard Mandragon. Father has never forgiven Lord Richard for Belifane's death, even after all these years. I fear Father would rather watch the Grim Marches burn than to lift a finger to aid Richard Mandragon."

"How can he think that?" said Rachel with a sudden flare of temper. "He wouldn't be aiding Lord Richard, he would be aiding Mazael. Mazael, who defeated the Dominiars and conquered Tumblestone in your father's name. Mazael, who won the great tournament before our wedding, And Mazael defeated Amalric Galbraith, destroyed the Dominiars, and saved Knightcastle! How could Lord Malden refuse to aid him?"

"Father is...rather firm in his views, I fear," said Gerald. "He greatly respects Mazael, but he hates Lord Richard even more. And Lord Richard is utterly ruthless, as you know better than I, my love. If I ride to Mazael's aid with a thousand men, Lord Richard might decide that I am a threat, or that Mazael is siding with Lord Malden against him. And if he does, he will turn against Mazael and do his utmost to kill me. Richard Mandragon is not a man to provoke."

"But Mazael needs our help," said Rachel. "He is my brother! To stand by and do nothing while he and his lands are in peril...it would be shameful, Gerald."

"I know," said Gerald. "I will speak with Father and Tobias again tomorrow. We will find a way to send aid to Mazael, I promise you. Even if I must hire mercenaries out of my own pocket and sent them to the Grim Marches, Mazael will have our help."

"Do you promise?" said Rachel, and regretted it at once. It was the plea of a querulous child, and she was a married woman with a son.

"I promise," said Gerald. "Mazael is your brother, but I was his squire. He trained me at the sword and lance and horse. I will not refuse him aid, not now, not ever." He smiled. "Besides, you said it yourself. Who better to fight the Malrags than Mazael? By the time we send him aid, he may well have defeated the Malrags utterly."

"I hope you are right," said Rachel.

But the fear gnawed at her nonetheless.

Chapter 5 - Calibah

"Sir Gerald and I will retire for the night," said Lady Rachel, turning towards the door of the bedroom she shared with Lord Malden's youngest son. "Please fetch me when Aldane wakes up. He'll be hungry."

The woman who called herself Sarah of Castle Town gripped her skirts and did a quick curtsy.

For Sarah of Castle Town was not her real name. Her true name was Sykhana, of Karag Tormeth, the high temple of the great god Sepharivaim, lord of the San-keth race. One of the San-keth archpriests had given her that name, on the day she had survived the brutal training given to all calibah, to the changelings. How proud she had been then, how filled with zeal for Sepharivaim, how eager to win glory and power for the master race of the San-keth.

But the fire of her zeal had long ago turned to ash, and Sykhana cared nothing for Sepharivaim or the San-keth race.

"Of course, my lady," said Sykhana. "It shall be as you say."

Rachel smiled and gave Sykhana a quick hug. "You have been a great help to me, Sarah, since Aldane was born. And before, too. Why, I don't know what I should have done without you."

"You honor me, my lady," said Sykhana.

That was a lie. Sykhana detested the woman. Not because Rachel Roland was an apostate from the true faith of Sepharivaim, though that should have been the reason. No, Lady Rachel was weak and stupid and useless. A pretty flower, kept safe by the strength of her husband and father-in-law, a flower that would wilt at the first hint of frost. The first hint of pain and suffering.

Sykhana had known little else during her life.

And Lady Rachel did not recognize the gift, the wonderful gift, she had in Aldane Roland. In the ability to bear children.

Sykhana despised Rachel Roland, but she did not care about the woman.

Rachel chattered on matters of little consequence, and Sykhana feigned interest. To judge from the flush in her cheeks and her dilated pupils, Rachel no doubt planned to lie with her husband once again before she fell asleep, and Sykhana felt a surge of jealous rage. Not over Gerald Roland - she had no use for him. But if his seed quickened in his wife's womb, she could grow great with child once more. She could give birth to another son, strong and beautiful.

Something Sykhana would never know.

At last Rachel ran out of words and vanished into the bedroom to join her husband. Sykhana stalked across the sitting room and onto the balcony. All around her she saw Knightcastle in its ancient splendor, towers and parapets and spires, and the Riversteel's valley and the bustling docks of Castle Town, busy even at night.

She did not care about that, either. Let Knightcastle burn. Let the world burn. It mattered little to her.

Very little mattered to Sykhana any longer.

She looked into the sitting room, at the crib near the bedroom door. She stared at the small sleeping form, and some of the tightness drained from her jaw, her hands unclenching.

Aldane Roland mattered to her.

Before she realized it, she stood over the crib, gazing at the baby. His breathing was slow and steady, his face slack with sleep. From time to time one of his little hands twitched, or one of his feet kicked, pushing the blanket from him. Sykhana reached down and tugged the blanket back into place.

He was perfect. Beautiful, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Rachel and Gerald did not deserve him. They would raise him to be yet another knight, yet another brainless fool with a sword and a horse. Sykhana could give him so much more. Aldane would know power and glory beyond anything any mortal had ever known. He would live in splendor and bliss forever. His name would resound throughout the ages, and generations yet unborn would fall to their knees and worship him as a god...

"Sykhana," said a voice.

She whirled, arms and legs moving into the unarmed fighting stances taught by the priests of Karag Tormeth. Her fangs sprouted over her lips as she moved, ready to pump poison into any foe. Her inner eyelid, which gave her eyes their human appearance, slid back, and the pale moonlight suddenly became as bright as the sun.

And she saw the...shape standing in the corner of the sitting room.

It looked like a man cloaked in hooded robes, albeit a man made of darkness and pale silver light. The moonlight shone through the window, but the hooded man cast no shadow against the wall. Which made sense, since the man wasn't really there at all. It was nothing more than an image, a projection sent by a man standing hundreds of miles away.

By the wizard standing hundreds of miles away.

"Malavost," said Sykhana.

A lip lined in silver light and shadow twitched in amusement. Most men and women regarded Malavost with fear, called him "Master", lest his wrath fall upon them. But Sykhana did not care about Malavost, or his magic, or all the dark stories that swirled around the renegade wizard.

But she did care about what Malavost had promised her. She cared about that very much.

"Sykhana," said Malavost. His voice sounded tinny, as if coming through a long metal tube. "You're looking well. The dress a servant suits you better than I expected."

"How droll," said Sykhana. "You have business with me, I assume? Projecting an image over such a distance must tax a wizard of even your power."

"Less than you might think," said Malavost. "My reserves are considerable. But I'm not making this effort merely to amuse myself. The hour has come."

Sykhana blinked. "You mean..."

"Yes." A smile flickered over his shadowed face. "It is time."

Sykhana's hands started to tremble, and she forced them to remain still. "At last?"

"Need I repeat myself?" said Malavost. "It has begun,. Everything is ready. We need only one more thing. Do what you came to Knightcastle to do, and meet us in the Grim Marches as soon as possible."

"The Grim Marches?" said Sykhana. "Why there?"

Again a smile crossed Malavost's face. "Our plans have come to fruition. Meet us at a village called Gray Pillar, a day's ride east of Castle Cravenlock. Do you know it?"

"Aye," said Sykhana. She had traveled through the Grim Marches a year past, after Mazael killed Mitor Cravenlock and became Lord of Castle Cravenlock. Mitor had been a proselyte, a loyal follower of Sepharivaim, while Mazael...

Needless to say, the San-keth archpriests wanted Mazael dead, badly, and had promised a great reward to any follower of Sepharivaim who slew him. No one had yet succeeded.

But Sykhana did not care about Mazael Cravenlock, or the wishes of the archpriests. They could not give her what she wanted.

Malavost could.

"Good," said Malavost. "Remember. The village of Gray Pillar, in the Grim Marches. Do what I have asked of you, and meet us there."

"And you'll keep your promise?" said Sykhana. "You will do what you said?"

"I shall," said Malavost. He smiled, his image rippling and flickering. " Just as I have promised."

The image flickered once more and vanished into nothingness.

Sykhana left the anteroom, her heart racing with excitement. She forced herself to calm, and it came easily. She had trained in the gloomy dungeons of Karag Tormeth, under the most brutal teachers, to kill with ease, to move silently. Tonight, of course, she hoped to kill no one.

But if anyone tried to stop her, she would leave them dead upon the floor.

She had a small room behind the kitchen of Ideliza's Tower, furnished with a narrow bed, a wardrobe, and a wooden chest. Sykhana stripped out of her dress, knelt, and opened the chest, throwing aside the clothes it contained, and pressed a hand to the bottom of the chest.

The false bottom opened, and she lifted it aside to reveal her weapons.

She dressed in the garb favored by the changeling assassins of the San-keth, the Fangs of Sepharivaim. Armor of close-fitting, overlapping black leather plates, designed to emulate a serpent's scales. A lightweight black cloak, to obscure her outline and help her hide in the shadows. A pair of gauntlets, equipped with razor-edged climbing claws. A weapons belt, sheathed daggers at the ready.

She prepared her weapons. One by one she lifted them to her lips and extended her fangs, letting the poison drip upon the steel. The poison of a half-breed, a changeling, was not so lethal as the kiss of a full San-keth. But even so, one scratch of her poison daggers would kill in a matter of moments.

She poisoned the last blade and set it in place.

At last, she was ready.

Sykhana left her room, not bothering to close the door, and made for the anteroom.

And Aldane's crib.

###

Rachel awoke in the darkness.

She looked at the ceiling of the bedroom, working moisture into her mouth. Gerald lay against her, eyes closed, breathing slow and steady. Some moonlight leaked through the window, staining the room silver. Everything was still and silent.

So why did she feel so troubled?

Aldane, that was it. She didn't hear him crying. He usually woke up hungry this time of night.

She stared at the bedroom door.

This was absurd. So Aldane hadn't woken up hungry - that was surely no cause for concern. She ought to take the opportunity to get some sleep. The gods knew she hadn't slept the night through since Aldane had been born.

But he always woke up hungry this time of night.

Rachel slipped naked out of bed, shivering at the cool night air against her skin, and tugged on a robe. She would check on Aldane, she decided. Just to make sure that he was all right. Then she could go back to bed.

She opened the door, taking care to keep silent, lest she wake Gerald, and stepped into the anteroom.

And stopped in her tracks.

A dark shape stood over the crib, gazing down at Aldane. The figure looked up, and Rachel caught a glimpse of a pale face, of yellow eyes gleaming beneath a hood.

Of San-keth eyes.

Rachel opened her mouth to scream.

The dark figure moved in a blur, steel gleaming. Rachel threw herself to the side, but not before a throwing knife nicked her jaw. She gasped in pain, numbness spreading from the cut.

Her legs began to tremble.

Poison, she realized. The throwing knife had been poisoned.

The cloaked figure sprang forward, arm curling around Rachel's waist. Rachel tried to scream, tried to fight, but her limbs trembled, and she could not seem to form words. Her head rocked back, muscles twitching, and she stared into the dark hood.

Sarah's face gazed down at her. Only Sarah had ivory fangs curling over her lips, and her eyes had turned yellow, with vertical black pupils. Sarah was a calibah, a changeling, the product of a San-keth father and a human mother. Rachel would have given birth to calibah herself, had Mazael and Gerald not saved her from such a fate.

But that meant Sarah had been a changeling all along. A San-keth changeling had been in her rooms for months. A San-keth changeling had been watching her, spying on her.

A San-keth changeling had touched her son.

Rachel tried to scream, but Sarah's gloved hand clamped over her mouth.

"You stupid weakling," hissed Sarah. "You don't deserve him. I will make him immortal and strong, and he will reign in splendor over the earth forever." She leaned close, and Rachel smelled the harsh tang of calibah poison on Sarah's breath. "He won't even remember you."

She shoved, and Rachel fell to the floor, still twitching. Rachel clawed at her robe, pawing at her pocket. Sarah crossed the room, reached into the crib, and picked up Aldane. The baby lay silent and motionless in the calibah's arms, and Rachel realized that he had been drugged for silence.

Rage exploded through her, and she tried to sit up, tried to scream for help, but her muscles kept jerking.

Sarah looked at her once more, lip curled with contempt, and then vanished through the doorway.

Rachel slumped against the wall, her heart hammering, her head throbbing. She knew the changeling poison wasn't nearly as deadly as the venom of a full-blooded San-keth. Yet it was still lethal enough, and she had only moments to live.

She clawed at her robe's pockets, and pulled out a handful of dried yellow leaves. She lifted her trembling hand to her lips and forced the leaves into her mouth, making herself chew and swallow. She bit her tongue, blood filling her mouth, but still forced herself to chew. Once she had been betrothed to Skhath, a San-keth cleric of Sepharivaim, and she had learned many of the secrets of the San-keth.

Including the antidotes for their poison. Ever since Mazael had killed Skhath, she had lived in terror of the retribution of the San-keth, and had carried dried succorleaf with her wherever she went.

Thank the gods for that.

But Aldane. Gods, oh, gods, she had taken Aldane...

Bit by bit the cold numbness of the succorleaf spread through her veins, easing the pain, her limbs stilling. Rachel worked moisture into her mouth, trying to ignore the taste of blood.

"Gerald," she whispered, when at last she could speak again. "Gerald. Gerald." She lashed out with her foot, kicking the door. Her bare sole did not make much noise against the heavy oak. "Gerald, gods, Gerald. Gerald. Gerald. Gerald!"

Her voice came out in a ragged, rusty shriek.

The door burst open, and Gerald sprang into the anteroom, naked but for the sword in his right hand. His eyes widened when he saw her, and he knelt by her side, sword still ready.

"Rachel!" he said. "Gods, what happened, are..."

"Aldane!" said Rachel. "Sarah's a changeling, she took Aldane. Stop her. Stop her!"

Gerald rose to his feet, hesitated, looked back at her.

"You're bleed..."

"I'm fine!" shouted Rachel, clawing at the wall as she tried to stand. "Get Aldane. Get Aldane!"

Gerald raced from the room, not even bothering to cover himself, and shouted for the guards.

Rachel levered herself to her knees, panic filling. Sarah had taken Aldane. Sarah had taken her son.

A San-keth changeling had taken her son!

A moment later she heard the horns ring over Knightcastle.

###

On the second tier of Knightcastle, Sykhana froze in place, listening to the horns ring over the towers.

"Damn," she muttered.

She had erred. In her excitement, she had left at once, trusting in her poison to finish off Rachel Roland. Sykhana should have simply cut the woman's throat. No doubt Sir Gerald had awakened to find his son missing and his wife dying upon the floor.

He would be wroth. Again the horns rang out, summoning Knightcastle's guards and knights to arms. They would seal the castle, hunt her down, and kill her.

And Aldane would lose his chance for eternal power and bliss.

Sykhana cursed and broke into a run. Around her she heard the clatter of arms and armor rising from Knightcastle's courtyards, the shouts of sergeants and knights bellowing orders, the tramp of boots against flagstones. She had spent months observing Gerald Roland firsthand, and though he was trusting and naive, he was no fool in matters of arms. He would order Knightcastle sealed, send search parties to slay her and reclaim Aldane.

But there was more than one way out of Knightcastle.

Knightcastle was ancient, expanded and rebuilt and expanded again throughout its long history. One long-dead Roland king had wished to visit his mistresses in secret, so he had constructed the Trysting Ways, a network of secret passages connecting his chamber to his mistresses' rooms. Later Roland kings and lords had expanded the Trysting Ways, until a maze of hidden passages threaded through Knightcastle like veins in living flesh. Not even the Rolands themselves knew all the hidden twists and turns of the Trysting Ways.

But the San-keth knew of them. Last year, the archpriest Straganis had used the Trysting Ways to attack Lord Malden. Mazael Cravenlock and the Dragon's Shadow had baffled the attack, driving Straganis and the calibah back into the Trysting Ways. No doubt Lord Malden and Sir Tobias had since ordered the entrances guarded.

But there were many entrances into the Ways, and if Sykhana could reach them before the guards did...

She heard men running, heard someone shout. Had they spotted her? She slid through the door at the base of a tower, and into a dusty round chamber, once used as an armory, to judge from the racks on the walls. The fireplace had a secret entrance into the Trysting Ways. Three more steps, and...

The door on the far wall swung open, and four armsmen in Roland tabards stepped into the room.

"Aye, I don't see the point," said the first man, "but orders are..."

He fell silent.

Sykhana hissed, lips drawing back from her fangs.

"Gods, that's a changeling!" said one of the men.

"Kill it!" said another man.

All four armsmen drew their swords.

Sykhana stooped, set Aldane on the floor, and straightened up. The first of the armsmen, with the silver trim of a sergeant on his helm, lunged at her, his sword glittering in the dim moonlight. Sykhana spun past the thrust, grabbed his wrist, and pulled herself close.

Then she kissed him. The sergeant's eyes widened in astonishment, and screamed as her fangs plunged into his lip and chin. Rachel Roland had received only the smallest drop of Sykhana's poison. The sergeant received a full dose. His screams cut off as his face turned black and his windpipe closed up.

The remaining three men hesitated, and Sykhana yanked a throwing knife from her belt, drew back her arm, and flung it. The armsman on the left ducked, but the blade nicked his jaw.

He was dead. He just didn't know it yet.

Sykhana danced back and yanked a pair of daggers from her belt. The armsmen came at her, swords stabbing and slashing. She dodged their attacks and lashed out with her daggers. All three men were armored, and competent fighters, and there was no way she could land a killing blow with one of her daggers.

But it was easy enough to land scratches on their hands and faces. Sykhana dodged another swing, and a sword thrust scraped along her side, her leather armor just barely stopping the blow. Just another moment, just another moment longer...

The man she had struck with the throwing knife fell to his knees, eyes wide, breath wheezing. Then the second man toppled, and then the third, overcome by the potency of Sykhana's poison. A changeling's poison was not nearly as deadly as that of a San-keth.

But it was still deadly enough.

Sykhana stepped towards the men, daggers in hand.

She had left Rachel Roland alive...but she would not make the same mistake twice.

After it was done, she cleaned her blades on the dead men's tabards, picked up Aldane, and walked to the fireplace. A moment's search, and she found the trigger, hidden in a crack between two stones. She pressed it, and the back of the fireplace swung open, revealing a narrow, darkened passageway.

Sykhana vanished into the Trysting Ways.

###

An hour later she hurried through the streets of Castle Town, wrapped in a cloak, Aldane hidden beneath its folds.

She paused to hide in an alley as a troop of the town's militia marched past, torches and spears in hand. The horns from Knightcastle had roused the militia, though the militia likely didn't know the reason for the alarms. No doubt Gerald Roland thought that Sykhana was still in the castle, and hadn't yet dispatched a messenger to warn the town.

By the time he did, Sykhana intended to be long gone.

She hurried through the alleys until she came to the prosperous streets of Castle Town's northeastern quarter. The house she chose was not a mansion, not quite, but nonetheless stood four stories tall, faced with cut white stone and polished wooden timbers. She slipped around to the side, to the servants' entrance. It was locked, of course, but Sykhana picked it with ease. Inside she crept down a corridor lined with wooden paneling, and stopped before an open door, candlelight spilling against the walls.

Paul Korren sat at his desk, writing. A thin man with a well-trimmed goatee, he was a powerful merchant and trader. His warehouses in Knightport bulged with good from across the world, and he sold them at a tidy profit. He was friends with Lord Malden, and on good terms with a dozen other powerful lords in the kingdom.

He was also a proselyte, a human follower of Sepharivaim, and had a shrine dedicated to Sepharivaim hidden beneath his wine cellar. He had been clever enough to remain hidden during Straganis's attack last year, but Sykhana felt nothing but contempt for proselytes. The San-keth utterly loathed humans, considered them vermin, and the archpriests could not decide whether to kill them all or merely enslave them once Sepharivaim returned in power.

And yet some humans still chose to follow the San-keth way? Pathetic.

"Korren," said Sykhana, stepping into the merchant's study.

Korren looked up from his desk, scowling. "What is this? Who are the devil are you? I..."

He fell silent as he saw Sykhana's eyes.

"You are a messenger, yes?" he said. "From the archpriests? I have been faithful. I have remained hidden, even after many calibah were slain in Knightcastle last year. I retain the ear of Lord Malden, and neither he nor his sons suspect my true loyalties."

"I require a horse," said Sykhana. "At once."

Korren frowned. "A horse?"

"Aye," said Sykhana. "And, also, the entrance to your tunnel."

Korren's face grew hard. "I have no tunnel."

"Don't lie to me, fool," said Sykhana, lips peeling back from her fangs. "I know you have a secret tunnel out of the city walls, so you can smuggle goods in and out with out paying Lord Malden's taxes. I also know that the tunnel is large enough to handle horse-drawn carts. You will give me a horse at once, and tell me the way to your smugglers' tunnel."

"What is that you have there?" said Korren, rising and stepping around the desk. "An infant? Whose? What are kind of business is this?" He glared at her. "I received no word from the archpriests. Before I give you anything, you will tell..."

Sykhana snarled and leapt at him, her arm snaking around his shoulders. She yanked him close, her fangs stopping a half-inch from his throat.

Korren went very still, his face white.

"You will," hissed Sykhana, " stop wasting my time and do as I bid. Now."

Korren hastened to obey.

###

A few moments later Sykhana led one of Korren's best horses across Castle Town's square, across from the Inn of the Crowned Helm. She had changed her armor for the dress of a serving maid, the slumbering Aldane hidden in her cloak. Her transparent inner eyelids closed, giving her eyes a human appearance.

Four men stood on the front steps of the Crowned Helm. The innkeeper, she suspected, and his porters, come to watch the fuss.

"Aye, lass?" said the innkeeper. "Why are you wandering the streets at night? Isn't safe."

"My pardons, sir," said Sykhana. "But my brother is in the militia, and my mother bade me to bring him some bread." She lifted Aldane. The baby, wrapped as he was, did almost look like a loaf of bread.

The innkeeper nodded, and Sykhana had a sudden thought.

She hid a smile.

"I just saw the strangest thing," said Sykhana. "Do you know Paul Korren, the merchant?"

"Aye," said the innkeeper. "Pompous windbag. Never pays his bills on time."

"I saw a woman hurrying into his wine cellar," said Sykhana. "Dressed all in black, carrying a baby. The strangest thing. Perhaps she was frightened by the horns."

The innkeeper frowned. "That must be it."

Sykhana smiled and led the horse away, leaving the seed to take root in their minds.

###

An hour later she galloped to the east, into the rising sun, along the road to the village of Tristgard.

The road to the Grim Marches.

Aldane started to wake, and Sykhana touched his face.

"Don't cry, my precious one," she murmured. "For soon you will be a god, and I will be your mother."

Chapter 6 - Pursuit

Rachel awoke with a pounding headache and a vile taste in her mouth.

She sat up, blinking. Cheery dawn sunlight streamed through the windows. Blood stained her nightgown, and a tight bandage rested against the left side of her jaw.

A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she leaned back against the pillows, confused. How had she end up here? And why did her mouth taste like succorleaf? The last thing she remembered was getting up to check on Aldane, and then...and then...

"Oh, gods," said Rachel, sitting back up. "Aldane. Aldane!"

Dizziness spun through her, stronger than before, and Rachel clutched at the bed for balance.

"My lady!" said a girl's voice. "I think she's awake!"

Rachel tried to get to her feet. Aldane, she had to get to Aldane...

A strong hand took her elbow, steadying her.

"Careful," said Lady Rhea, Lord Malden's wife and Gerald's mother. She was a tall, lean woman in her middle fifties, with long gray-streaked brown hair and pale blue eyes. "Circan says you were poisoned, that you saved yourself with succorleaf. That was very clever."

Compliments from Lady Rhea were rarer than pearls, and another time Rachel would have been pleased. But she could not think of anything other than Aldane. "Where's Aldane? Where's Gerald? Did he find Aldane? And Sarah..." Her face twisted in rage as she remembered the treacherous maid.

"Knightcastle is sealed," said Lady Rhea. "The gates were barred and guarded moments after Gerald found you. My sons and their men are searching the castle from top to bottom. We will find this vile changeling and make her pay."

"I don't care about Sarah," said Rachel. "I want Aldane back."

"So do we all, dear," said Rhea, patting her hand. "But you need to rest..."

"No!" said Rachel, clawing to her feet. Once she would never have dared to defy Gerald's mother. But a San-keth changeling had taken her son. "I've got to find Aldane, I've got to get him back..."

"You must lie down," said Rhea, her voice firm.

"I cannot lie abed when my son is gone," said Rachel. "Please, my lady. You...have lost sons." The very thought of losing Aldane made her stomach twist. "Could you lie waiting, if you knew...if you knew..."

Lady Rhea said nothing for a moment, her face blank. For a moment Rachel feared that she had taken offense. Rhea had lost three sons. Belifane, slain by Lord Richard Mandragon. Mandor, killed by the Knights Dominiar. And Garain, cut down last year, murdered by a San-keth changeling...

"Your maid," said Rhea, voice distant. "She was a San-keth changeling? All this time?"

Rachel nodded.

"I lost a son to the changelings," said Rhea. "I hope you do not have to know that pain, too."

She looked towards the door, where her maids, a half-dozen nervous young women, awaited her command.

"Help her dress," said Rhea, the maids surged forward.

###

A short time later Rachel hurried through the courtyards and arcades of Knightcastle, making for the castle's lowest circle, Lady Rhea and her maids following.

"Slow down, girl," said Lady Rhea. "You are a noblewoman of Knightcastle, not a fishwife hurrying to the docks on market day."

Again Rachel ignored her.

Ringed by towers and battlements, Knightcastle's vast barbican was larger than many villages. Rachel remembered standing here a year past, watching Mazael and Gerald and Tobias ride out with Knightcastle's armies to face Amalric Galbraith and the Dominiar Order. Now armsmen and squires ran back and forth across the flagstones. Gerald paced before the gates, wearing his armor, a blue cloak with the Roland sigil flaring behind him.

He stopped when he saw her.

"Gerald," said Rachel. She yearned to run to him, throw herself into his arms. But she did not want to make him look weak in front of his men. "Gerald...did..."

"Rachel," he said, stepping forward and taking her hands.  "You're well? Thank the gods."

"Aldane?" she said. "Have you found Aldane?"

He grimaced. "Not yet. We've sealed the castle, and have men searching every room. Sarah will not long elude us."

"If she's even still here," said Rhea.

Gerald and his mother shared a look.

"What?" said Rachel. "How could she have escaped? You found me only a few moments after Sarah attacked me. She couldn't have gotten to the gates before you sounded the alarm."

"The Trysting Ways," said Rhea.

Gerald scowled. "Those damned Trysting Ways. I told Father to have them sealed up, all of them. And after Straganis almost killed us last year, I think he would have listened."

"The Trysting Ways are part of Knightcastle's traditions," said Rhea, "and your father respects tradition."

Gerald shook his head. "You mean he wants to visit his mistresses unseen."

"That's no way to talk about your father in public," said Rhea, without rancor. How she accepted Lord Malden's philandering so calmly, Rachel would never know.

"So she could have escaped through the Trysting Ways?" said Rachel.

Gerald sighed. "Yes. Father did at least agree to seal any passages that led outside the castle. But only Trocend knew them all, and the San-keth killed him. We could have easily overlooked one or two. Or more."

"Oh, gods," said Rachel. "Then she got away, she has our son and she..."

"We don't know that yet," said Rhea, her voice like iron.

Rachel clutched at Gerald's arm. "We have to ride out, we have to catch her before she gets away..."

"That would do no good," said Gerald, "until we knew where she was going. And why."

"There is a sensible question," said Rhea. "Why? Why did this changeling take my grandson?"

"Because the San-keth hate us!" said Rachel. "Because Mazael defeated Skhath, and so they'll take vengeance on him. On him, or any of his kin that they can reach."

And the San-keth hated her, too. For she was an apostate, a traitor. She had been a proselyte, pledged to Skhath, promised to bear his changeling offspring for the greater glory of Sepharivaim and the San-keth. And she had turned her back on them. They wanted revenge, she knew.

They might have taken Aldane in vengeance. The very thought that she might have done this, that she might have brought this upon her son, made her want to weep.

"But why?" said Rhea. "Why not just kill him? Why not just kill you, for that matter?"

Gerald blinked. "That's...a good point, Mother. When the San-keth have come for us before, they've always tried to kill Rachel. They've never tried to kidnap anyone before." He looked at Rachel. "Sarah. Did she say anything?"

"She did," said Rachel, shivering. "She was so angry. I had no idea she hated me so much. She said that she was going to make Aldane powerful and strong forever. What does that mean?"

"I don't know," said Gerald. "Speculation is pointless until we know more. And Sarah might very well be trapped in the castle."

"If she escaped," said Rhea, "she almost certainly would have made for Castle Town. No doubt she had allies there, or at the very least a hidden store of supplies. You should send men there at once."

"It's already done, Mother," said Gerald, squinting through the portcullis. "Tobias went himself, along with two score of reliable men. If there's a nest of San-keth proselytes hiding in Castle Town, Tobias will deal with...wait." He turned and shouted. "Open the portcullis. Tobias has returned!"

A column of horsemen rode towards the gate, and Rachel heard the thunder of steel-shod hooves against the road. The massive portcullis groaned open, and a moment later twenty horsemen galloped into the barbican, armor flashing in the sunlight, the Roland banner flapping overhead. The lead rider dropped from his saddle, armor clanking, and pulled off his helmet.

Sir Tobias Roland looked like a shorter, more muscular version of Gerald. He had a broad, ruddy face, made for laughing. But he had not laughed much, not since Garain's murder and Lord Malden's increasing illness, and today he looked even grimmer than usual.

"Gerald," said Tobias.

"Where are the rest of your men?" said Gerald.

"Keeping the innkeeper of the Crowned Helm under guard," said Tobias.

"You've found something," said Gerald.

"Aye," said Tobias. "There's news in Castle Town. You'd best come at once."

Gerald nodded. "Rachel, stay with..."

"No!" said Rachel, her fingers tightening against his arm. His armor felt cold and hard beneath her hand. "She has our son. I...I cannot wait."

Gerald hesitated, then gave a short nod.

###

A short time later they reined up before the Inn of the Crowned Helm.

"Aye, sir knight," said the innkeeper, a stout man in a pristine white apron. "We were all up, my lads and I, when we heard the horns. Feared it was bandits or raiders, but nothing happened. Then I saw a peasant lass taking bread to her brother. She said she saw a woman in black carrying a baby, and Sir Tobias said your son had been taken..."

Rachel's heart leapt against her ribs.

"Where did she see the woman and the baby?" said Gerald.

"At the house of Paul Korren," said the innkeeper. He scowled. "Man's a scoundrel. Never pays his bills on time. Wouldn't surprise me if he hoped to hold your son for ransom, sir knight."

"If you've led me true," said Gerald, turning his horse around, "then you will be rewarded. To the house of Paul Korren! Quickly!"

###

Korren lived in a fine house, four stories tall, fronted with white stone and polished timbers. It even had a good-sized garden in back, ringed by a low stone wall, where Korren’s servants could grow vegetables. The double doors to a wine cellar lay against the house, the handles chained and locked shut.

Tobias grunted. “You, you, and you. Circle to the sides. You and you. Watch the back door and the windows. If there are any snakes here, they might try to slither away before we can cut off their heads. Keep anyone from running until Sir Gerald and I say they can go. The rest of you, follow me. Turn the house inside out.”

“This Korren fellow might be innocent,” said Gerald.

“Innocent?” said Rachel. “You heard what the innkeeper said!”

“Aye,” said Tobias. “It might have been Sarah. Or it might have been Korren’s wife, or one of his servants. Have no fear, sister. If Korren aided Sarah, I’ll run my longsword up his arse.”

He slid from his horse, Gerald and Rachel following, the armsmen marching behind. Tobias strode up to the door and pounded on it with his sword hilt, his pommel leaving gouges in the polished wood. After a moment the door opened a crack, and a nervous-looking serving girl peered out.

"Aye, sirs?" she said. "What is your business here?"

"I am Sir Tobias Roland," announced Tobias, "Marshal of Knightcastle, and this is my brother, Sir Gerald Roland, armsmaster of Knightcastle. We will speak with Paul Korren, now."

The serving girl blinked. "But...but the master said he should not be disturbed..."

Tobias smiled, pushed open the door, picked up the serving girl, and set her to the side. She stared at him with shocked eyes. "Oh, your master will want to see us, my dear. Now be a good girl and stay out of the way." He turned, beckoned to the waiting armsmen. "Lads! If either the changeling or my nephew are in this house, find them."

The armsmen trooped into the house and fanned out, hands on their swords hilts. Rachel heard crashes and bangs as they began searching, overturning furniture and looking in cupboards. There was a commotion further down the hall, and a thin man with a well-trimmed goatee stormed into sight, clad in the fine velvets and rich furs of a prosperous merchant.

"What is the meaning of this?" raged the well-dressed man, glaring at them. "Do you not know who I am? I am Paul Korren, Master of the Merchants' Guild and a close friend of Lord Malden Roland, and he will hear of this outrage, I assure you!"

"Really?" said Tobias, still smiling, though it did not reach his eyes. "I happen to dine with Lord Malden several times a week, and he rarely mentions you. He did talk about you once, though. He said you were a toad who would sell his own mother for a copper coin. But perhaps my father's standards for his close friends have slipped."

"Your father?" said Korren, and then his eyes widened with recognition. "Sir Tobias! Forgive me. I...I did not recognize you."

He was sweating, Rachel saw. The man was terrified.

"Quite all right," said Gerald. Like Tobias, he was smiling, and it did not touch his blue eyes. "I'm sure a master merchant is far too busy to speak with the sons of his lawful lord. Perhaps I should mention that to my father, the next time I see him."

Korren looked back and forth, licking his lips. "But what is this about, my lords? I am a loyal subject of Lord Malden. I have done nothing wrong."

"Merely a precaution, you see," said Gerald. "If it turns out we have made a mistake, I will pay you recompense myself."

"A mistake?" said Korren. "About what?"

"My son was abducted from Knightcastle early this morning," said Gerald, "by a San-keth changeling. Some eyewitnesses saw a woman entering your wine cellar, carrying a baby. I will have my son back, master merchant, and if I have to search the house of every man in Knightcastle, I will do it."

Korren's expression did not change, did not even flicker, but his face went pale.

Rachel's hands curled into fists. He knew something about Sarah, he knew where the changeling had taken Aldane, and he had the temerity to lie about it...

"My wine cellar?" said Korren. "But, my lords, I fear you are mistaken. My wine cellar is tiny. Surely not large enough to hide a creature so vile as a San-keth changeling and a stolen child. Let me speak with Lord Malden, and surely I can convince him of my innocence..."

"Liar!" shrieked Rachel, stepping past Gerald. Korren looked at her, shocked. "Liar! You know who took him! You helped her! You helped her!"

Her hands hooked into claws, and she would have leapt upon him, but Gerald caught her shoulder.

"Who is this woman?" said Korren. "Bad enough that you have accused me unjustly of this crime! Must I endure the hysterics of some deranged wench?"

"Have a care, master merchant," said Gerald, his tone cool, "how you speak of my wife."

Korren flinched. "Your wife? You mean she's the apostate that..."

He fill silent.

"You called her an apostate," said Gerald, his voice even cooler. "The only ones to call her that are San-keth proselytes. Those who betray the gods of the Amathavian church, and turn to the worship of Sepharivaim, plotting murder and torture and bloodshed."

"You think too much for me, brother," said Tobias. "All I know is that San-keth proselytes are dangerous scoundrels, and our father's lands are better off without them."

Korren opened his mouth to answer, but a shout from the garden interrupted him.

"My lords! You need to see the wine cellar at once!"

Korren turned and ran for the door.

Or he tried to, rather. Tobias's meaty fist lashed out and smashed into Korren's jaw. The master merchant struck the paneled wall and bounced off, staggering. Tobias barked an order, and two armsmen hurried forward, pinning Korren's arms behind his back.

"Come, sir," said Tobias, still smiling that cold smile. "Let's see what sort of vintages you stock in your cellar, hmm?"

###

Paul Korren’s wine cellar was small and dusty. The armsmen shoved aside a pair of wine casks, revealing a wooden trapdoor set on the stone floor.

The trapdoor opened onto a scene Rachel remembered all too well from her nightmares.

A shrine to Sepharivaim, the serpent god of the San-keth, lay hidden below the cellar. A bronze image of a great coiled serpent lay upon a wooden altar. Bronze bowls and daggers rested below the serpent idol, and the altar’s side bore dark, crusted stains.

Sepharivaim was a jealous and cruel god, and demanded tribute in human blood from his servants. Was that why Sarah had taken Aldane? To kill him upon Sepharivaim’s bloodstained altars?

The thought made her want to throw up. Or to rip out Korren’s eyes. Or both.

“Oh, yes,” said Tobias, looking over the gloomy shrine. “A loyal subject of my father, indeed.”

Korren looked back and forth between Tobias and Gerald. “I don’t…my lords, I swear it, I didn’t even know this was here. The servants must pray to the serpent god here. Or…or it must have been here when I bought the house, yes, that’s…”

“Do you really think we are stupid enough to believe your lies?” said Gerald.

Korren sputtered some more, and then his expression hardened, contempt flashing in his eyes. “Fools. You don’t know the might of Sepharivaim. He will crush you utterly.”

“I have seen San-keth clerics slain,” said Gerald, “along with countless changelings. Sepharivaim must be a feeble god, if he has the loyalty of such pathetic servants.” He looked at the altar. “And such incompetent hirelings.”

Korren spat. “Sepharivaim will make you pay for such insolence, you…”

Tobias sighed and backhanded Korren across the face. The merchant fell with a cry of pain, blood flying from his lips. He slumped against the rough stone wall, and Tobias kicked him in the gut with a heavy boot. Korren fell, and would have toppled to the floor, but Tobias grabbed his collar with one hand and lifted him, Korren’s feet hanging over the floor.

“You should listen to me,” said Tobias in a pleasant tone. “My brother enjoys talking, and discussing theology and morality. I am a much simpler man, and so I will state this plainly. You will tell me what I want to know, or I will hurt you until you do.”

Korren spat in Tobias’s face. “I will never betray Sepharivaim! Never!”

Tobias shrugged and threw Korren against the wall. “Fair enough.” He glanced at Gerald. “You may want to withdraw, brother. You always found this…distasteful, I recall.”

“No,” said Gerald. “He knows what happened to my son. I will watch. Rachel, wait outside for us.”

She hesitated. If Korren knew what had happened to Aldane, she wanted to watch him suffer. But she knew that look in Gerald’s eyes, so she took the ladder to the wine cellar and climbed the stairs to Korren’s garden.

As soon as she stepped outside, she heard the screaming, and waited.

And as it turned out, Tobias only had to break four of Korren’s fingers before he started talking.

###

“Korren didn’t know her name, or her purpose,” said Gerald, voice grim.

Rachel watched him, her hands opening and closing over and over again.

They stood in the solar of the Old Keep, Knightcastle’s oldest tower. Here, Rachel knew, the ancient Roland kings of Knightcastle had built their fortress, raising a keep to defend their people against the Malrag hordes unleashed after the fall of Tristafel. Now four men stood before the solar’s high windows. Gerald, pacing as he described what Korren had confessed. Tobias, scowling, his massive arms crossed over his chest.

The third man was tall and slender, with hair so blond it was almost white, a marked contrast from his long black coat, cloak, trousers, and boots. Circan of Stormriver was Lord Malden’s new court wizard, sent after the San-keth had murdered Trocend Castleson last year. Rachel did her very best not to glare at him. She detested magic, and loathed wizards.

Skhath, after all, had been an accomplished necromancer.

The final man leaned heavily upon a silver-headed cane, the folds of his rich cloak and robe hanging loosely about his body. Malden Roland, Lord of Knightcastle and Gerald’s father, had aged greatly in the year since Sir Garain’s death. Rachel did not think it would be very long before Tobias took his father’s place as Lord of Knightcastle.

"She arrived in the middle of the night," said Gerald, still pacing before the solar's high windows. "She ordered him to give her a horse, and when he questioned her, she threatened to kill him. So Korren gave her the horse, and led her to his smugglers' tunnel. She took the horse and fled. I saw the tracks in the tunnel myself."

Lord Malden grunted. "Were you able to track her?"

"She made for the main road leading north from Castle Town," said Gerald. He shook his head. "From there her tracks merged with a thousand others. She could have taken any five roads from there."

"Did you kill Korren?" said Lord Malden. "Vile little rodent. All these years he is evaded my taxes with that smugglers' tunnel, and he kidnaps my grandson to boot. He deserves the blade. Or a dance at the end of a noose."

"Not yet, Father," said Tobias. "He still might know something useful, so I've got him in a cell. If we get Aldane back, we'll execute him then."

If? Rachel's hands trembled, and she tried to force them to stillness.

"What are we going to do?" said Rachel. Her voice quavered, and she hated herself for it. She had to stay strong. Aldane needed her to be strong. "We're not...we're not just going to let Sarah go, are we?"

"Of course not," said Gerald. "We will send word to every castle, town, village, and monastery in Knightrealm, with a description of Sarah and Aldane, and a bounty for his safe return and her head. I will organize the armsmen, to ride in parties along each of the roads she might have taken. A woman traveling alone with a baby will be unusual. She will almost certainly draw notice. We will find her, sooner or later."

He was trying to sound confident, she knew, for her sake. But she knew him too well by now. He doubted they would ever find Aldane again.

"There must," Rachel closed her eyes, trying to keep from weeping, "there must...be something else we can do. Something. Anything."

"There is."

Circan's voice was so soft Rachel scarce heard it.

"What?" said Gerald.

Circan's eyes were as pale as his hair, and they showed not a hint of emotion as they settled upon Rachel. "But you will not like it, my lady."

"What is it, man?" said Gerald. "My son is missing. I will do whatever it takes to get him back."

Circan hesitated, glanced at Lord Malden. The old lord nodded.

"When Aldane was born," said Circan, "my lord Malden bade me to draw a vial of his blood."

"Blood? Blood!" said Rachel. For a moment rage overrode her fear. She knew what kind of vile magic a necromancer could work with a vial of a victim's blood. Skhath had explained the spells, threatening to inflict them upon her should she ever betray him. "You touched my son, wizard? You used my son's blood for a spell. You scoundrel, I'll..."

"Father," said Gerald, "why did you not tell me of this?"

"Enough, daughter!" said Lord Malden. "And you as well, my son. Our house has made powerful enemies in the San-keth. Mazael dealt them a harsh blow, but I knew they would return someday. So I bade Circan to draw a vial of Aldane's blood. And yours, my daughter, and yours as well, my sons."

"But why?" said Rachel. "Why would you do such a thing?"

"Because," said Circan. "A vial of blood can be used to work terrible magic upon its owner. But it can also be used in a tracking spell."

"A...tracking spell?" said Tobias, frowning. "You mean, you can use your magic to...find Aldane?"

"In a manner of speaking," said Circan. "I cannot pinpoint the young lord's location with any degree of accuracy. But the vial of blood can act as a...compass, let us say. I can use it to follow him." He bowed in Rachel's direction. "Forgive me, my lady, for not mentioning this earlier. But I had to take caution. A skilled wizard can sense the presence of the spell, and work a counterspell that will destroy the vial of blood. But this Sarah of yours has no arcane skill. I can track your son with impunity."

"Then what the devil are we waiting for?" said Gerald. "I will ride at once to find Aldane, and you will ride with me, wizard."

"I shall come as well," said Tobias, rubbing his sword hilt.

"No," said Lord Malden. "You will remain here, Tobias." Tobias started to protest, but Lord Malden kept talking. "I am an old man, and tired, and you are my heirs. You must bear the burden of ruling Knightcastle when I die. And if all my sons die before me...then Knightrealm will fall into chaos after my death. I will not have it."

Tobias scowled, but gave a sharp nod.

"Gerald," said Lord Malden, "you will take Circan, and as many men as you need."

"No more than a hundred mounted armsmen, I think," said Gerald. "We can move faster that way. One woman and a baby on a horse can move very quickly."

"She will have to stop sooner or later," said Lord Malden. His tone grew stern, formal. "Sir Gerald of house Roland! My grandson has been kidnapped. I charge you to find this changeling, slay her, and bring my grandson back to Knightcastle."

"It shall be done, my lord," said Gerald.

"And I will come as well," said Rachel.

"No," said Gerald and Tobias and their father in unison.

"But I must!" said Rachel. "I have to get Aldane back. I will have no peace in my heart until he is safe again."

There was a silence.

"She is your wife, Gerald," said Lord Malden. "I leave the decision to you."

"This will be a hard journey, Rachel," said Gerald. "We shall have to ride fast. And Sarah might have allies she can call upon, other changelings, or maybe San-keth clerics. When we find her, there will be violence." His face twisted. "You could be hurt, or even killed..."

"I don't care," said Rachel, and she clutched his hands. "Do you know what it would be like to stay here, waiting for news? Knowing that every rider might carry word of Aldane's death, or yours? I cannot wait. She took him from me! I have to get him back. I have to! If...if I wait here, I am sure that I will go mad."

Gerald stared at her in silence for a long moment, his fingers kneading the back of her hands, emotions warring over his face.

At last he nodded.

###

An hour later a hundred mounted armsmen left Knightcastle's barbican. Sir Gerald Roland rode at their head, clad in his shining armor, a flowing blue cloak billowing from his shoulders. Circan was at his side, holding a crystal vial of blood in his right hand, muttering a spell under his breath.

Rachel rode in the midst of the column, heart hammering.

She would get Aldane back, or she would die.

There were no other options.

Chapter 7 - The Dragons

Mazael Cravenlock lay asleep and dreamed:

He stood on a battlefield, Lion in his hand, dead Malrags strewn at his feet. But some of his own men lay among them, their armor dented and torn by Malrag spears and axes.

Lion burned in his fist, the blade shining with blue flames.

Mazael turned as the Malrags rushed him.

He leapt to meet them, Lion in both hands. A cut took the hand from a Malrag’s arm, and Mazael spun, ripping open the throat of another. Yet the still they came at him, swinging black axes and stabbing black spears. Mazael killed Malrag after Malrag, but more took their places, gray lips pulled back from yellowed fangs, colorless eyes narrowed in fury.

Mazael killed and killed, Lion’s blade smoking with Malrag blood, but still the creatures continued their assault.

A snarl split the air, and a black shape blurred past Mazael, crashing into the Malrags. Two of the Malrags fell to the earth with roars of pain, their hamstrings torn, and Mazael saw the great black wolf, ivory fangs flashing. The wolf's savage fury drove the Malrags back, and Mazael flung himself into the fray. Four Malrags fell to Lion in as many heartbeats, and the black wolf leapt and pounced, fangs and claws dealing death.

Soon the remaining Malrags broke and ran, fleeing to the south. Not east towards the Great Mountains, not west towards Castle Cravenlock, and not towards Lord Richard’s castle of Swordgrim in the north.

Always towards the south, towards the Great Southern Forest.

Why?

Mazael turned, saw the black wolf staring at him, blue eyes blazing like Lion’s blade. He stepped towards the wolf, and it slunk back, fangs bared. For a moment he thought the wolf would flee, or attack him, but it did not.

It only stared at him, trembling as if enraged, or terrified.

But it did not run, and it did not attack. Still those blue eyes stared at him, full of rage and fear and...longing?

"Who are you?" said Mazael.

The wolf snarled.

"I know you mean me no threat, whoever you are," said Mazael. "But...you must have some reason for aiding me against the Malrags. Who are you? What do you wish of me?"

The wolf growled, snapping in his direction...

###

"My lord?"

Mazael blinked awake.

He lay on one of the benches in Castle Cravenlock's lofty great hall, gazing up at the vaulted ceiling. Light from the sunset streamed through the western windows, filling the hall with bloody light. His shoulders and back ached - he'd fallen asleep wearing his armor again.

Not that there had been much opportunity to remove it, lately.

Rufus Highgate stood over him, concern on his haughty face. Beneath his Cravenlock tabard, the boy wore a coat of black Malrag mail that hung to his knees. He had kept his head and killed two Malrags during the skirmish north of White Rock, and claimed his dead foe's armor as spoils. Mazael let his men claim weapons and armor from the slain Malrags as trophies. It helped keep their spirits up, let them boast of their deeds to their fellows.

Besides, the Malrag armor was very often better than their own gear anyway.

"My lord, the sentinels have seen Lord Richard's banners approaching," said Rufus. "You wanted to be informed at once."

"I did," said Mazael, sitting up. Around him workmen and servants labored in the great hall, carrying benches and raising tables. Tonight he would feast Lord Richard and his vassals, and the Dragonslayer would share his plans.

Tomorrow, they would march to battle against the Malrags.

"Go find Sir Hagen," said Mazael. "Tell him to meet me at the barbican. I'll be along shortly."

Rufus bowed and ran off, his black Malrag mail rattling.

Mazael rubbed his face, his beard scratching beneath his palms, and let out a long breath.

That damnable dream.

What did it mean? At first Mazael thought it had been a sending from the Old Demon. But the Old Demon's dreams had always been visions blood and death and power, meant to tempt Mazael's Demonsouled nature. Later he wondered if a different wizard, perhaps one of the Malrag shamans, had sent the dreams to damage his mind. But Lucan had cast a spell over him, probing for the presence of magic, and found nothing.

Whatever the dreams were, they had not been sent by the Old Demon or another wizard.

But what, then? Was it his Demonsouled essence, trying to take control? Or did it mean nothing at all? Merely his mind forming symbols as he slept?

No. Mazael had seen the wolf with his own eyes when it saved him from the balekhan in Cravenlock Town's square. Whatever the black wolf was, it was no symbol.

He gave an angry shake of his head. The frustration must have shown on his face, because the servants scurried to get out of his way, and he forced himself to calm. Mazael did not like mysteries, did not like lies. The Old Demon had tried to turn him into a puppet. Skhath had masqueraded as a human knight. Morebeth Galbraith had seduced him, hiding her Demonsouled nature.

Gods, but he was tired of being manipulated.

But he could not solve the mystery of the black wolf now, and the Lord of Swordgrim had arrived. And if Mazael was going to defend his lands and his people, he needed Lord Richard's help.

He left the great hall to greet the liege lord of the Grim Marches.

###

Lord Richard's vassals, the lords and knights of the Grim Marches, gathered to feast in the great hall of Castle Cravenlock.

Mazael knew them all. Many he had known as a squire, in the years before Lord Adalon banished him from the Grim Marches. The others he had met after he becoming Lord of Castle Cravenlock. Many feared him. Even those who did not believe he had killed Mitor to take the lordship of Castle Cravenlock.

But no matter what the lords and knights of the Grim Marches thought of Mazael, they had one thing in common.

They all feared Lord Richard Mandragon more than they feared Mazael.

Mazael walked among the lords, his fellow vassals, greeting them and exchanging polite words. Most of the lords, like Mazael, wore armor. Many of them, like Rufus, wore Malrag armor. The Malrags had attacked dozens of castles and towns. Many of the lords had been victorious.

Some had not.

"Lord Robert Highgate," said Mazael.

Robert, Lord of Castle Highgate and Rufus's father, gave him a thin smile. He had the same arrogant expression as his son, albeit on a face that was twenty-five years older and considerably fatter. Nevertheless, Robert knew how to lead men in battle.

The necklace of Malrag claws hanging from his belt proved that. Some of the men had taken to wearing them as trophies.

"Lord Mazael," said Robert. "My leg has been hurting me, lately."

Mazael snorted. "Then you should have guarded your left better, my lord." Years ago, he and Robert had been squires together, and Mazael had broken Robert's leg in a sparring match. "But we have grimmer things to discuss than the fights of our boyhood."

Robert's expression sobered. "Aye. Those damned Malrag devils hit us hard. If Castle Highgate was not so well fortified, they would have swept us away in hours. Aye, we're prepared well enough for war with men. But these unnatural devils? Bah! Give me a man to fight, not some spawn out of the pits of hell." He looked haunted. There was a hint of uncertainty, even fear, in his arrogant expression.

"Devils or not," said Mazael, "the Malrags are still flesh and blood. A sword can kill them. They can be fought, just as any other foe. And if they can be killed and fought, they can be defeated. Just like any other foe. Do you think Lord Richard will let the Malrags roll over the Grim Marches without offering a fight?"

Robert snorted. "Certainly not. Aye, we stood against them at Castle Highgate, even if we paid dear for it. And you, Lord Mazael. We have heard how you harried every Malrag foolish enough to set foot upon your lands. With Lord Richard to lead us, and you at his right hand, we will send these devils scurrying back to their holes!"

He clasped hands with Mazael, and moved on.

Mazael watched him go. Morale, he realized. That was the key. A lord had to keep his men's spirits up, to make them believe in victory. And apparently the lords themselves needed encouragement.

He turned, and saw a dark figure leaning against one of the great hall's pillars, watching him.

Mazael took a deep breath.

Best to get this over with at once.

He walked to the dark figure and gave a shallow bow, one suitable for greeting an equal. "Lord Toraine."

Toraine Mandragon returned an identical bow, smirking. "Lord Mazael."

Toraine, Lord Richard's eldest son and Lord of Hanging Tower, looked a great deal like his brother Lucan. Even the smirk was almost identical. But Toraine was tall where Lucan was short, and muscular where Lucan was slender. The Black Dragon, men called Toraine, from the interlocking black scales covering his armor, taken from a great dragon that Toraine had slain with his own hand.

That, and Toraine's utter lack of mercy. Before Toraine had become its lord, the Hanging Tower had been known as the Western Tower.

"You've done better than I expected against the Malrags," said Toraine. "I expected to find Cravenlock Town in ashes and Castle Cravenlock in ruins. Instead you have driven the Malrags back and kept your lands secure. Perhaps your reputation is not so overstated as I believed."

Mazael smiled. "And the tales of your exploits match perfectly with your reputation, my lord Toraine."

Toraine lifted an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Because the tales say you've slaughtered every Malrag you've come across," said Mazael. "Perhaps you confused them with peasants?"

Toraine's black eyes narrowed. "Lord Mazael. You are too soft-hearted. War is about killing, in the end. You kill more of them than they kill of you." He shook his head. "Even my father does not fully understand that."

"Oh?" said Mazael.

Toraine grinned. "After you killed Mitor, there were only two members of House Cravenlock left. You and Rachel Cravenlock. And for some reason, my father chose to spare both of you. He should have killed you and your sister. Had he done so, a potential enemy would have been removed, and the lands of Castle Cravenlock would have passed into my family's hands."

"Into your hands, you mean?" said Mazael, forcing himself to smile. Toraine, he knew, would respond to weakness the way a wild dog would respond to the smell of blood. "Lord Toraine of Castle Cravenlock?"

"Why not?" said Toraine. "I see how you coddle the peasants and the townsfolk, letting them flee into your lands. They are unnecessary mouths. You should have let the Malrags slay them, to save yourself the effort of feeding them. You're weak, Lord Mazael. You aren't strong enough to do what needs to be done. When I am liege lord of the Grim Marches, I will not tolerate such weakness in my vassals."

"You aren't liege lord yet," said Mazael. "Your father is a healthy man, and hopefully the gods shall grant him many long years."

"We may certainly hope," said Toraine. "After all, my father has shown you a great deal of mercy. Though he might change his mind, once he learns how you have been plotting with Lord Malden against him."

"Have I?" said Mazael. "Do enlighten me. I haven't spoken to Lord Malden in over a year. How have I plotted with him?"

Again that thin smile flashed across Toraine's face. "By joining your blood to his."

"My sister married Gerald Roland over a year ago," said Mazael. "Lord Richard has yet to express his disapproval."

"Perhaps my father will change his mind," said Toraine, "once he learns that Lady Rachel has given birth to a son."

Mazael blinked in surprise. "She has? The last letter I had from Knightcastle was five months past. She said she was pregnant, but I've heard no word since."

"Not surprising," said Toraine. "The Malrags have been killing anyone they can find. No doubt the courier bearing the news rode right into a Malrag warband. The boy's name is Aldane Roland. Which means your nephew is a son of House Roland, the mortal enemies of the Mandragons. When war between Mandragon and Roland comes - which it will - with whom shall you side, Lord Mazael? Hmm? Will you keep your oaths, and ride with my father? Or will you side your blood, and ride with Lord Malden against my father?"

Mazael laughed.

Toraine blinked, a scowl spreading across his face.

"To side with my blood," said Mazael, "would cost me more than you could possibly imagine, my lord Toraine. And I needn't worry about the choice. Neither Lord Richard nor Lord Malden can go to war with the other without my help. And they shall not have it. Knightcastle and the Grim Marches shall remain at peace."

Toraine's eyes narrowed.

"A good evening to you, my lord," said Mazael. "It is always a pleasure speaking with you."

He moved on before Toraine could answer him. That had not been wise, he knew, provoking Toraine like that. Lord Richard was not immortal. Someday he would die, and Toraine would become liege lord of the Grim Marches. And Toraine wanted Mazael dead, would not hesitate to kill every last man, woman, and child in Mazael's lands.

Part of Mazael's mind murmured that it would be best if Toraine met an "accident" while at Castle Cravenlock...

No. That impulse came from the Demonsouled part of Mazael's heart, and he would not give in to it. Not after the price Romaria had paid to save him from his Demonsouled essence.

Though perhaps it would be better if Toraine did die in the upcoming battles...

Mazael shook aside the thought and stopped. A lean man with a thin face and a crooked nose stepped into his path, green eyes glinting with amusement. He wore a green surcoat, embroidered with a black crow perched upon a gray rock.

"Lord Mazael!" said the thin-faced man, grinning. "Good to see you again. Though I hope this time you won't punch me in the face. That gets rather unpleasant, you know."

"Sir Tanam," said Mazael.

Toraine might have been Lord Richard's mailed right fist, but Sir Tanam Crowley of Crow's Rock was Lord Richard's cunning left hand. If Lord Richard wanted to put fear into his enemies, he sent Toraine after them. But if he wanted something done quietly, competently...then he sent Sir Tanam.

"You've been in the field?" said Mazael.

"Aye," said Tanam, making a flourishing bow. "Someone's got to keep an eye on these Malrag devils for Lord Richard. And if I happen to kill a few of them in the process...well, a man's got to have his fun, does he not?" He shook his head, locks of gray hair sliding over his pale forehead. "For all their cunning, the Malrags are dumber than rocks."

"How?" said Mazael. "The ones I've fought have been clever."

"Aye," said Tanam, "but they love killing too much. And they love preying upon anyone weaker than themselves. Send in one man on a horse, have him feign wounds, and you can lure the Malrags into a lovely trap. Worked my way through three warbands, doing that, on my way to your castle."

"Good," said Mazael. "The more you kill, the better."

"I agree," said Tanam. "Though this won't be over until we find and kill the Malrags' leader." He lowered his voice. "I spoke to Lucan, once I arrived...and I think I might have found the Demonsouled leading the Malrag host."

Mazael frowned. "You have?"

"Aye. And I think the Demonsouled is a Dominiar knight."

"A Dominiar," said Mazael. "But there are no more Dominiars. Amalric Galbraith killed their leadership, and I killed Amalric. The Order collapsed after that. The church withdrew its support of the order, and the Justiciar Order and Lord Malden divided the Dominiars' lands between them."

"The Dominiar Order is no more," said Tanam, "but there are still Dominiar knights left. Some have renounced their vows. Others turned to brigandage, or became mercenaries. And a few, I am told, have sworn revenge upon you, personally, my lord." He grinned. "It seems they hold the Battle of Tumblestone against you."

"That's hardly surprising," said Mazael. "But how would a Dominiar knight end up commanding a host of Malrags..."

And even as he spoke, the answer came to him.

"I spoke to Lucan," said Tanam. "He told me that only a powerful Demonsouled can command the Malrags. And you claimed that Amalric Galbraith was Demonsouled."

"I didn't claim he was Demonsouled," said Mazael. "He was Demonsouled." Mazael's half-brother, in fact, another child of the Old Demon. He remembered the way the sword of the Destroyer had blazed with blood-colored flames in Amalric's black-armored fist, the forest of corpses impaled upon the stakes raised around Tumblestone.

Tanam shrugged. "I believe you. I saw what Simonian of Briault did, after all. But if Amalric was Demonsouled...then some of his men might have been, as well." He lowered his voice. "My men have been scouting the Malrag warbands, and they've brought back reports. The Malrags do not ride horses, yet a group of horsemen ride with the warbands, all in black armor. The horsemen fly the Dominiar banner, an eight-pointed silver star upon a black background, and the Malrags take orders from the horsemen."

"It is a Demonsouled," said Mazael, voice thick. "Amalric was in his late twenties when I killed him. More than old enough to have fathered a son." So was Morebeth - she had claimed to have never borne a son, but every word she had told him had been a lie. "Or it could be another Demonsouled, one that served Amalric."

Or it could be another child of the Old Demon, like Mazael and Amalric. Or even the Old Demon himself. Mazael knew his father had not forgotten him, that the Old Demon would someday come to fight him once more. Had the Old Demon loosed the Malrag warbands upon the Grim Marches?

"My lord?" said Tanam.

Mazael blinked, shook his mind free from its dark speculations. "Then that is good news, Sir Tanam. To defeat the Malrags, we need only find this Demonsouled and kill him." Or her, thought Mazael, remembering Morebeth. "Once we do, the Malrags will turn upon each other, and we can destroy their warbands one by one."

Tanam grinned and clapped Mazael on the shoulder. "I look forward to it."

"As do I," said Mazael.

But he spoke with a confidence he did not feel. Three times now, he had faced another Demonsouled. The Old Demon had almost corrupted and killed him. Amalric had come within a hair's breadth of killing him, and Morebeth had almost seduced him. Only chance, or fate, or the intervention of the gods, had saved Mazael.

He had no wish to face another Demonsouled.

But he would not abandon his people to the Malrags' cruelty and butchery. If he had to fight another Demonsouled, he would. Whatever the cost to himself.

Tanam looked across the hall. "My lord Richard would speak with you, I think."

Mazael nodded and crossed his great hall, exchanging words with the lords and knights he as passed. Lucan Mandragon stood at the foot of the dais, draped in his black cloak, face shadowed beneath his hood. The black metal staff rested in his right hand. Mazael rarely saw Lucan without that staff, now.

Lord Richard Mandragon waited besides his younger son.

He was a vigorous man in his late forties, and the streaks of white threading the Dragonslayer's red hair and beard made it took as if a mane of fire wreathed his lean face. He wore gleaming red armor, its overlapping scales taken from the great red dragon he had slain in his youth. His black eyes were like discs of coal , and they displayed neither anger nor fear. Mazael could not recall ever hearing Lord Richard raise his voice in anger, not once.

Yet no one in Castle Cravenlock's great hall would dare to betray him. Not even Toraine and Lucan.

"Lord Mazael," said Lord Richard, his voice deep and resonant. "Thank you for hosting this gathering."

Mazael bowed with more respect than he had shown Toraine. "It must be done, my lord. The Malrags threaten us all."

"Indeed," said Lord Richard. "This is the gravest threat the Grim Marches have faced since the San-keth took control of Lord Adalon and Lord Mitor. But we destroyed that threat, and we shall destroy the Malrags. Utterly."

Beneath his hood, Lucan's lip curled in contempt, but he said nothing.

"Might I ask how?" said Mazael. "I assume you have a plan?"

"I do," said Lord Richard. "Too long we have been on the defensive against the Malrags. It is time to bring the fight to them. My knights and vassals have gathered their men. Tomorrow we shall ride out and show the Malrags what it means to wage war in the Grim Marches."

Lord Richard stepped atop the dais and lifted his hand, and silence fell over the great hall.

"My lords of the Grim Marches," said Lord Richard, his voice falling over the crowd. "You have come at my call, bound by your oaths, but many of you have already faced the Malrags in battle. And for those of you who remain untouched by war, it is only a matter of time. The Malrags threaten us all, and we must combine our strength to overcome the Malrags and wipe them from the face of the earth." He beckoned. “Sir Tanam?”

Tanam Crowley cleared his throat and crossed to the dais. “My men have been scouting the Malrags. Warbands range back and forth across the eastern Grim Marches, but the bulk of the Malrags are gathered in the foothills of the Great Mountains. There are at least fifty thousand of them. Maybe even as many as sixty thousand.”

Silence answered his pronouncement. If every lord and every knight called every man able to bear arms, the Grim Marches could muster twenty-five thousand fighting men, maybe thirty thousand.

“Then our path is clear,” said Lord Jonaril Mandrake, a stout man with arms like oak trees. “We must withdraw behind our castle walls and prepare for a siege, and wait for aid from the king and the other lords.”

“Wars are not won by hiding behind stone walls,” said Lord Richard, “and the king cares nothing for us, and the other lords of the realm would be more than glad to take our lands after the Malrags have slain us. No, if we are to save ourselves, we must do so with our own hands.”

“How, then?” said Lord Astor Hawking, a thin man with an ascetic face.

Lord Richard gestured to the side. Each of the lords had brought their court wizards, and they stood in silence a corner of the hall, clad in their long black coats and cloaks. Timothy stood with them, looking solemn.

“The wizards,” said Lord Richard, “have told me of the nature of the Malrags, how they are soulless things, animated by evil spirits, controlled by cruelty and base impulse. Without a powerful leader to hold them together, they will turn upon each other, even in the face of their enemies. And almost certainly this leader is a powerful Demonsouled. Sir Tanam’s men have seen a horseman in black armor leading the Malrags – and we all know that the Malrags do not ride horses. Our task, then, is a simple one. We shall find this Demonsouled and kill him. Once the Malrag warbands turn upon each other, we will destroy them one by one.”

“And how shall we do that?” said Lord Jonaril. “Surely this Demonsouled creature is no fool.”

“Neither are we,” said Lord Richard. “Our great advantage is cavalry. The Malrags do not use beasts in warfare, it seems, and the plains of the Grim Marches favor horsemen. We shall use this to our advantage. The greater part of the footmen shall remain in the towns and castles, garrisoning them from Malrag attack. Our horsemen will gather in force, and attack Malrag warbands one by one, overwhelming them. Sooner or later the Demonsouled leader will throw the bulk of his forces at us, or come in person to deal with our threat.” Lord Richard closed his fist. “And then we shall have him. If he has arcane abilities, our wizards will overwhelm him. Once he is slain, the Malrags will turn on each other, and we can destroy the warbands at our leisure.”

It was a good plan.

But Mazael doubted that it would be so simple.

Chapter 8 - The Grand Master

Word came from Mazael’s scouts the morning after the feast. Eight hundred Malrags had been spotted a few hours east of Castle Cravenlock, moving to the southeast, away from both the town and the castle. Yet a half-dozen small villages lay in their path.

If the Malrags wanted to cross Mazael’s lands, they would pay a toll in blood.

He paused only long enough to send a message to Sir Tanam Crowley.

Mazael rode out at the head of three hundred horsemen, knights, armsmen, and archers, with Sir Hagen, Sir Aulus, Timothy, and Lucan at his side. Lion rested against Mazael’s hip, a heavy lance ready in his right hand. The knights and the mounted armsmen followed him in a column, the horse archers covering the flanks.

It did not take long to find the Malrag warband. Mazael saw the column of dust first, the Malrags’ armored boots churning at the dry earth. Then he saw the Malrags themselves, the warband hastening across the plains like some great black predator.

A predator that turned to face Mazael’s men.

“They’ve seen us,” said Hagen. He rubbed his close-cropped black beard and pulled on his helm.

“Good,” said Mazael. “If they wish to visit my lands, it’s only proper that we should greet them. Sir Aulus! Sound the halt, and release the archers!”

Sir Aulus lifted his horn to his lips. The thin knight blew a long blast on the horn, and Mazael’s horsemen came to a halt. Another three short blasts in quick succession, and the mounted archers galloped forward. They rode small, quick horses, and bore light leather armor, a powerful short bow, and three quivers of arrows. The archers were neither knights nor armsmen, but militiamen, common peasants pressed into service against the Malrags. Most of the Grim Marches’ commoners labored as farmers, but quite a few tended flocks of sheep and cattle.

Which meant that many of them had been born in the saddle, and learned how to shoot from horseback at an early age.

The archers galloped back and forth before the Malrag line, loosing arrow after arrow. The arrows plunged into black armor, and Mazael heard roars and bellows of pain, a few of the Malrags even toppling to the earth.

The warband wheeled, chasing after their tormentors. But the archers raced away, twisting in the saddle to release another barrage of arrows. More Malrags fell, trampled beneath their enraged comrades.

“Aulus,” said Mazael. “Have them break!”

Aulus blew another series of blasts. The horse archers broke into three groups and fled in different directions. The maneuver went off smoothly; Sir Hagen’s endless drilling of the militia had paid off. The Malrags scattered, attempting to chase down the archers.

“Aulus!” said Mazael, raising his lance and slinging his shield over his left arm. “The charge! Now!”

Aulus sounded a long blast, and Mazael kicked Challenger to a gallop, the big destrier surging forward with a snort of excitement. Behind him the knights and armsmen gave a shout and galloped after Mazael. Lucan and Timothy remained behind, ready to deal with any Malrag shamans.

The Malrags could not miss the thunderous charge of two hundred heavy horse, and tried to scramble into a spear wall. But they had scattered too far in pursuit, and the knights charged too fast. Mazael braced himself, his armored boots digging into his stirrups, and aimed his lance. A heartbeat latter Challenger crashed into the Malrag line, the lance plunging through a Malrag’s chest, another dying beneath Challenger’s steel-shod hooves.  Some of his knights were thrown to the ground, cut down by Malrag axes, and others fell, their horses slain, but a score of Malrags perished for every one one of Mazael’s men. Mazael caught a glimpse of the balekhan in its black plate armor, but a moment later the balekhan disappeared in a storm of flashing hooves.

The Malrags broke and ran.

Mazael reined up, his lance's head dark with Malrag blood. "Sir Aulus!" He looked around for his herald. "Sir Aulus!" Aulus trotted his horse over, one hand gripping the lance with the black Cravenlock standard, the other holding a bloody sword. "Sound the recall! We'll ride the rest of them down, kill them one by..."

"Lord Mazael!" Sir Hagen galloped to Mazael's side, pointing with his war axe. "Lord Mazael, look!"

Mazael turned, frowning.

He saw dark shapes perhaps two miles to the north, marching in precise order, black spears and axes glinting in the morning sunlight. Malrags. Another warband, at least five or six hundred strong. A warband with its own balekhan, and perhaps a shaman or two. Once the fleeing Malrags reached the balekhan, it would take command, and Mazael would face nearly a thousand Malrags with only three hundred horsemen.

He did not like those odds.

"Sir Aulus!" he bellowed. "Sound the recall. The men are to reform. We'll take action once we see what that second warband does." In war, it was better to force an enemy to respond, rather than to respond to the foe’s actions. But until Mazael saw what the second warband intended, he dared not risk his men's lives in a futile charge.

Aulus stood up in his saddle, sounding the recall. One by one, Mazael's men broke off their pursuit and galloped back to Aulus's standard, moving into their place in the formation. Mazael's hand tightened around his lance, his gauntlet creaking, and he watched the fleeing Malrags join the new warband. He expected them to charge, to march forward, even to howl their bloodcurdling war cries.

But instead the Malrags stood motionless and silent. Waiting. But for what?

He looked around, saw Timothy and Lucan nearby.

"Timothy," said Mazael. "Those Malrags. Any shamans among them?"

Timothy's eyelids fluttered, his bearded lips moving, his right hand clenched tight about his wire-wrapped quartz crystal. "I don't think...wait. There's one. Just one. But, gods...strong." His eyes snapped open. "My lord, there's a human wizard among them, a powerful one."

"A human wizard?" said Mazael. Was the wizard the Demonsouled in command of the Malrags? Mazael possessed no magical ability, and neither had Amalric or Morebeth. But the Old Demon was a wizard of crushing power. "Demonsouled?"

"Perhaps. I...can't tell."

"There's another source of power among them," murmured Lucan, pointing with his staff. "Not a wizard, I think. Not even human. But strong nonetheless."

"Demonsouled?" said Mazael. Timothy, he knew, could not sense the presence of a Demonsouled. Otherwise he would have realized Mazael's secret long ago. But Lucan had some means of doing so.

"Perhaps," muttered Lucan. "I can't tell. It seems like...Demonsouled power, yes. But as if it's contained, somehow...like in an object."

He frowned, and glanced at his metal staff, for some reason.

Hagen cursed and pointed with his axe again. "Horsemen. Flying the Dominiar banner."

A group of Malrags emerged from the warband, one of them carrying a black banner with the silver Dominiar star. In their midst rode two horsemen. One wore a heavy black cloak, not very different from Lucan's. The other rider was much larger, and wore ornate black plate armor, the same sort of armor once worn by Dominiar commanders.

A Demonsouled Dominiar knight? Mazael remembered Amalric Galbraith, the sword of the Destroyer a crimson inferno in his fist.

The rider in the black cloak stood up the stirrups, hand gesturing in a spell.

"Parley!" His voice boomed over the distance separating Mazael's men and the Malrags. "Parley! The Grand Master wishes to speak with Lord Mazael! Come with one companion, and the Grand Master will parley with Lord Mazael!"

"My lord, do not," said Hagen. "It is a trap, plainly."

"Plainly," said Mazael.

"Undoubtedly they will kill you if you walk into their hands," said Timothy.

"They can try," said Mazael. "But if that big fellow on the horse is the Demonsouled in command of the Malrags, and I can get him within reach of Lion...that would be well worth the risk. And if he is indeed the Demonsouled and we can kill him, our lives will be well spent. Lucan! Come with me. Hagen! You have command until I return." He handed over his lance to Hagen. "If the Malrags show any sign of treachery, attack."

"But..." said Timothy, Aulus, and Hagen in unison.

"Do as I say," said Mazael. He turned Challenger around, and rode from his men, Lucan riding alongside him. After a moment the black-armored man and the rider in the black cloak rode out from the Malrags.

They met in the middle, halfway between the Malrag warband and Mazael's horsemen, and stared at each other in silence. The black-armored rider had the hilt of a two-handed greatsword rising over his shoulder. Besides him the second horseman sat in his saddle, wrapped in his black cloak. The wind tugged at the cloak, and Mazael saw a long black coat beneath the cloak.

A black wizard’s coat.

The cloaked man drew back his hood. He was in his late fifties or early sixties, with a lean, lined face, pale blue eyes, and a wild shock of white hair. A small smile danced over his thin lips, as if secret jest amused him. He looked at Mazael, at Lucan, and then back at Mazael.

“You realize,” he said, his voice sonorous, “that if we sit here in silence, this meeting is going to be dreadfully tedious.”

“Then perhaps you ought to say something worth listening to,” said Mazael. “Such as why you are riding with the Malrags. Or why one of you, or perhaps both of you, are commanding the Malrags. Or why the Malrags have attacked my lands and killed my people without justification. Or why I simply shouldn’t kill the both of you.”

The armored man shifted, and the cloaked man chuckled. “Really, my lord Mazael. Such bluster. We shall never accomplish anything, if you are so quick to violence.”

“You have me at a disadvantage,” said Mazael. “You know my name and title, but I do not know yours.”

The cloaked man’s smile widened. “Fair enough. I am called Malavost, once of Alborg, and I have no title.” Lucan stirred. “Ah. The Dragon’s Shadow recognizes the name, I see. Very good. That will save much tedious explanation.”

The armored man pulled off his black helm. Beneath it he had a broad face, with iron-colored hair, a close-cropped iron-colored beard, and iron-colored eyes. Unlike Malavost, he did not smile. In fact, his gray eyes blazed with hate as they stared at Mazael.

“And I,” said the Dominiar knight, “am Ultorin, Grand Master of the Dominiar Order.”

“Grand Master? Of what? There is no more Dominiar Order,” said Mazael.

Ultorin bared his teeth in a snarl. “Because you murdered the last Grand Master, Amalric Galbraith, and you butchered our brother knights below the walls of Tumblestone.”

“Amalric was Demonsouled,” said Mazael, “and he led your brother knights on a trail of rape and butchery through the Old Kingdoms and Knightrealm. He deserved his fate, and you were a fool to follow him.”

“He would have conquered the world,” said Ultorin, the hatred in his eyes shining brighter. “And we would have built a new world, a world of order, of peace, a world purged of weakness and corruption. All that we could have had…had you not murdered Grand Master Amalric.”

“So that’s what this is about?” said Mazael, waving his hand at the Malrags. Was Ultorin the Demonsouled? Or Malavost? Or both of them? “Vengeance for that butcher Amalric?”

“Not at all,” said Malavost with his thin smile. “I’m afraid, Lord Mazael, that our true purpose is quite beyond your comprehension. Vengeance is merely a bonus for Ultorin here. Which he shall take presently.”

Ultorin drew his greatsword from over his shoulder, holding it in one hand. The black blade was massive, as wide as Mazael’s hand, the razor edges glimmering. Sigils had been carved down the length of the blade, jagged, irregular symbols that seemed to speak of death and madness.

Lucan flinched.

The sigils in Ultorin’s sword brightened with blood-colored light, a haze of darkness shimmering around the blade. It looked as if Ultorin held a thunderhead in his fist, a storm illuminated from within by crimson lightning. Mazael felt power washing off from the blade in waves, and he yanked Lion from its scabbard. At once the sword jolted in his hand, azure flames running up the blade.

Lion only reacted that way to things of dark magic. Whatever power filled Ultorin’s sword, it was not benevolent.

“You’re going to die, Lord Mazael,” said Malavost. “Here and now. Along with the Dragon’s Shadow. You will not impede our plans.”

He lifted his hands and began a spell, green light flickering around his fingertips.

Ultorin roared and spurred his horse towards Mazael, greatsword lifted for a two-handed blow.

###

Lucan saw Malavost lift his hands in the beginnings of a spell.

He gestured and muttered a spell of his own, unleashing a blast of psychokinetic force. Malavost flinched as the spell struck him, his cloak billowing about him, but his wards absorbed the worst of the spell.

Malavost turned his horse in a circle, eyes falling on Lucan.

“Ah,” he said, as Ultorin charged at Mazael. “The Dragon’s Shadow. Marstan’s little apprentice. Let us see if you are everything your reputation claims.”

He lifted his left hand, wisps of darkness churning around his hooked fingers. Lucan felt the power of the spell, its raw potency, and began a defensive spell, strengthening his own protective wards.

He finished an instant before Malavost did.

A black shadow leapt from Malavost’s hands to strike Lucan, tentacles of darkness wrapping around him and stretching into his horse. The horse reared up, screaming in agony, and collapsed dead to the ground. Lucan’s wards absorbed the spell, protecting him from harm, but the backlash of struggling energies flung him from the saddle.

He struck the ground and heard Malavost begin another spell.

###

Ultorin galloped at Mazael, snarling in fury. Mazael booted Challenger to a run, gripping Lion for a thrust, intending to stab below Ultorin’s raised arms. No – Ultorin was moving too fast. Mazael shifted, bringing his shield around to block Ultorin’s attack.

It just barely saved his life.

The black greatsword hammered down in a blaze of red light, and Mazael’s shield exploded in a spray of oaken shards. Pain burned up his arm, and the force of the blow almost knocked him from the saddle. Only by plunging his boots into the stirrups did he keep his seat. Challenger and Ultorin’s black horse galloped past each other, and Mazael seized the reins with his aching left hand, spinning his destrier around.

Ultorin reined up, stood in his stirrups, waving his greatsword overhead.

The Malrags loosed their war cry and leapt forward, their line dissolving as they charged. A horn blast rang over the plains, and Mazael’s horsemen charged forward with a shout. A thunderclap and a flash of green light, and Mazael saw Lucan go sprawling, Malavost wreathed in ghostly green flames. Ultorin urged his horse to a gallop, the massive greatsword spinning in his right hand as if it weighed nothing at all.

Mazael gritted his teeth and put his spurs to Challenger's flanks, moving to meet Ultorin's charge.

###

Lucan scrambled back to his feet, leaning upon his staff, free hand gesturing as he muttered another spell. Power surged through him, his will plunging into the spirit world and opening a passageway.

Two creatures answered his call. They looked like great lions, albeit lions with scorpions' wings and tails, and a mass of barbed tentacles for manes. The spirit beasts screamed with piercing, unearthly wails and raced forward, mouths yawning wide as they closed on Malavost.

But Malavost was already casting another spell. He flung out his hands, and a shimmering corona of blue light enveloped both him and his horse. The lions flinched away from the light, snarling. Malavost gestured again, and the blue light pulsed. Then the glow vanished, and the lions with it, banished back to the spirit world.

"Competent enough, I suppose," said Malavost, smirking. "But still elementary. Were you really Marstan's student? Marstan would never have attempted anything so utterly pedestrian against..."

"Stop talking," said Lucan, and lifted his staff.

The staff answered his need. Demonsouled power flooded into Lucan, easing his weariness, filling him with fresh strength. The sigils carved into the staff flared and pulsed with blood-colored light.

With light, he realized, exactly the same color as the sigils upon Ultorin's sword.

Malavost's pale eyes narrowed in alarm, his smile vanishing for the first time, and he began a defensive spell.

But this time Lucan had the initiative. He poured his will into the staff and unleashed a blast of invisible force. It caught Malavost in the chest and flung him to the ground. Malavost scrambled to his feet, scowling, and Lucan struck again. This time Malavost crossed his arms before him and snarled out a short spell. A fresh ward crackled into existence around him, and Lucan's spell crashed into it. For a moment snarling force surrounded Malavost, his cloak snapping in the sudden gale, and then Lucan's spell faded away.

Malavost's ward had held.

Lucan began another spell, but Malavost's words cut him short.

"You little fool," he said, amused. "A bloodstaff? Infused with the blood of some hapless Demonsouled you slew, no doubt. I'm sure it provides you with quite a power surge...but is it really worth the cost?"

Lucan hesitated. The staff's power screamed through him, urging him to destroy Malavost, to crush him utterly, and then to start butchering the Malrags.

"Ah," said Malavost. "You don't know. Do you have any idea what that staff is doing to you? I thought not." He laughed. "Ultorin doesn't know what his bloodsword is doing to him, either. And if he did...he would not have dared to come within a mile of it."

Lucan risked a glance to the side, where Ultorin and Lord Mazael dueled each either, Lion sheathed in azure flame, Ultorin's greatsword cloaked in darkness and crimson fire. The Malrags ran at them, screaming, while the horsemen of Castle Cravenlock thundered towards the duel...

And in that moment of distraction, Malavost unleashed his full power at Lucan.

###

Ultorin and Mazael dueled, their horses circling around each other.

Mazael swung and stabbed, shifting his grip on Lion's hilt from one-handed to two-handed as his blows demanded. Ultorin was strong, as strong as Mazael, and his massive greatsword gave him a longer reach. Yet the magic of Lion's blade proved capable of blocking the dark power in Ultorin's sword, and Mazael's lighter longsword was quicker than Ultorin's heavy weapon. Again and again Lion slipped past Ultorin's guard, leaving scratches in the Dominiar's massive black armor. If only Mazael could get Lion's point into the armor's weak points, he could end this fight.

And he could break the Malrags. Ultorin was their Demonsouled leader, he was sure of it.

An explosion rang out, a column of dirt shooting into the air. Mazael risked a glance to the side, saw Malavost wreathed in swirling darkness, saw Lucan gesturing with his black staff, its sigils ablaze with fiery light. Lucan looked exhausted, his face pale, his hands trembling, while Malavost...

Malavost only looked amused.

Ultorin took advantage of Mazael's distraction. His black horse spun around, his blade looping for Mazael's head. Mazael ducked, the edge of the greatsword scraping along the top of his helm. A deathly chill radiated from the weapon, and the force of the blow nearly snapped Mazael's neck. But he kept his seat, and lunged forward, all his strength behind Lion.

His sword's point crunched into Ultorin's right shoulder, the azure flames blazing hotter. If Ultorin was Demonsouled, no doubt he could heal wounds in a matter of moments. But those moments counted, and if Mazael could drive home his advantage and land a killing blow...

At that moment his horsemen and Ultorin's Malrags crashed together around them.

A pair of Malrags attacked Mazael, cutting him off from Ultorin. He spun Challenger, trying to avoid their blows, wishing he still had a shield. A black axe missed his leg, while a spearhead dug through his armor, digging into his calf. Mazael snarled in pain and lashed out with Lion, ripping open a Malrag’s neck. The second Malrag sprang forward, raising its axe for a blow, only to lose its head to the sword of a passing knight. Mazael pressed his knees to Challenger’s flanks and the horse started forward, moving in pursuit of Ultorin.

His leg hurt, badly, but he already felt the pain subsiding as his Demonsouled essence healed the wound.

A pair of armsmen in Cravenlock tabards attacked Ultorin, each man wielding a shield and a heavy mace. Ultorin bellowed, his black sword whipping about in a sideways cut. The blade smashed through a heavy shield and ripped into the unfortunate armsman's chest, the bloody light from the sigils shining ever brighter. Ultorin wheeled his horse around, turning to face the remaining armsman, lifting his greatsword for a deadly blow.

It was the perfect opportunity. As Challenger galloped past, Mazael struck out, all his strength and his horse's speed behind the blow. Lion's point struck below Ultorin's upraised left arm, sinking deep into his armpit. Ultorin howled in rage and pain, sagging in the saddle, his horse carrying him towards the Malrags. Blood streamed down his armor, dark against his darker cuirass. The wound was mortal - Mazael had seen enough mortal wounds, and dealt enough of them, to know one when he saw it. Ultorin would bleed out in a matter of moments.

Strange that it had been so easy. Malavost must have been the Demonsouled, not Ultorin. Mazael struck down a passing Malrag, and then another, looking for the wizard...

Ultorin screamed.

Mazael turned and saw Ultorin plunge his greatsword into a Malrag's back. The carved sigils blazed, the darkness surrounding the blade thickening. The Malrag thrashed and heaved, colorless eyes bulging, its fanged mouth open in a silent scream.

And then the Malrag...withered. There was no other word to describe it. The Malrag shrank into a desiccated skeleton, draped in leathery skin. Then it crumbled into smoking black ash, chunks of disintegrating bone raining to the earth. Ultorin whipped his sword free from the ruin, lifted his face to the sky, and howled like a maddened beast. His face was flushed with fresh vitality, and he even looked slightly younger.

The black sword, Mazael realized. It had drained the Malrag's life, pouring the energy into Ultorin...and healing his wound in the process.

And then there was no more time for thought.

Ultorin galloped towards him, still roaring in fury, and Mazael rode to meet his attack.

###

Malavost's full power drove at Lucan, a psychokinetic hammer that tore at the earth. Yet Lucan gripped both hands around his staff, the burning Demonsouled power filling him with might, and his ward turned the worst of the attack. With a howl of rage, he flung out his hands and shouted a spell. Malavost's attack dissipated, and Lucan's own will lashed out. A jet of blood-colored flame burst from his staff, drilling towards Malavost.

Malavost snarled, both his hands held out before him, shouting a spell of his own. A ward shimmered into existence before him, and Lucan's fire parted a few inches before Malavost, flowing around him like a river around a stone. The blast of magical flame killed two Malrags and sent a third fleeing, its armor melted to its skin, but left Malavost untouched.

Still Malavost laughed.

"Fool," he said. "All that power, and you still can barely touch me? Shameful! If Marstan had wielded that kind of power, he would have ripped me to shreds."

Lucan spat in fury, his mind pulsing with rage, every instinct screaming for him to rip Malavost to shreds, to dance laughing in his blood. But a small part of his mind, the part still sane, knew that Malavost was right. Malavost could not match his power with the staff, but Lucan could not match Malavost’s skill. No matter how much raw magical force Lucan flung at Malavost, the older wizard managed to deflect it, or turn it back upon Lucan.

He needed a distraction.

And even as the thought crossed Lucan's mind, the air behind Malavost blurred, and Timothy stepped out of nothingness. In the raging madness of the Demonsouled power burning through him, Lucan had forgotten all about Timothy.

And so, it seemed, had Malavost.

Timothy lifted his arm, a copper tube clutched in his fist, his mouth flying through an incantation. Malavost whirled and began a spell, but it was too late. A roaring gout of orange-yellow flame exploded from the copper tube, engulfing Malavost and a half-dozen nearby Malrags in a howling firestorm. Timothy lacked Lucan's power and skill, and came nowhere near to Malavost's level. Yet he could still unleash a powerful blast of flame, and Lucan sensed Malavost's wards shuddering beneath the strain.

It was the opportunity he needed to attack.

Lucan struck out with all his will, his spell augmented by the staff's power. Malavost staggered in the midst of Timothy's firestorm, his wards trembling around him. Lucan only need to collapse Malavost’s failing wards, and then Timothy’s flames would reduce Malavost to smoking char...

Malavost flung out his arms and shouted.

And psychokinetic force exploded in all directions. The sudden gale blew out the flames, flinging Malrags and Cravenlock armsmen alike to the ground. Timothy fell backwards, bounced, and did not move. Malavost's will struck Lucan like a falling boulder, and he fell, hitting the ground hard.

And as he did, his concentration broke, and his connection to the staff vanished.

Lucan got to his knees, only to empty his stomach. His arms and legs felt like wet paper, and wave after wave of pain pulsed through his head. His vision swam, and for a moment he saw two of everything. Only by leaning upon the staff did he keep from falling upon his face.

He saw Malavost walking towards him, smiling once more.

Lucan struggled to rise, to cast a spell, but could do nothing through the pain filling his head.

He cursed himself for a fool. He'd known that the Demonsouled power would probably kill him, sooner or later...but hadn't even given him the strength to defeat Malavost.

A horn rang out.

Malavost stopped, his smile vanishing, and looked to the west.

With some effort, Lucan turned his head, and saw horsemen riding from the west, horsemen flying a banner of a black crow upon a field of green.

###

Mazael and Ultorin danced through the battle, Lion's blue flame struggling against the greatsword's burning darkness.

Again and again they fought, and again and again the press of Malrags and Cravenlock armsmen drove them apart. Mazael cut his way free from the Malrags, his armor splattered with black Malrag blood, and came at Ultorin. Ultorin's dark armor bore dozens of shiny marks from Mazael's blows, and Ultorin himself had been forced to kill three more Malrags to heal the wounds Mazael had dealt him.

Challenger crashed into Ultorin's horse, and Mazael brought Lion down in an overhead cut. Ultorin parried the blow a few inches from his head, and reversed his grip, driving his blade towards Mazael's heart. Mazael whipped Lion in a circle and beat aside the massive thrust, his sword's point digging another groove in Ultorin's cuirass.

Mazael's pulse thundered in his ears, the battle rage filling him with speed and power. It was his Demonsouled nature, he knew, but he remained in control, focusing his rage upon Ultorin. Ultorin, who led the Malrags. Ultorin, who had brought sword and fire to Mazael's lands.

Ultorin, who Mazael could defeat.

He knew it. He felt it in his bones. Ultorin was just as strong as Mazael, and his blazing greatsword made for a terrifying weapon, but Mazael was the better swordsman. Four times he had landed serious wounds upon Ultorin, while the Dominiar had left only minor scratches across Mazael's armor. If he could just land a solid blow upon Ultorin, the fight would be over.

And with it, perhaps, the Malrag invasion. He doubted that Ultorin was Demonsouled. Yet the Malrags seemed to obey Ultorin, and again and again he had flung them into Mazael's path.

But Demonsouled or not, Mazael would strike him down.

His next thrust came within a hair's breadth of splitting Ultorin's throat, leaving a bloody line down his bearded jaw. Ultorin snarled and spurred his horse to a gallop, waving his greatsword and bellowing a command. Five Malrags raced at Mazael, howling their inhuman war cries. Challenger crashed into them, trampling one beneath steel-shod hooves, and Mazael swung and thrust, Lion plunging through the Malrags' gray skins and into their innards.

Ultorin galloped away, trampling down Malrags that got in his path.

A horn rang out.

Mazael ripped Lion free from a Malrag skull and looked west. Horsemen raced across the plain, swords and spears in hand, their banners showing a black crow upon a green field. Sir Tanam Crowley's men. Mazael had sent word to him, before leaving Castle Cravenlock, to ride to battle. Now Crowley's men had arrived, and the Malrags were trapped.

The battle was soon over.

But both Ultorin and Malavost got away.

###

"I was wrong. Neither one of them," said Lucan, sagging in his saddle, "are actually Demonsouled."

They rode back to Castle Cravenlock, Mazael riding besides Sir Hagen, Lucan, Timothy, and Sir Tanam. The knights and armsmen rode behind Mazael, and many of the horses had empty saddles, or bore wounded men. He had lost far more men than he liked - but less than he had feared.

Going after Ultorin like that had been a hideous gamble, but Mazael had not lost it. Nor had he won the throw.

Yet.

"If neither Ultorin nor Malavost are Demonsouled," said Mazael, "then how are they commanding the Malrags? Do they both serve another Demonsouled?" Yet he had seen Ultorin give commands to the Malrags, seen them obey.

"His greatsword," said Lucan. He looked terrible, his skin sallow, his eyes sunken and feverish. He held his black staff like a dying man clutching his cane. Surviving the fight with Malavost must have been a terrible strain. "It's called a bloodsword. And...I think I know what it is."

Tanam Crowley frowned. "Other than magical, you mean? I saw the thing, if only from afar. Blood and darkness." He shook his head. "Maybe the sword itself is Demonsouled."

"Yes," said Lucan, looking up. "Yes, that's exactly it."

Tanam blinked. "It was only a jest."

"But a jest that struck the mark," said Lucan. "It...is possible to take the blood of a powerful Demonsouled, to use it in the forging of a weapon. Such a weapon is called a bloodsword, and it bestows the power of a Demonsouled on whosoever wields it. Along with other abilities, as well...you saw how Ultorin could heal his wounds by killing Malrags. I suspect the sword drains the life of its victims and transfers that energy to its wielders." His lip twitched. “Though drinking the life of a Malrag, I suspect, is rather like drinking poisoned wine.”

"Where would Ultorin have gotten a bloodsword?" said Mazael. Had the Old Demon given it to him, unleashed him and the Malrags upon the Grim Marches?

"From a Demonsouled, presumably," said Lucan. "And with the Demonsouled's cooperation." His hand tightened about the black staff. "It would undoubtedly be impossible to take a living Demonsouled's blood without his cooperation."

"Undoubtedly," said Mazael, thinking of how he would react to such an attempt.

"I suspect Ultorin obtained the bloodsword from Amalric Galbraith," said Lucan. "Ultorin declared his loyalty to Amalric during our...parley. No doubt Amalric created the sword as a reward for Ultorin's fealty, and to make him a more effective servant. But regardless of where he obtained it, the sword gives Ultorin the powers of a Demonsouled. And it lets him control the Malrags."

"This is grim news," said Tanam.

"No," said Mazael. "No, it's not."

The others gave him a puzzled look.

"I almost had him," said Mazael, voice quiet. "I fought Amalric Galbraith, and he would have killed me, had Sir Adalar not intervened. That bloodsword makes Ultorin fast and strong, but he's not Amalric Galbraith. I can kill him. Or we don't even need to kill him. We need only destroy the bloodsword. If we can, the Malrags will no longer obey Ultorin. They may even kill him for us, before they turn on each other."

Lucan grimaced. "Assuming we can defeat Malavost, first. I suspect he is more dangerous than Ultorin by far."

"You seemed to know who he was," said Mazael.

Lucan looked at Timothy.

Timothy cleared his throat. There was soot on his forehead and hands from the fire spell. "He is renegade, a necromancer and a warlock. Once he was a master wizard of the Order of Alborg, until his crimes were discovered." He sighed. "They say, my lord...they say that he studied under the necromancer Simonian of Briault."

Mazael's frown deepened. Few men knew that Simonian of Briault was actually the Old Demon, eldest of the Demonsouled and Mazael's father.

"Whether that story is true, I know not, and Malavost is unlikely to confirm it for us," said Lucan. "But I do know that he was one of Marstan's teachers. And he always excelled Marstan in both skill and power. He has friends among the San-keth, both the serpent people themselves and their human proselytes."

Mazael pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. Lucan had inherited all of Marstan's skill and power, and Lucan was one of the most powerful wizards Mazael had ever seen. If he could not defeat Malavost in a straight fight...

"Grim news, indeed," said Tanam, shaking his head.

"Grim or not," said Mazael, "Malavost is still a mortal man, and he can still die upon a sword blade like any other."

"I hope, my lord," said Lucan, "that you are correct."

Chapter 9 - The Cleric of Sepharivaim

Sykhana fled east, towards the Grim Marches and the village of Gray Pillar.

She rode her horse to death, and stole another one. She dared not linger. With Rachel Roland's death and her subterfuge with Paul Korren, she had left a tangled trail for any pursuers. Yet she had not lived this long by taking foolish chances, and when Gerald Roland tracked down Korren, she had no doubt the wretched merchant will tell everything to save his own hide.

Not that Lord Malden would show any mercy to a San-keth proselyte, not after a calibah had murdered his eldest son.

So Sykhana rode hard, stopping only to tend to Aldane.

Her Aldane.

The baby rode in a basket on her saddle, padded to protect him from the bouncing ride. She fed him fruit and meat ground into a paste, and milk she stole from passing farms. Her training at Karag Tormeth had been brutal, but it gave her the ability to move unseen and unnoticed with ease. At the time she had hated the training, but now she blessed it.

Sometimes Aldane cried, screaming at the top of his lungs, and Sykhana cradled him against her chest.

"Don't cry," she murmured. "Don't cry. Forget your mother. She was weak and stupid, unworthy of you. I will love and cherish you, always."

She kissed him on the forehead.

"And you will be a god," she said, "and live in power and splendor forever."

###

Soon she came to the town of Tristgard.

Most travelers going to the Grim Marches from Knightcastle took the road that looped north through the High Plain. But Sykhana hoped to avoid as many witnesses as possible - a lone woman traveling with a baby would draw notice. And some travelers would not hesitate to take advantage of one woman, apparently unarmed.

Sykhana grinned and licked her lips, her hidden fangs rasping against her tongue.

If anyone tried to stop her, they would regret it sorely.

But she did not expect any trouble at Tristgard, a pretty little town, with houses and walls of stone, it was a place for merchants to stop and rest as they made the journey from Knightcastle to the Grim Marches, or from Cadlyn in the High Plain to Knightport. Though the townspeople might be more vigilant - last year the archpriest Straganis and a band of calibah tried to kill Rachel and Mazael Cravenlock here as they journeyed to Knightcastle. But the attack had been a year past, and she suspected the townspeople would have fallen back into complacency by now.

So Sykhana was surprised to see militia patrolling both the road and the ford below the town. She reined up, frowning. Townsmen in leather armor, spears in hand, stood guard at the Black River’s ford. Others waited on the walls, crossbows in hand. Below the walls of Tristgard, she saw a ragged camp of dozens tents and wagons. Frightened, tired-looking people moved among the tents - hollow-eyed men with dirty faces, weeping children clutching at the skirts of tired women.

Refugees. But why had they fled here?

A pair of militiamen approached her, and Sykhana made sure to look properly frightened, her eyes downcast.

"Here now, lass," said the older of the two men, "what's your business here? Did you come from the Grim Marches?"

The Grim Marches?

"Nay, sir," she said. "My father's farm is in the hills. My sister came down with the flux, so she bade me to take her baby into town until she recovers, lest he catch the sickness."

"What's your father's name?" said the younger man, scowling.

"Brand," said Sykhana, picking the first name that came to mind.

"I don't know any Brand," said the younger man.

The older man snorted. "Don't be a fool, boy. One woman with a baby's no danger. And she doesn't have the flux - babies with the flux last only six hours, if they're lucky. You can enter the town, lass, but stay away from the common rooms - some of the lads will take liberties with a lone woman."

"Thank you, sir," Sykhana said, giving him a shy smile. "But...why are all these folk here, in the tents?"

"War's coming," said the younger man.

"Perhaps," said the older one. "There are rumors of trouble in the Grim Marches. The refugees say that Malrags have come down out of the mountains to burn and kill. Some Marcher folk have fled here, to get away from the troubles."

"Malrags?" said Sykhana. She had heard of Malrags - the clerics said they were real, though she had doubted to ever see one. Malrags had invaded the Grim Marches? She did not believe for a moment that it was a coincidence.

Just what had Malavost wrought?

"Aye," said the younger man. "Devils, without conscience or mercy. They'll burn the Grim Marches and come for us, you mark my words."

"Bah," said the older man. "It's Lord Mazael's lands they're attacking, I hear. And I saw Lord Mazael when the snake folk tried to kill him. He cut through them like wheat, and he'll do the same to the Malrags. You should go, lass - the road is no place for a lone woman."

Sykhana gave him the shy smile again and kept riding.

She slipped past the guards at the ford, stole one of their horses, and rode for the east.

###

Soon she came to the endless rolling plains of the Grim Marches, with the distant shape of the Great Mountains rising to the east.

And she realized that the rumors were true.

Everywhere she saw the signs of war. The Malrags had not yet come this far west. But she saw men drilling in the squares of villages and towns, saw knights galloping from castles, saw armsmen marching in formation, armor and weapons flashing in the sunlight. Wagons and horses choked the roads, as men and supplies moved east to the fighting, and peasants fled west to avoid it.

It was marvelous. In all this chaos, no one paid any attention to one woman with a baby.

She rode over the Northwater bridge and deeper into the Grim Marches.

###

Three days later she came to Castle Cravenlock itself.

The castle squatted atop its crag, dark and ominous, fortified with a strong wall and tall towers. It looked like a dark wizard’s stronghold from a child’s tale. Which was not surprising - the founder of the House of Cravenlock, a thousand years past, had been a San-keth proselyte, and built a hidden temple to Sepharivaim beneath his castle. The temple remained hidden and secret until Mazael Cravenlock killed Skhath, expelled the proselytes, and sealed the temple's entrances.

Not that Sykhana cared. She had served Sepharivaim and the San-keth loyally, but they had never given her a child to carry in her arms.

A short distance from the castle stood Cravenlock Town, an overgrown village of four thousand people. Or it had been, at any rate. Sykhana saw new construction in the town, and the stone walls had been fortified with additional towers and platforms for archers and siege engines. No doubt the refugees had swollen the town's population. And Mazael Cravenlock was no fool, which explained the additional fortifications.

But better to avoid both the town and the castle. Aldane was only two and a half months old, and Lord Mazael had never seen his nephew. But if Sykhana chanced to cross Mazael’s path, if he recognized something of his sister or Gerald in Aldane's face...no. Better to avoid him entirely.

Even as the thought crossed her mind, she saw the horsemen riding towards her.

Sykhana reined up, her stolen horse breathing hard. A score of armored men in Cravenlock tabards rode up, led by a villainous-looking knight with a close-cropped black beard and a chest like a barrel. A patrol, and unlike the men at Tristgard, they would be on their guard.

She made herself look frightened as they approached.

The men reined up around her.

"Hold," said the knight, not unkindly. "From where do you hail?"

Sykhana blinked, as if fighting back tears. "My name's Jenna, and I come from my father's farm, near the Northwater Inn. But...but three days ago those devils came, and my," she started to cry, "my father and my husband went out to fight them, and told me to take the baby and a horse and run, so I did, and the devils cut them down, and I ran, and ran..."

She dissolved into tears, weeping, huddling Aldane close to her chest.

Sympathy flashed over the knight's hard-bitten face, and Sykhana managed not to smirk.

"You're safe now," said the knight. "I am Sir Hagen Bridgebane, armsmaster to Lord Mazael of Castle Cravenlock. Lord Mazael has decreed that any driven from their homes by the Malrags may find refugee at Cravenlock Town. You'll have to work for your bread, aye, but the Malrags are pressing us hard, and every hand is needed."

"Truly, sir knight?" said Sykhana, her voice trembling. "Oh, thank you. Thank you!"

"Go to the town," said Sir Hagen, pointing. "Speak to Neville, the mayor. Tell him I sent you, and he'll find a place for you and your child. You might have to share a room with three or four other women, but it's still better than another night out in the open."

"Thank you, sir," she said again.

She rode past the gates of the town and made for the east, towards the looming shapes of the Great Mountains.

###

East of Castle Cravenlock, things were not so orderly.

Sykhana passed a half-dozen ruined villages, their houses and barns reduced to piles of blackened bricks. The corpses of butchered peasants lay bloated and decaying in the spring sunlight. She saw the corpses of Malrags as well, hundreds upon hundreds of them. They were hideous things, with gray skin, fanged mouths, six-fingered hands, and colorless eyes. And to judge from the number of dead Malrags, Lord Mazael and the other nobles of the Grim Marches were putting up a terrific fight.

She wondered why Malavost had brought the Malrags to the Grim Marches. Lord Mazael and Lord Richard were mortal foes of the San-keth, but Sykhana did not care about their emnity, and Malavost certainly did not. Ultorin hated Mazael, but Ultorin was nothing more than a rabid dog.

It puzzled her as she rode through more ruined villages and sacked towns.

###

Two days after Castle Cravenlock, she saw a Malrag warband.

Sykhana rode through the main street of a burned village. Wisps of smoke still rose from the wrecked houses, and fires crackled here and there. The villagers lay where they had been slain, their bodies hacked and torn by Malrag axes. Sykhana ignored them. Their deaths at the hands of the Malrags meant nothing to her.

Then she saw the dead woman.

Sykhana reined up, transfixed. A peasant woman of perhaps twenty years lay on her belly in the dirt, the back of her dress stiff with dried blood. Her eyes bulged with pain and horror.

A tiny white hand lay beneath her shoulder, the fingers loose.

The woman had tried to flee the Malrags, clutching her baby to her chest, and a Malrag plunged its spear into her back as she tried to save her child. Only the baby had been killed in her fall, crushed by the mother's weight. Or the Malrag's spear had plunged through the woman's chest to transfix the child.

For a moment Sykhana wondered what it would be like to lose Aldane, to see him die, and the pain that burned through her was so fierce that she gasped aloud. She touched his sleeping face with trembling fingers. He was so tiny, so perfect. She would not lose him. He would be a god and live forever, Malavost had promised. She would not lose him!

When she looked up, the Malrags were watching her.

A dozen of the creatures stood at the end of the street. They wore black armor, and carried black axes and spears. Black veins threaded beneath their leathery gray hides, and their colorless eyes showed no hint of mercy.

Sykhana hissed, her fangs extending over her lips, and snatched her hidden daggers from their hiding places.

One of the Malrags stepped forward. It was smaller than the others, almost spindly, and wore a robe of ragged black leather. Unlike its companions, it had a third eye in the center of its forehead, an eye that glowed with a ghostly green light. The three-eyed Malrag stared at her for a moment, and began to speak. Sykhana did not recognize the hissing, growling language...but somehow the meaning of the words echoed in her mind.

-You are not human-

"No," said Sykhana. "I am calibah, of both human and San-keth blood."

The three-eyed Malrag stepped closer to her, titling its head to the side. Suddenly Sykhana felt the cold prickle of magical power. The Malrag had arcane abilities, and she remembered some of her lessons in Karag Tormeth. The creature was a shaman, she realized, a Malrag spell caster.

The shaman began speaking again.

-But the young one is fully human. And the young ones are weak, helpless. They make the sweetest screams when they die-

Sykhana snarled, pointing her daggers at the shaman's face. "Dare to lift a finger against him, wretch, and I will spill your black blood upon the earth."

The shaman and the other Malrags hissed, their cold laughter echoing inside Sykhana's skull.

-Do you think death frightens me, little changeling? I have been slain many times, and I shall be slain many more ere the Great Demon is enfleshed once more. I have killed humans, and I have killed San-keth...and I have killed your kind, little changeling. A calibah woman screams much the same as any other as you strip the flesh from her arms one inch at a time-

"Try it," spat Sykhana, trying to hide her fear, "and I'll send you to meet your precious Great Demon."

Again the Malrags laughed at her.

-Fear not, little calibah. The Master bade us to watch for a calibah woman and a human infant. We are to take you to him at once-

"Yes," said Sykhana, trying to retake control of the conversation. She was used to inspiring fear, not feeling it. And the Malrag shaman's three-eyed gaze unsettled her. "The village of Gray Pillar. Your Master awaits me there."

-Come-

The Malrags left the village, and Sykhana followed them.

###

Gray Pillar lay to the east, at the very edge of the foothills, a village that earned its bread mining the gold veins of the Great Mountains. Or at least it had, until the Malrags had arrived.

And as the shaman led Sykhana east, she saw more and more Malrags.

At first it was only scouting parties of three or four. Then she saw an entire warband, led by a towering balekhan in black plate, two shamans at the creature’s side. And then more warbands, and still more, until the Malrags covered the Grim Marches like a black tide, like steel-armored locusts.

Sykhana tried to count the numbers, and finally gave up. There had to be at least seventy thousand of the creatures. Maybe even as many as a hundred thousand, and still more were gathering. Lord Richard Mandragon and all his vassals together could not muster more than twenty-five thousand fighting men. The Malrags, if they wanted, could slaughter every living human in the Grim Marches.

But why did Malavost care?

Later that day they came to Gray Pillar.

The village took its name from the tall column of gray stone rising from its square, some monument left over from a long-forgotten kingdom. Houses built of rough-mortared fieldstone ringed the square, their roofs burned, dead peasants rotting in the sun. Hundreds of Malrags thronged the village, watching as the shaman led her past.

Malavost and Ultorin waited for her at the base of the pillar. Ultorin was massive in his black plate armor, one armored hand resting loosely around the hilt of his bloodsword. Besides him, Malavost almost looked like a scarecrow in black, albeit a scarecrow with white hair and pale blue eyes.

Yet Sykhana knew that Malavost was the more dangerous by far.

Ultorin sneered as she approached, and then he laughed. “So. The snake’s little pet has returned.”

“I have,” said Sykhana, hiding a frown.

Ultorin looked a bit paler than she remembered, with dark circles under his iron-colored eyes. He seemed ill at ease, as if the sun’s light pained him. Malavost had mentioned that the bloodsword might have…deleterious effects upon Ultorin, but she hadn’t expected to see them so soon.

“There’s no need for hostility, Grand Master,” said Malavost in his resonant voice. “We could not begin until Sykhana brought the child. And she has.” His ever-present smile widened. “Now we can act in force. Our goals shall be accomplished…and you will have your vengeance when Lord Mazael moves to stop us.”

Ultorin spat upon the ground. “Let him try.”

"You've done well, Sykhana," said Malavost. "Are you ready to present the child to the cleric?"

Sykhana stiffened in the saddle. Aldane was hers. Hers! Every instinct screamed against showing Aldane to the miserable old priest.

She calmed down. Malavost had promised that Aldane would be hers forever. And Skaloban would never have him.

"Yes," said Sykhana, swinging down from the saddle. She lifted Aldane from his padded basket. "You may take me to Skaloban now."

Malavost gave a bow that had just a hint of mockery to it, and beckoned. Ultorin snorted, shook his head, and stalked away, hand still caressing the hilt of his bloodsword. He cared nothing for the San-keth, viewing them only as a means to the end, even before Malavost had given him that sword.

Sykhana wondered how badly it had chewed into his sanity.

"This way," said Malavost, and he led her to Gray Pillar's church.

Or what was left of it. It had once been a fine domed church, in the style of old Dracaryl, similar to the church in Cravenlock Town. Now the windows had been smashed, the doors lying splintered and ruined. From within the chapel came the stench of clotted blood and rotting flesh.

Again Sykhana felt that strange, unfamiliar fear. She did not want to take Aldane into that place. But Malavost walked through the ruined doors, and she would not show fear before him. So she took a deep breath and followed him.

Inside the church's altar had been desecrated, profaned by the blood of murdered victims. Crude scenes had been painted upon the walls, showing the San-keth, murdering and torturing humans. The corpses of sacrificial victims to Sepharivaim lay piled against the wall, filling the church with their stench.

Skaloban, a San-keth priest of Sepharivaim, stood before the altar.

He rode a rotting human skeleton, the bones animated by the power of his necromancy, as did all San-keth clerics. According to the ancient lore, the serpent people had once possessed arms and legs, as did the humans and the Elderborn and the Malrags. But the gods of the humans and the Elderborn betrayed Sepharivaim, banishing him in the outer darkness beyond the circles of the world and stripping the San-keth of their limbs, forcing them to crawl in the dust. In vengeance, the San-keth clerics used necromancy to animate the bones of slain humans, using them as undead carriers.

"Honored Skaloban," said Malavost, bowing. "Sykhana has returned."

"Yes," said Skaloban, his voice a faint hiss, his forked tongue lashing at the air. "I can taste her scent." Skaloban was twenty feet long, his coils wrapped tight around the skeleton's spine, his enormous wedge-shaped head rearing up where the skeleton's skull had once been. "So you have returned, child, have you?" The skeleton walked towards her, green fire flickering around its joints, Skaloban's head swaying. "Were you successful?"

"I was," said Sykhana. It was no effort to keep her voice firm. Once the clerics of great Sepharivaim had filled her with fear and awe. Now she felt only contempt. They had not been able to give her what she wanted. "Behold, chosen of Sepharivaim. The unmarked child of a human apostate, just as you bid."

Skaloban's tongue flicked the air over Aldane.

"Good," murmured Skaloban. "Very good. He is worthy of our great purpose. The child shall be the Vessel. Your task, calibah, will be to make sure the Vessel lives to reach the Door of Souls. You must guard him every moment, waking and sleeping. Fail, and your life shall be forfeit. Do you understand?"

Sykhana bowed low to hide her smile. "Yes, honored one. I shall do as you bid."

"Good," said Skaloban, his head rotating to face Malavost. "Wizard. Instruct your pet to rouse the Malrags. We march at once."

Malavost smiled. "As you command, honored Skaloban."

###

Later Sykhana stood with Malavost outside the ruined church, Aldane in her arms, watching the Malrag host rumble into motion.

"Do I have your promise, wizard?" she said.

Malavost nodded. "You shall be Aldane’s mother for all your days. And Skaloban shall never touch him."

"I have your word?" Sykhana said.

Malavost nodded, his pale eyes glittering.

"You do," he said.

Chapter 10 - Reunion

Rachel wanted to scream at her husband.

"We have to conserve the horses," said Gerald. "If the San-keth wanted Aldane dead, that changeling would have killed him on the spot. No, they want him alive for some vile purpose."

"Then we should ride with all speed," said Rachel, her voice tight, "to stop Sykhana before she achieves that vile purpose."

Sykhana. That name filled Rachel with a rage beyond anything she had ever known. The changeling would pay for having dared to lift a finger against Aldane, for betraying Rachel.

"Circan thinks she is alone, but she won't remain alone for long," said Gerald. "Undoubtedly she has allies. We'll need to fight them, and we'll need fresh horses and men to win that fight." He reached over his saddle and took her hand. "If we're going to get our son back, we'll need to keep our wits about us."

Rachel shivered with fury. Their son had been taken, and Gerald wanted her to remain calm? Rachel wanted to ride the horses to death, to gallop to the horizon until she saw Sykhana, until she could hold Aldane in her arms once more...

She sighed.

"You're right," she whispered. She knew well the deep cunning of the San-keth and their calibah servants. If she did not keep her head, if she urged Gerald into doing something rash...then her folly might well get Aldane killed. "I just...I have to get him back, Gerald. I have to."

"We shall," said Gerald. He looked to the side, where Circan rode at the head of the column. "It's not as if Sykhana can elude us, after all."

"Yes," whispered Rachel, her gloved hand tightening against her horse's reins until the leather squealed.

So long as Circan had the vial of Aldane's blood, they could follow her son anywhere. Let Sykhana run all she wanted! Rachel would hound her to the ends of the earth.

###

They stopped at Tristgard.

Sykhana had gone east since fleeing Knightcastle, and Tristgard defended the ford over the Black River. Someone certainly would have seen Sykhana, Gerald said, and he wanted to question the town's militia.

He was right. Much as Rachel wanted to ride on, Gerald was right. So she stood beside her horse outside the town's gates and waited. Tristgard held no good memories for her. Here the San-keth had attacked her as she had ridden to her wedding at Knightcastle. Here she had seen Mazael take a half-dozen crossbow bolts to the chest, surviving only by a miracle.

But Tristgard had changed in the last year.

A small city of tents and wagons surrounded the town, filled with terrified people. Refugees, she realized. Some of the armsmen spoke to them, and brought back disturbing stories. All the refugees had come from the Grim Marches, and spoke harrowing tales of war. Of Malrags descending like locusts from the Great Mountains, killing everything in their path.

Mazael's lands. Many of the refugees had come from her brother's lands.

And if Circan was correct, Sykhana was making for Castle Cravenlock.

Gerald returned after an hour, his expression grim.

“What is it?” said Rachel. “Did someone see Sykhana here?”

He led her away from the other knights and the armsmen, far enough that they could not be overheard.

“I think so,” said Gerald. “One of the militiamen saw a lone woman, on a horse, carrying a baby. She was here two days ago.”

“Two days!” said Rachel. Her heart soared. They could close the gap easily. Especially once they got to the open plains of the Grim Marches.

“She slipped past the guards at the ford and rode east. They haven’t seen her since.” He sighed. “She’s almost certainly going to the Grim Marches.”

“But that’s good news!” said Rachel. “We can catch her there, we can get help from Mazael…”

“The Grim Marches are at war,” said Gerald, waving his hand at the ragged tents. “Look at those refugees.”

“We already knew about the Malrags,” said Rachel. “Mazael mentioned them in his last letter.”

“He mentioned warbands,” said Gerald. “The situation has clearly gotten much worse. If we go into the Grim Marches, we’ll be riding into a war.”

“Surely you aren’t thinking of turning back!” said Rachel.

“Of course not,” said Gerald. “But…if the reports of the Malrag numbers are true, we very well might not come back, if we find ourselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. I should send you back to Knightcastle, to keep you safe until I can return with Aldane.”

“No!” said Rachel. “I told you, I will not be left behind. Bad enough to wait not knowing what that vile changeling is doing to Aldane. But to wait knowing that you might be slain…no, no I couldn’t bear it.”

“And what of me?” said Gerald, anger flashing over his face. “Suppose we are attacked and I cannot defend you? Do you think I want to watch you die in front of me? Or suppose you get to watch me die? We’ll be riding into a war, Rachel. You will be safer at Knightcastle.”

“I am not turning back,” said Rachel, “without our son.”

They stared at each other for a moment.

Finally Gerald sighed and gave a nod.

“All right,” he said. “I’ve heard it said that the gods love fools and madmen. Well, I hope it is true, for I am certainly a fool and a madman to allow my wife to ride with me into a war.”

“To get Aldane back,” said Rachel, “I would ride to hell and back.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Gerald. “Sir Cavilion!” The lean knight in command of the armsmen rode over. “We ride for the Grim Marches.”

They left an hour later, riding over the Black River and towards the Grim Marches.

###

A few days later they rode over the Northwater bridge.

Everywhere Rachel saw the signs of war. The men marching east, clad in leather armor and bearing spears and bows. The terrified men, women, and children fleeing west, their worldly goods piled in wagons and carried on their backs. Upon every tongue were stories of the Malrags, of their cruelty, of their atrocities.

“Your son is now east of Castle Cravenlock, my lord,” said Circan, riding besides Gerald. The wizard’s face was grim, his brow furrowed beneath his pale hair. “Or the changeling may be at Castle Cravenlock now. The distance is difficult to judge.”

“If only we had a way to send a message to Mazael,” said Rachel. “He could stop Sykhana.” And Castle Cravenlock was three days ride from the bridge. Sykhana was adding to her lead.

Gerald shook his head. “I suspect Mazael is busy with the Malrags. If Castle Cravenlock hasn’t already fallen.”

“None of the refugees spoke of it,” said Sir Cavilion.

“Surely would have seen more peasants on the road, had the castle fallen,” said Circan, his fingers still closed about the vial of Aldane’s blood.

“We should stop at Castle Cravenlock,” said Rachel. “Mazael will aid us.”

“I am sure of it,” said Gerald. “If he has any aid left to spare.”

###

Two and a half days later, they saw the signs of battle in the hilly country west of Castle Cravenlock.

Rachel shivered and pulled her cloak tighter. A dozen dead Malrags lay across the road. To judge from their wounds and the decay of the corpses, they had been dead no more than two or three days. Rachel had never seen anything quite so hideous as the dead Malrags. The creatures seemed like something out of a nightmare, or a demented artist's fevered imaginings.

"What are they?" said Sir Cavilion, hand on his sword hilt.

"Malrags," said Gerald. "And it seems they are certainly not a myth." He grimaced and took a look around the hills, as if expecting a Malrag ambush to fall upon them. "Cavilion. Put out scouts. Have them ride at least a mile in every direction around us. If we're going to run into a Malrag warband, I want to know in advance."

"My lord," said Cavilion, and gave the orders.

They rode on.

###

A few hours later they left the hill country, riding hard for Castle Cravenlock.

Rachel gripped her reins, her heart churning within her. Since leaving Knightcastle, she had thought of little but Aldane. But now her impending return to Castle Cravenlock filled her with trepidation. She had endured terrible things there.

She had made terrible mistakes there.

But Mazael was at Castle Cravenlock, and she smiled at the thought of seeing her elder brother once more. She loved Gerald, of course, but Mazael was a warrior without peer. He had defeated Skhath, he had defeated Simonian of Briault, he had destroyed the Dominiars, and he would help her get Aldane back...

"My lord!"

Rachel looked up. One of the scouts galloped towards them, horse sweating, cloak billowing behind him.

"What is it, man?" said Gerald.

"Devils, my lord," said the scout, trembling. "Devils! I've never seen..."

A bloodcurdling scream split the air.

And Malrags, hundreds of Malrags, boiled over the crest of a nearby hill.

Rachel gaped at them. The dead Malrags strewn across the road had been horrible. Living ones, their fangs bared, their colorless eyes wide as they charged, were infinitely worse. Gerald shouted orders, and the knights and armsmen turned, preparing their mounts for a charge.

But they were too late, and the Malrags were too fast.

They crashed howling into the line, and men and horses died. Rachel saw a dozen Malrags go down, their black blood spilling into the dirt, but more pressed into the melee, stabbing and hacking.

And then a Malrag leapt at Rachel, grinning a fanged grin.

She jerked at the reins of her horse, but too late. The Malrag's black axe plunged into her horse's neck, and the poor beast screamed, rearing up. Rachel lost her seat and fell to the ground, the jolt shooting up her back and making her teeth clack. She scrambled backwards, legs tangled in her long skirt. The Malrag leapt over the dying horse, bloody axe in hand.

The creature's mouth moved, speaking in a strange language, but she heard its voice inside her head.

-Scream, mortal child. Scream for me-

Rachel screamed.

And then Gerald was there, his sword and surcoat splattered with blood both Malrag and human. His shield caught the Malrag across the face, and the creature stumbled, giving Gerald the opening he needed to cut its throat. The Malrag fell, and Gerald killed another, and still another, standing over Rachel.

"Rachel!" he bellowed, catching a spear thrust on his shield. "Run! Now! Run to Castle Cravenlock. Damn it, run! Run!"

Rachel scrambled to her knees, breathing hard. She saw the Roland knights and armsmen falling, succumbing to the Malrag attack. Gerald killed another Malrag with a vicious slash, hot black blood splattering across Rachel's face.

"Run!" he shouted, raising his shield.

She stared at him, frozen with horror. All the men were going to die, she realized. Gerald was going to die. He was sacrificing himself to save her, to gain even a chance of her survival, and it was her fault. If only she had not insisted upon coming. If only she had seen Sykhana for what she was. And now she would perish, and Gerald would die for her mistakes, and their son would remain in Sykhana's vile hands.

But she could find neither words to say nor the will to act as the Malrags closed around them. There was a thunderclap, and a dozen Malrags went sprawling, thrown to the earth by Circan's war spells. For a moment the Malrags wavered, and Rachel felt a surge of hope.

Then the Malrags bellowed and charged to the attack, leaping over the bodies of dead men and Malrags alike. Gerald grimaced and set himself, battered shield raised, and Rachel waited for the end.

She hoped it would be quick.

A horn rang out, long and loud.

Rachel saw the first wave of horsemen thunder down the hillside, lances leveled. They flew the Cravenlock banner, three silver swords upon a field of black. At their head rode a tall man in steel armor, clad in a Cravenlock surcoat.

A sword of blue flame blazed in his fist.

###

After the battle, Rachel tended to Gerald's wounds. Her husband had not been hurt badly, thank the gods - a minor cut, some scrapes and bruises. The rest of the men were not so lucky. Fifteen dead, and another twenty wounded, six seriously. Circan moved among the men, treating their wounds, while Mazael's court wizard Timothy did the same.

Mazael himself stood nearby, leaning upon Lion. Her brother looked little different than she remembered. Tall and strong, with the same brown hair and beard, the sharp gray eyes. He looked grim and sad, as he always had since Romaria Greenshield had been killed, but now he seemed grimmer and harder than ever.

Fighting Malrags, she supposed, could do that to a man.

"Gods, Mazael," said Gerald. "You arrival was most timely. The Malrags had us. Another few moments and it would have been over."

"We were fortunate," said Mazael. "All my scouts have been riding to the east, looking for Malrag warbands. We spotted this group hastening to the west and followed them, lest they raid the untouched villages near the Northwater. It is well that we did."

"I was a fool," said Gerald. He had the strained look he got when men died under his command. Rachel would do her best to comfort him later. "I should have put out more scouts, have been better prepared."

"You couldn't have been," said Mazael. "Until three months ago, no living man had ever fought a Malrag. We took horrible losses, until we learned to fight them properly. Though our situation is still dire. We are in sore need of any aid you can provide." He paused, looked at Rachel for a moment. "But you have Rachel with you."

Gerald nodded.

"Whatever madness possessed you to bring her here," said Mazael, "your need must have been great indeed. So I assume you did not come to our aid."

Gerald took a deep breath. "No. Mazael, I..."

"The San-keth took our son!" said Rachel.

He stared at her, and for a moment Rachel remembered Mazael in his younger days, filled with wrath, ready to destroy anyone in his path.

It heartened her. The San-keth would regret ever touching Aldane.

"Tell me everything," said Mazael. He looked over the battlefield and scowled. "But as we ride. There are more warbands about, and I would rather not encounter them, not until we have Rachel safe in Castle Cravenlock."

###

Later she sat in the great hall of Castle Cravenlock, surrounded by the lords and knights of the Grim Marches, as Gerald told Mazael what had happened.

And told Lord Richard Mandragon, as well.

Rachel tried not to stare at the Dragonslayer. She had lived in terror of Richard Mandragon for years. He had defeated her father Lord Adalon, and she had believed that one day he would defeat Mitor and kill her. Mitor had believed that as well, and in desperation, had turned to the San-keth for aid.

To Skhath, to whom he had promised Rachel.

"Those damned San-keth," said Mazael when Gerald had finished. "It would not surprise me if they took Aldane out of spite."

"No doubt spite played a role," said Lucan Mandragon. Rachel feared and loathed Lord Richard, but she feared his wizard son even more. Mazael should never have trusted him. "But if they acted from mere spite, they would have simply killed the child then and there. They have some other motive."

"Also," added Sir Tanam Crowley. Rachel remembered him very well - he had kidnapped her from Castle Cravenlock on Lord Richard's orders. "This Sykhana is working with Malavost and Ultorin, I doubt not."

"That seems correct, Sir Tanam," said Circan, bowing. "If my spell is accurate, Aldane is three or four days' ride to the east of here. And he has not moved since we arrived at Castle Cravenlock."

"So almost certainly my son is with Ultorin and Malavost," said Gerald.

"Most probably," said Tanam. "My scouts think the main Malrag host is three days' ride east of here."

"So," said Rachel, "we ride out and get Aldane back."

The men looked at each other, and then back at her.

"Sir Gerald, Lady Rachel," said Lord Richard in his calm voice, "I am sorry to hear of your son’s abduction. But it changes little. Our task is still the same. We must find Ultorin and kill him. Or destroy his bloodsword, at the very least. Once he is dead, the Malrag host will fall apart, and we can destroy them easily. That will give us the best chance to recover your son."

"But we know where Aldane is!" said Rachel. "We can get him back, we..."

"Through tens of thousands of Malrags, my lady?" said Lucan. "No scout, no matter how skillful, can slip through such numbers. Nor could I or the other wizards use a spell to elude the Malrags. The shamans would sense such a spell, not to mention what Malavost might..."

"Shut up!" said Rachel. "I don't care what you think, wizard, or what you can do with your filthy spells! What do you know about losing a son? Or someone you love? I doubt someone like you has ever loved anyone!"

Lucan said nothing, but his expression shifted, and Rachel knew she had stung him.

"Lord Richard is right, I fear," said Gerald. "If Aldane is surrounded by thousands of Malrags, our best chance of getting him back is to kill Ultorin. If I could, I would take our remaining men and get Aldane back. But we have only eighty men left, and there are fifty thousand Malrags around our son. If we try to get him back, we will die, and accomplish nothing."

"But the others have more men," said Rachel, looking around at the lords and knights of the Grim Marches. "Mazael has men. We could take them, could strike at the Malrags, could..."

"No," said Lord Richard.

She blinked at him.

"I will forbid my vassals to send any men on a fruitless attempt to retrieve the child," said Lord Richard. "I will do what is necessary to defeat the Malrags and save the Grim Marches. If I must spend the lives of my men to achieve that, so be it. I have done it before and I shall do it again. But I will not throw away their lives on a fruitless attempt to retrieve one child."

"But he is my son!" said Rachel.

Lord Richard's eyes, cold and black, met hers. "Thousands of sons have died already, Lady Rachel, and thousands more may well die before we defeat Ultorin. And I will not waste their lives to merely save one child."

Rachel could not bear another word.

"Rachel," said Gerald, reaching for her hand.

She rose and stalked from the hall.

###

Later Rachel stood in a garden, crying.

Her father had constructed this garden, built onto a massive balcony on the side of the castle's main keep, as a gift for her mother. But Lady Arissa had hated Lord Adalon, and never used the balcony. No one ever came here. So Rachel had often hidden here as a child, crying. Later, as she had grown, and Mitor had made his alliance with the San-keth, she had still come here to cry. When she had left Castle Cravenlock a year past, she had rejoiced, knowing she would never need to come to this garden to cry again.

And here she was, again.

She bowed her head, hands spread on the railing, her tears falling against the stone.

Boots rustled against the grass.

Rachel turned, saw Mazael walking towards her.

They stood in silence for a moment.

"Lord Richard is right, you know," said Mazael.

"I know," whispered Rachel. "I know." She closed her eyes. He put his arm around her, and she leaned against him, his armor hard against her side. "I don't have the right to ask anyone to die for Aldane. But, gods forgive me, Mazael. If I could spend the lives of a hundred men, or even a thousand men, to get Aldane back, I would do it. I would do it without hesitating." She sniffled. "I would spend my life, if it only meant he would be safe."

Mazael nodded.

"You've changed," said Rachel. "Five years ago you would have ridden after Aldane, and damned anyone who tried to stop you."

He laughed quietly. "You're right. I would have, five years ago. And gotten myself killed in the process. Or worse." Rachel wondered what he meant by that.

"It is my fault, Mazael,” she said. “I was the one who prayed to Sepharivaim, not Aldane. Sykhana took Aldane because of me." Her lip trembled. "My son will suffer for my mistakes."

"Perhaps," said Mazael. "I've had men suffer for my mistakes. I've had men die for my mistakes. You can either learn from them, or give up and die."

"I will not give up," said Rachel. "Not until I have Aldane back." She hesitated. "Do...you really think Lord Richard's plan will work."

"It will. If we kill Ultorin, or destroy his bloodsword, he loses his command over the Malrags," said Mazael, and there was heat in his voice. "I can take him. I had him, Rachel. If I can get close enough, I can kill Ultorin. Then we'll drive the Malrags from the Grim Marches, get your son back, and have peace once more."

"Yes," said Rachel. She hesitated. "When you kill Ultorin, the Malrags will turn on each other, won't they?"

Mazael nodded.

"And that means they'll kill anything in sight," said Rachel. "Including Aldane and Sykhana."

There was a long pause.

"I don't know," said Mazael. "But…you’re probably right. Ultorin and Malavost must want Aldane alive for some reason. Once Ultorin is dead...then there will be nothing to stop the Malrags from killing Aldane."

"Save him," said Rachel. "If anyone can save Aldane, you can. Promise me, Mazael. Promise me that you will save my son."

For a long time Mazael said nothing.

"I will," he said at last. "If I can."

###

Malavost opened his eyes.

He rode at the head of the Malrag host, near Ultorin atop his great armored steed. Nearby rode Sykhana, Aldane in her arms, and Skaloban, the San-keth cleric's horse enspelled to keep it from bolting in terror. The Malrags stretched behind them, a vast host, covering the plains of the Grim Marches like a black ocean. They would kill him if they had a chance, he knew, but he did not care. The Malrags would kill everything in their path if they had a chance.

But they were expendable tools, and nothing more.

Just as Sykhana and Skaloban were expendable tools. Even Ultorin, with his bloodsword, was nothing a tool. Malavost needed the Malrags, if only for a little while longer, and he was certainly not foolish enough to wield a weapon forged with Demonsouled blood himself.

Unlike, say, the Dragon's Shadow.

Malavost smiled at the thought. Lord Richard's little whelp had no idea what the bloodstaff would do to him. What it already had done to him.

But that was a pleasure for another time.

He rode to Ultorin's side.

"We have a problem," said Malavost.

Ultorin glared at him. Flecks of venomous yellow showed in his gray eyes, and there were hints of black veins forming beneath his skin.

A weapon forged in Demonsouled blood was not a…healthy thing to wield.

"What kind of problem?" said Ultorin.

"Someone knows exactly where Aldane Roland is," said Malavost.

Sykhana looked up in alarm, her eyes turning yellow as her inner eyelids opened, fangs curling over her teeth.

"How?" she said.

"A spell," said Malavost. "I've sensed it twice, now. I suspect one of Lord Malden's court wizards drew a sample of the child's blood. With that blood, the wizard could follow Aldane anywhere."

Skaloban hissed. "Then block the spell."

"Sadly, honored Skaloban, I fear I cannot," said Malavost, hiding his contempt. The San-keth clerics claimed to be masters of necromancy, but he had found their skills lacking. "A blood link is the most powerful connection possible. Short of killing Aldane, there is nothing I can do to obscure the child's location."

Sykhana fanged glare turned in his direction.

"The Vessel must be protected," said Skaloban.

Ultorin threw back his head and roared with laughter, the cords in his neck standing out. His mood swings had gotten worse, lately. "Let them come. Let them come! I will leave them screaming in pools of their own blood!"

"Undoubtedly," said Malavost. "However, if I agree with honored Skaloban. The Vessel's security is paramount. Even you must agree, Ultorin - without the Vessel, you shall not have your vengeance."

Ultorin's gray-bearded lips twisted into a scowl, but he nodded.

"Sykhana was pursued from Knightcastle," said Malavost, "and most likely her pursuers have joined forces with Lord Mazael. Who, as I need not remind you, is a most dangerous foe." Ultorin's snarl intensified - Mazael's escape from their trap had left him in a rage for days. "Therefore, I suggest we take action."

"What is your plan, wizard?" said Skaloban.

Malavost told them.

Ultorin laughed again, mad and wild, Skaloban hissed in approval, and even Sykhana gave a cautious nod.

Of course, Malavost's plan might get Ultorin killed. But that was acceptable. He was an expendable tool. The only one Malavost really needed alive was Aldane Roland.

The Vessel.

###

Mazael slept, and dreamed:

He galloped across the plains, Lion blazing in his fist, Challenger breathing hard beneath him. A calibah, a changeling, raced before him, Aldane Roland trapped in her arms. He heard the baby wailing, heard Rachel sobbing in fear.

Mazael gritted his teeth and urged Challenger faster.

The changeling would not escape him.

Suddenly the changeling veered to the right, moving away from the dark mass of the Great Mountains.

Veering towards the south.

Always towards the south.

And then Ultorin appeared, his bloodsword a swirl of darkness and flame in his armored fist. His eyes had turned a sulfurous yellow, and veins of darkness pulsed and throbbed beneath his skin. He looked demonic, deformed, a man taken by dark powers and twisted into a monster.

Mazael leapt from Challenger's back and raced to meet him. Lion met bloodsword in a dozen blows, blue flame struggling against shadow and blood-colored light. But Ultorin had grown stronger, and faster, and he drove Mazael back. Mazael jerked Lion back and forth to meet Ultorin's blows, looking for an opening.

And then a blur of black fur shot past Mazael.

Ultorin bellowed, and the great black wolf ripped at his hamstrings. The Dominiar knight fell to his knees, screaming, and Mazael whipped Lion around in a two-handed cut.

Ultorin's head jumped off his shoulders and rolled across the ground. Black slime oozed and trickled from his neck, and his headless corpse slumped to the earth with a rattle of armor. Mazael stared at the black wolf, Ultorin forgotten, looking into the wolf's blazing blue eyes.

They looked so familiar, so very familiar...

Then he realized that the wolf was female.

"Who are you?" whispered Mazael.

The wolf trembled, and for a moment Mazael thought she would flee from him. But she took a step forward, fangs bared, and Mazael followed her gaze.

To the west, towards Cravenlock Town.

###

Mazael awoke, dawn sunlight streaming through the balcony door.

War horns echoed in his ears.

Cravenlock Town was under attack again.

Chapter 11 - The Black Wolf

"Aye, my lord," said Sir Tanam Crowley, "it's bad."

Mazael hurried across the courtyard towards the stables. Rufus handed him his gauntlets, and then sprinted off to prepare Challenger.

"How many?" said Mazael.

"At least five thousand strong," said Tanam. "Almost certainly more. They're heading straight for Cravenlock Town."

Mazael cursed. "There are only three hundred militiamen at the town. Five thousand Malrags will crush them. That's enough to take the castle itself, if the balekhan keeps its wits."

Or if Ultorin led them. Or Malavost. Especially Malavost. Ultorin might command the Malrags, but Mazael suspected that Malavost did a great deal of Ultorin's thinking.

"We've not enough men here, my lord," said Tanam. "I am loath to say this, but the wisest course is to fall back to the castle and wait for Lord Richard to relieve you. Castle Cravenlock is strong. You can hold out until my lord Richard arrives."

"No," said Mazael. "I will not abandon my people to death at the hands of the Malrags. Toraine is camped to the south of the castle, with seven hundred horsemen. Send your fastest scouts to him, Sir Tanam, and ask him to ride north with all speed. We can destroy the Malrags, if we catch them between the town's walls, my men, and Toraine's men."

Assuming, of course, that Toraine simply did not sit back and let Mazael get slaughtered. He hoped Toraine's lust for battle would overcome his desire to see Mazael dead.

Tanam frowned, but nodded. "Aye, my lord, as you say. The gods go with you."

"And you," said Mazael. "Sir Hagen! We ride at once!"

Hagen bellowed orders to the knights and armsmen, who hastened to their horses.

"Mazael!"

Gerald ran towards him, clad in armor and surcoat. Behind him hurried the sixty Roland armsmen and knights still fit to fight, the grooms leading their horses.

“We are with you,” said Gerald.

Mazael shook his head. “This isn’t your fight. And if you die in the Grim Marches, Lord Malden will have war with Lord Richard.”

Gerald shook his head. “The San-keth have my son, and my only path to getting him back lies through the Malrags. Besides, you need every man who can ride and fight.”

He was right about that.

“Then I am glad to have you with me,” said Mazael, as Rufus led Challenger over. Mazael swung up into the saddle, looking around as Rufus passed up his shield and lance. Timothy, Gerald’s wizard Circan, and Lucan sat atop their horses, ready to fight, though Lucan looked ill, as usually did of late. Sir Aulus was ready with the banner and the war horn, while Sir Tanam and his raiders moved into position behind Mazael’s men. Mazael was glad the Old Crow remained at Castle Cravenlock – few had Tanam’s skill at hit-and-run tactics.

Tactics Mazael would need to come through this battle victorious.

“Sir Hagen!” said Mazael. “We ride for the town!”

Mazael kicked Challenger to a trot and rode for the castle’s gate. Hagen bellowed orders, and the horsemen fell in behind Mazael, alongside Gerald’s and Tanam’s men. Mazael looked up, his eyes sweeping the wall.

He saw Rachel upon the battlements, her hands at her throat. She would be able to see the entire battle from the castle’s wall.

Mazael hoped he did not get her husband killed in front of her.

They rode for Cravenlock Town.

###

A black storm of Malrags swept towards Cravenlock Town. Crossbowmen on the walls fired into the Malrags, as did militiamen with short horse bows. Every arrow and every quarrel found a mark, throwing dead Malrags onto earth that had already been soaked in black blood.

But for every Malrag slain, a dozen more surged forward.

They had ropes with grappling hooks, using them to scale the walls like misshapen, black-armored spiders. Militiamen on the ramparts attacked with long spears or thrown rocks, and Malrags fell from the ropes to crush others beneath them. But more and more Malrags gained the battlements, struggling against the militiamen.

“We should charge them, at once,” said Gerald. “If we get them away from the gate…”

“No,” said Mazael. “Too many of them. We need to distract them until Toraine gets here. Sir Aulus! The archers!”

Aulus blew three quick blasts on his horn, and the mounted archers surged into the gap between Mazael’s horsemen and the Malrags. A storm of arrows fell into the Malrag lines, and the archers veered into two groups, still releasing arrow after arrow. The Malrags howled in rage, and the outer ranks broke away, chasing after the mounted archers.

Lucan had been right. The Malrags were cunning and clever, but lacked the ability to override their bloody lusts. Without a strong mind to direct them, their desire to kill and torture often overrode their thinking.

Such as the Malrags now chasing mounted archers they had no chance of catching.

“Now?” said Gerald.

“Not yet,” said Mazael, looking to the south. He saw a plume of dust around the castle’s hill. “Sir Aulus! Tell Sir Tanam to make the Malrags bleed!”

Aulus blew the signal on his horn.

And the Old Crow’s light horsemen leapt into the fray. Unlike Mazael’s heavy knights, Tanam Crowley’s men wore leather armor, and bore curved sabers, light spears, and bundled javelins. As the scattered groups of Malrags pursued the mounted archers, Tanam’s men crashed into them. They stabbed with spears and slashed with sabers as they galloped past, leaving Malrags bleeding in the dirt.

In a matter of moments Tanam's men killed every Malrag that had broken ranks, and still crossbow bolts and arrows fell from the battlements. The Malrag attack stalled, and the creatures began to break in confusion. The mounted archers and Tanam’s raiders returned to their places alongside Mazael’s knights and armsmen, ready for another attack.

A distant trumpet blast rang over the battle.

Mazael turned again, saw horsemen racing from the direction of Castle Cravenlock, hundreds of them. At their head they flew a banner with a black dragon on a red field, and below that, the sigil of a gray tower with a dead man hanging from its balcony.

The banner of Toraine Mandragon, Lord of Hanging Tower.

Mazael grinned. It seemed that Toraine’s desire for glory had won over his wish to become Lord of Castle Cravenlock.

“Now,” he said to Gerald, “we charge. Aulus! Send the archers and the raiders to attack the flanks. Hagen! Take command of the knights and armsmen, and ride for the center. We’ll throw them into disarray, and when Toraine arrives, he’ll smash them like a melon beneath a hammer.”

Aulus blew a string of blasts on his horn, the mounted archers and the raiders galloping forward at the signal. Mazael wheeled Challenger around, shield on his left arm, the lance ready in his right hand, Lion waiting in its scabbard at his hip. Behind him he heard the clank of armor as the knights settled into position.

Aulus sounded the charge.

Challenger leapt forward with an excited whiny, the earth rumbling as Mazael’s heavy horsemen galloped forward. The Malrags tried to scramble into a defensive position. But as before, Mazael’s tactics had worked, and the Malrags efforts were too little, too late. Mazael’s lance plunged through a Malrag’s throat, even as another perished under Challenger’s heavy hooves, and all around him knights and armsmen smashed into the Malrags.

The Malrag lines collapsed like rotten ice.

###

Lucan kept well to the rear of the battle, Circan and Timothy on either side of him.

His hand tightened around his staff's cold black metal. He had expected Circan to react badly to him, to the Dragon’s Shadow, the final student of the renegade Marstan. But the pale-haired wizard had followed Lucan into battle without question.

Lucan felt the staff against his palm, the edges of the sigils digging into his fingers.

He wanted to draw the staff’s power into him, wanted to fill his veins with its fiery strength and strike down the Malrags. But he dared not, not unless the need was dire. The staff’s power was too much, its strength overthrowing his reason and turning him into a murderous madman.

And the power left something behind. Some darkness, some illness. Like silt left behind when floodwaters retreated. A taint, building up within him, leaving a little more every time he used the staff’s Demonsouled power. Lucan didn’t know what the accumulation of darkness would do to him.

He suspected it would not be good.

He watched as Mazael’s knights crashed into the Malrags, ripping through their lines like a thunderbolt.

“We should aid Lord Mazael,” said Timothy, flexing his hands.

“No,” said Lucan. “Not yet. Lord Mazael can take care of himself.” He looked to the south, scowling. “And my brother shall be here soon. If the Black Dragon is good at anything, it’s killing things. But neither of them can deal with the Malrag shamans on their own.”

Or with Malavost. And Lucan doubted that he could handle Malavost on his own. Even with Circan’s and Timothy’s aid.

Another war horn rang out, and Toraine Mandragon’s knights plunged into the collapsing Malrag lines. Lucan saw his brother, clad in his armor of black dragon scales, his sword carving through the Malrags' gray hides.

“Such a large warband,” said Timothy, shaking his head. “We’ve never yet seen so many Malrags grouped for a single attack. To what purpose?”

“I know not,” said Lucan. “Whatever the reason, we shall kill…”

He felt the surge of power in the air, his skin crawling with the presence of potent magical force.

Malavost.

###

The Malrags broke and ran, Mazael's men driving them towards the open plains. He saw Toraine’s men slam into the Malrags, heard the ring of steel on steel, men and Malrags screaming in rage and pain. Mazael drove his lance through a Malrag’s chest, pinning the creature to the earth, and lost his grip on the weapon as Challenger galloped past.

He ripped Lion free from its scabbard, the blade an inferno of azure light, and the Malrags shied away from him.

Oh, yes. They had learned to fear Lion’s flames.

Then he saw the banner flying over the nearby Malrags. A black banner, adorned with a silver eight-pointed star, once the sigil of the Knights Dominiar, now the banner of Ultorin.

Mazael spun Challenger around and raced for the banner, striking left and right, Lion trailing blue flame. Ultorin was here. If Mazael could get close enough, if he could engage the renegade Dominiar, he could end this war here and now.

He ripped through the last rank of Malrags before the banner.

Ultorin sat atop his black-armored warhorse, gray-bearded face snarling. The expression made him look bestial, and for a moment Mazael thought that Ultorin’s eyes flashed yellow. The bloodsword rested in his right hand, wreathed in darkness and crimson flame. A dozen Malrags stood around Ultorin, crossbows ready in their hands.

Mazael blinked in surprise. Crossbows? He had not yet seen the Malrags use any bows, and…

As one the Malrags lifted their crossbows and squeezed the trigger.

Mazael brought his shield up, two bolts thudding into the heavy wood. But another bolt plunged into his shoulder, and another into his leg, and three slammed into Chariot’s flank. The big horse screamed and reared even as another bolt slammed into Mazael’s hip, knocking him from the saddle to the ground.

He heard the clatter of armor as Ultorin’s horse raced forward.

###

Lucan spotted Malavost.

The renegade wizard sat atop his horse, green flame sparking and flashing around his hands. Lucan started a spell of his own, and just in time. A blast of green lightning sizzled out of the sky and exploded against Lucan’s wards, the air spitting and snarling with the strain of competing magical energies.

Apparently Malavost had learned a trick or two from the Malrag shamans.

“Timothy!” shouted Lucan. “Now!”

Malavost was not the only one with tricks. Timothy deBlanc was a good and brave man, but only a mediocre wizard. No matter how hard he tried, he would never match Lucan’s level of power and skill, and certainly never approach the power of someone like Malavost.

But he was rather good with spells of illusion.

Timothy muttered the incantation, silver light dancing around his fingers, and gestured. The air shimmered, and a duplicate of Lucan upon his horse appeared, an image wrought of light and magic. And then another duplicate, and another, and images of Circan and Timothy as well.

Only a minor magic, a simple trick…but an effective one.

Malavost's pale blue eyes darted back and forth as the images raced in circles around him. He flung out his hands, green sparks flying from his fingers, and every spark caused an image to shatter into shards of silver light. But there were too many of them, far too many, and he came nowhere near striking Lucan and the others.

And as Timothy maintained the illusion spell, Lucan cast a spell of his own, as did Circan. Circan conjured spirit beasts, a half-dozen translucent lions with manes of hissing snakes and barbed tails, beasts that leapt past the Malrags to spring upon Malavost. Lucan unleashed his will and power in a strike, hammering at Malavost's wards. The blast knocked Malavost off his horse, sending the wizard sprawling to the ground.

Two of Circan's spirit beasts leapt upon Malavost's horse, ripping it to shreds, while the remaining four attacked Malavost himself. For a burning moment Lucan thought they had succeeded, that Malavost was finished. But instead Malavost rolled to one knee and thrust out a hand. Silver mist swirled around him, and he conjured spirit beasts of his own, creatures that looked like the monstrous offspring of squids and rabid dogs. His beasts tore into Circan's, driving them away.

Lucan loosed another psychokinetic blast, but Malavost deflected it, redirecting the spell into one of Mazael's armsmen, knocking the unfortunate man from his horse. Malavost launched into another spell at once, silver light flashing around him, and clapped his hands with a shout.

The air rippled, and all of the illusionary images vanished without a trace. Timothy groaned and fell to his knees, hands flying to his temples. Circan grimaced, his face a mask of concentration as he drove his spirit beasts against Malavost's creatures.

Malavost's pale blue gaze fell upon Lucan, a smile spreading over his face.

###

Mazael struggled to his feet as Ultorin's massive horse thundered towards him. Agony shot up his wounded arm and leg, but he threw himself to the side, throwing up his shield to protect himself.

Just in time, too.

Ultorin's bloodsword plunged down, the edge clipping the top of Mazael's shield, and even the glancing hit was enough to shatter the heavy wood. Mazael staggered back, his arm numb from the blow, his head swimming, his heart pounding, his vision blurring.

Behind him, Challenger groaned and collapsed, flanks motionless.

His horse was dead. But how? None of the crossbow bolts had dealt him a fatal wound. Had they struck an artery?

A wave of dizziness washed over Mazael, his blurred vision worsening, and he realized the answer with a chill.

Poison. Specifically, the poison produced by the fangs of a calibah - Sykhana herself, no doubt. One bite from a calibah's fangs had enough poison to kill a man, and Mazael had taken three crossbow bolts topped with the stuff. No doubt his Demonsouled essence had kept him alive, and would soon heal the damage from the poison.

But not soon enough to keep Ultorin from taking his head.

This hadn't been an attack. It was a trap.

Ultorin brought his horse around for another pass, and Mazael braced himself, trying to keep his balance.

###

There was no other choice left.

Lucan drew the staff's power into himself. The carvings along the staff's black length burned with blood-colored light - the same light, he realized, that surrounded Malavost's bloodsword. The power surged up, reaching for Lucan...but he only drew upon a portion of it, a pittance.

A trickle. He yearned to take more, to fill himself with the burning might, but he dared not.

Besides, the bloodstaff's raw power had failed against Malavost's skill. Lucan would need something else to defeat him.

Malavost laughed and again brought emerald lightning thundering down out of the sky. Lucan thrust out his staff, casting a ward, and sent the blast into the earth.

"Fool," said Malavost. "Even with that bloodstaff you cannot hope to overcome me. Why not simply lie down and wait for the end? I promise you that it will be quick and..."

Lucan ignored his taunts and cast another spell, reaching out with his will. With the staff's power churning through him, he felt the darkness of the Malrags all around him, the joy their malignant spirits took in slaying and killing.

He also felt a veneer of power over their darkness, something like chains of fire.

Ultorin's control.

Lucan severed those chains, and forced his own will over the nearby Malrags.

A dozen Malrags froze, their colorless eyes going wide, their gray lips peeling back from yellow fangs in a furious snarl. Lucan felt their hatred, their endless rage. He was not Demonsouled...but the staff had been infused with the might of Mazael Cravenlock's blood, and that gave Lucan the power to command them.

"Kill him!" he bellowed, pointing his burning staff at Malavost. "Kill him now!"

The Malrags under his control sprang at Malavost, black spears and axes drawn back for the kill.

Malavost's eyes widened in shock for just a moment, and then narrowed as he struck out. A psychokinetic blast flung four Malrags to the ground. His spirit beasts turned from Circan's and leapt upon the Malrags. Lucan let more of the staff's power pour into him and extended his spell, forcing his will and control over more of Ultorin's Malrags. Dozens of the creatures threw themselves at Malavost, obeying Lucan's command. Circan staggered forward, panting, and cast another spell, conjuring more spirit creatures to unleash against Malavost.

Malavost snarled and threw his hands at the sky.

And a torrent of emerald lightning bolts screamed down around him, four, five, a dozen, ripping at the earth, dissipating Circan's spirit creatures, and tearing Lucan's enslaved Malrags to smoking chunks of charred flesh. The shock wave of hot air knocked Lucan to the ground, breaking his concentration.

His link to the bloodstaff broke, and again nausea and dizziness flooded through him.

But not as much as before.

When the air cleared he staggered to his feet, looking for Malavost.

But Malavost had vanished.

###

Again Ultorin's bloodsword came down, and Mazael only just avoided having his head split in half. Instead the sword clanged off his left shoulder, destroying the armor plates and aggravating the crossbow wound. He had ripped the quarrels from his arm and leg, blood gushing over his armor, and the wounds began to knit themselves closed.

But not nearly fast enough.

Ultorin wheeled around for another pass, his horse's iron-shod hooves tearing at the earth. Then a blast of green lighting flashed out of the sky to the west, and then another, the thunderclaps rolling over the clamor of the battle. Ultorin stopped, his iron-colored eyes narrowed, and he lifted his bloodsword.

A shiver went through the battling Malrags.

"What?" roared Ultorin, looking around. "Someone dares? The Malrags are mine! Mine!"

For a moment he forgot Mazael.

Mazael surged forward, staggering like a drunk, and swung with both hands on Lion's hilt. He doubted he could penetrate Ultorin's black armor, or even the horse's coat of mail.

A coat that did not reach to the great black horse's fetlocks. Lion sank deep into the horse's right front leg, and the great beast screamed in agony, rearing up. But it could not support the weight of its armor on two legs, and collapsed with another scream, Ultorin falling from the saddle.

Mazael sprang at Ultorin, hoping to end their fight and the war with one solid blow. But his aim was off, and Lion's point tore a groove in Ultorin's cuirass  Ultorin kicked out, his armored boot crashing against Mazael's wounded hip. Mazael staggered back, his leg pulsing with agony, and only just managed to keep from falling.

Ultorin sprang to his feet, his bloodsword a blur of darkness and flame. Mazael parried and blocked, staggering, barely keeping ahead of Ultorin's furious attacks. His head swam, and he cursed his folly. He could have taken Ultorin, could have defeated the rogue Dominiar.

But not with calibah poison pumping through his veins.

Ultorin drew back his bloodsword, his eyes filled with enraged glee, and Mazael knew that he could not block the attack in time.

And then a black blur shot past him and sprang upon Ultorin.

Mazael caught a glimpse of the great black wolf from his dreams, her blue eyes alight with wrath, her fangs flashing like daggers of white ice. Ultorin screamed, lashing at the wolf’s side with his bloodsword, but he could not get enough momentum behind his blow to pierce the thick black fur.

Mazael staggered forward, all his weight and faltering strength behind Lion’s point. The blade crunched through black armor and plunged into Ultorin’s side, azure flame pouring into the wound. Ultorin roared in agony, his free hand raking at the wolf.

“Aid me!” bellowed Ultorin. “Aid me, now!”

As one, a dozen nearby Malrags turned, ignoring their foes, and sprinted at Mazael. He ripped Lion free from Ultorin’s side and parried a swing, sidestepped, and killed a Malrag with a slash across the throat. Two Malrags leapt at the wolf, and she sprang off Ultorin with a snarl.

Mazael wheeled, killed another Malrag, and tried to force his way towards Ultorin. Even wounded, even with calibah poison in his blood, he could still match the Malrags. And Ultorin did not look well. Blood poured from the wound Mazael had carved in his side, and the black wolf’s claws had torn away the right half of his face, rending skin and muscle to reveal the bone underneath. If Mazael could just get close enough to deal a mortal wound…

Ultorin plunged his bloodsword into the chest of a passing Malrag. The sigils carved into the blade blazed, the darkness surrounding the sword deepening. The Malrag withered, crumbling into ashes, and as it did, Ultorin’s wounds vanished, the bloody gashes in his face and side disappearing. He growled and stalked through the Malrags, his yellow-flecked gray eyes locked on Mazael’s face. Mazael tried to cut his way through the Malrags, but to no avail. There were simply too many of them, and more and more flung themselves at him. For a moment he wondered if Ultorin had called every Malrag on the battlefield to attack him.

The Malrags drove Mazael back, and Ultorin circled around to the side. Mazael gritted his teeth, trying to break free from the press, but to no avail. With his attention fixed on the Malrags, it would be the easier thing in the world for Ultorin to plunge his bloodsword into Mazael’s back.

The darkness-wreathed blade came up…

The black wolf crashed into Ultorin once more, snarling, fangs and claws raking at armor. Ultorin spat out a curse and swung, the edge of his sword digging into the wolf’s side. She reared back with a snarl of pain, blood flowing over the cut, and stumbled back.

And for a moment, Mazael felt a ghostly pain along his ribs, as if he had been struck there. As if Ultorin’s bloodsword had wounded him, instead of the wolf. Ultorin stalked towards the wolf, murder in his eyes, and sudden fury erupted in Mazael.

The wolf staggered back, her hind right leg twitching as it tried to support her weight.

"No!" roared Mazael, sprinting towards Ultorin, his pain and weakness forgotten. Ultorin would not harm her. He would not! Ultorin whirled and snarled a command, and Malrags, dozens of Malrags, turned towards Mazael.

Mazael raised Lion's burning blade before his face, the azure light brighter than the bloody glow around Ultorin's sword...

Then Mazael's knights crashed into the gathered Malrags, swinging swords and heavy maces. Gerald rode at their head, shouting commands, his silver longsword flashing. The Malrags fell, overwhelmed by the charge of heavy horse. Ultorin's eyes narrowed, and he seized the reins of a passing horse and swung up into the empty saddle. Mazael started after him, but it was too late. Ultorin galloped from the field, trampling down any Malrags that got in his way. The knights continued their charge, the Malrags fleeing before them, and soon Mazael was alone on the battlefield, save for the dead.

And the black wolf.

She stood a short distance away, glaring at him, sides heaving with her breath.

"You save my life," said Mazael, taking a hesitant step towards the wolf. Now that the fury of battle had passed, his head ached and swam, and his half-healed crossbow wounds throbbed with pain.

The wolf backed away, snarling.

"Who are you?" said Mazael. "I mean you no harm. You've saved my life, twice now, whoever or whatever you are." He took another step forward, and this time the wolf did not move. "You're wounded. Come back with me, to Castle Cravenlock, and I'll see that you..."

The wolf backed away, eyes fixed on him.

No. Not at him. The wolf was staring at his belt.

At his belt?

Mazael looked down. Lion's empty scabbard hung from his right hip, and his sheathed dagger waited on his right. Besides his dagger dangled a slender chain, threaded through a large silver coin.

The silver coin that Romaria had once carried.

"This?" said Mazael, lifting the chain. The silver coin swung and flashed. "Is this what you want? It belonged to the only woman I ever loved, and..."

The wolf trembled...and changed. Her form melted and blurred, flowing like water, and then shrank. One moment a black wolf the size of a horse crouched a dozen steps from Mazael. The next a naked woman stood in the wolf's place, her black hair wild and tangled, her blue eyes ablaze with madness, her pale skin streaked with Malrag blood.

And for a moment Mazael could do nothing but stare, his mind frozen.

Romaria.

It was Romaria Greenshield. The only woman he had ever loved, dead now for two years. Dead at the hands of the Old Demon, his father, her chest reduced to a blackened ruin as she lay motionless upon the floor of Castle Cravenlock's chapel.

Impossible. It was impossible. Mazael had seen her die.

"Romaria?" he whispered.

She stared at him, face half-hidden behind a curtain of tangled black hair, and a strange mixture of longing and fear and rage crossed over her features, all mingled together.

She looked utterly insane.

"This can't be," whispered Mazael. "I saw you die. I saw you die. How..."

It couldn't be her. He had watched as her body had been laid in a crypt below Castle Cravenlock. He had sent a letter to her father, the Lord of Deepforest Keep, informing him of her death, though he had never heard an answer. This had to be a trick, some phantom conjured out of Malavost's magic.

Yet this was Romaria Greenshield. He knew it, knew it in his very bones.

He reached for her, and she backed away, lips pulled back from her teeth in a snarl, fingers hooked into claws.

"I'm sorry," said Mazael, the words pouring out of him. "I'm sorry, it was my fault you died, I brought you to your death, I..."

She trembled, anguish filling her face, and lifted a shaking hand towards him.

Metal rasped against the earth.

"My lord? I..."

Lucan Mandragon limped towards him, leaning upon his black staff. His cowl was thrown back, and he looked weary, bone-weary. Then he saw Romaria, and his black eyes grew wide with alarm.

Romaria growled, and her form blurred. In an instant she became the great black wolf once more, her blue eyes blazing like frozen stars. Then she turned and ran, moving with superhuman speed.

"Romaria!" said Mazael. "Romaria!"

But she did not turn back.

Chapter 12 - Cenotaph

For a moment Lucan seemed at a loss for words.

“That,” he said at last. “That was Lady Romaria, wasn’t it?”

Mazael nodded, too shocked to answer.

“You said she had been killed,” said Lucan.

“She was killed!” said Mazael in sudden anger. “Do you think me a liar? I saw the Old Demon strike her down with a spell. I saw her die. I saw them put her body in the tomb. She…she cannot possibly be alive.”

Lucan scowled. “A trick, then. Some spell of Malavost’s. Or perhaps a phantasm conjured by a Malrag shaman. It sounds like the sort of petty cruelty they would enjoy.”

“But…it was her,” said Mazael. “I was sure of it. And she was the black wolf, too. She tried to kill Ultorin, and helped me against the balekhan in Cravenlock Town. If Malavost or the shamans conjured the illusion, why would it attack Ultorin?” He pulled off his helmet, raked a hand through his sweating hair. “For that matter, the black wolf was no illusion. It left wounds on both Ultorin and the balekhan. But how could it be Romaria?”

“She wasn’t human,” said Lucan, voice quiet. “At least not entirely. One half of her soul was human, while the other half was Elderborn.”

“I know that,” said Mazael, and his frown deepened. “You know something, don’t you? Something from Marstan’s knowledge.”

“It is only a suspicion,” said Lucan. “Nothing more. And what you saw could very well have been an illusion. You loved Romaria…much as I once loved Tymaen. If Tymaen appeared before me again, beckoning to me…I don’t know if I could disbelieve it. Could you?”

Mazael said nothing.

“But there is a way,” said Lucan, “to determine whether what you saw was the real Romaria Greenshield or not.”

“How?” said Mazael.

“The tomb,” said Lucan. “Go to the crypt below the chapel. If her body remains there, then you will know that you saw only an illusion of some kind.”

Mazael nodded. That made sense. But first, he had responsibilities. He walked along the town’s wall, to the Cravenlock banner flying over a mass of horsemen. Dead Malrags carpeted the ground, interspersed here and there with the body of a slain knight or armsman.

Mazael saw no sign of Ultorin. The renegade Dominiar had escaped, again.

Lucan paused for a moment, frowning at the ground. Then he knelt, scooped up some dirt, and followed Mazael.

“This was a trap for us,” said Mazael, “wasn’t it?”

“Aye,” said Lucan. “We survived it, though.”

If just barely.

A short walk brought Mazael to his gathered men.

“My lord!” said Sir Aulus, straightening in the saddle. “We thought you slain!”

Mazael made himself smile. “It will take more than Ultorin and his Malrags to finish me. What news?”

“The Malrags are broken,” said Sir Hagen, maneuvering his horse alongside Aulus’s. “Most of them are slain, taken in the charge or shot down by the militiamen on the walls, and the rest have fled. Sir Tanam’s men are pursuing them.”

“Where’s Sir Gerald?” said Mazael. Gods, if he had gotten Rachel’s husband and Lord Malden’s youngest son killed…

“I’m here,” said Gerald, striding past the horses. His armor was battered, and stained with Malrag blood, but he looked otherwise unharmed. “I lost my horse to a Malrag spear. Gods, those devils are fierce fighters.”

“Aye,” said Hagen, “but we sent them running! Didn’t we, lads?”

A cheer went up from the men.

“Hagen,” said Mazael. “Take command here. Have Timothy and Circan see to the wounded.”

“Where will you be?” said Gerald. “Surely you don’t mean to ride out in pursuit of Ultorin by yourself?”

“No,” said Mazael. “I…have an urgent errand at the castle that cannot wait. See to things here, Hagen. I will return shortly.”

He took the horse of a slain armsman and left, Lucan following him.

###

A short time later Mazael reined up before the doors of Castle Cravenlock’s chapel. It looked like a smaller version of the town’s church, with the same domed roof, high windows, and solid walls of dark stone. Rufus raced from the stables to take his reins.

“My lord,” said Rufus. “What has happened? Are…”

“We are victorious,” said Mazael. “The Malrags have been driven back. Wait here.” He saw Rachel hurrying down from the ramparts, skirts gathered in her hands as she ran. “Tell Lady Rachel that the Malrags were defeated and Gerald is safe. Don’t let her follow me.”

“But my lord,” said Rufus. “I…”

“Do as I say!” said Mazael, pushing open the chapel’s doors, Lucan following.

The chapel was almost full, mostly with women and the priests. The wives and mothers and sisters and daughters of his knights and armsmen, come to pray for their sons and brothers and husbands and fathers. They turned hopeful, terrified eyes towards him.

Some of those women had become widows and orphans today.

One of the priests hurried over, his brown robe rustling against the floor. "My lord? Are...are we victorious?"

"We are," said Mazael, and a relieved sigh went through the women. He wondered how many of them would weep before the day was done. "I need to get into the crypt. Now."

The priest blinked. "The crypt? But..."

"Now," said Mazael.

The priest took one look at his expression and hastened to obey. He led Mazael around the dais and altar, past the spot where the Old Demon had slain Romaria, to the back of the chapel. A massive iron door stood in the wall, and the priest unlocked it, revealing a set of stone stairs descending into darkness.

"I will fetch candles, my lord," said the priest.

Lucan smiled and lifted his hand, a ball of blue light hovering over his palm. "No need. I brought my own."

The priest made the sign to ward off evil, and Mazael descended into the crypt. Lucan followed, his ball of light throwing back the darkness, bathing everything in a pale blue glow. The stairs ended in Castle Cravenlock's crypt, a massive series of vaults supported by pillars of glistening brick. The air was damp and cold and chill. The dead of the House of Cravenlock lined the walls, lying in stone niches sealed by leaden plates. Each plate held the name of the deceased, along with an epitaph.

"Here," said Mazael. "We laid her here."

He walked along the wall, past the tomb of Lord Adalon, whom he had believed to be his father, and Lady Arissa, his mother, who had hated him. Next to them lay his two older brothers, both slain in Lord Adalon's war with Lord Richard. Besides them rested a niche for Mitor Cravenlock. An empty niche - Skhath's necromancy had destroyed Mitor's body utterly, leaving not even ashes to bury.

Romaria Greenshield's tomb lay besides them.

Mazael took a deep breath...and stopped.

The niche was open. The leaden plate lay forgotten upon the floor. Mazael stepped forward, reaching into the niche.

"Light, damn it," he said. "Get the light here."

Lucan lifted his hand, the blue light shining brighter. Inside the niche Mazael saw an open wooden coffin, its lids and sides scored with deep grooves, as if from razor-edged claws. Within the coffin lay the shattered remains of a bastard sword, its blade broken by the Old Demon's powerful magic.

But there was no trace of Romaria. No corpse, no bones. Nothing.

She was gone.

“Oh, gods,” said Mazael. “I buried her alive.”

Lucan blinked. “My lord?”

“I buried her alive,” said Mazael. He barely recognized the sound of his own voice. “I loved her, and she was wounded, and I buried her alive! I am fool!” He had Lion in his hand now, his shouts echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “Those damned priests! Why didn't they tell me? It is their responsibility to tend the crypt, why didn't they tell me?”

“Lord Mazael...”

“I did this to her!” said Mazael. He started towards the crypt stairs, Lion still in his hand. “The priests will answer to me! They'll tell me why they didn't hear her screaming, asking for help...”

Something slapped him hard across the shoulders, sent him to the crypt floor with a clatter of armor. Mazael rolled to one knee, stunned. Lucan stood over him, hand raised, eyes narrowed and pale face tense.

He had just cast a spell at Mazael. That alone shocked Mazael back to lucidity. Lucan had never before lifted his hand against him.

“Forgive me,” said Lucan, “but in your...state of mind, it seemed unwise to let you confront the priests.”

“Yes,” said Mazael. The chapel was still no doubt full of frightened women. How would they have reacted to their lord stalking out the crypt, waving his sword and screaming threats at the priests? “Yes, yes, you're right.” He got to his feet, rammed Lion back into its scabbard. “But...Romaria. How is this even possible? I know what death looks like, and I saw her die.”

“Perhaps,” said Lucan.

“You said you had a suspicion?” said Mazael.

Lucan nodded. “Lady Romaria was half-human, half-Elderborn. Such hybrids are incredibly rare, for a very good reason. The souls of humans and Elderborn do not easily mingle, and the soul of a child born to an Elderborn parent and a human parent is often...unstable. Sometimes spectacularly so.”

“Unstable?” said Mazael. “What do you mean?”

Lucan's voice took on the cold, distant tone it often did when he spoke with Marstan's knowledge. “The Elderborn are not like us, Lord Mazael. Their souls are infused with earth magic, ancient and fell. Much in the same way that the Demonsouled half of your soul is infused with power, though the Elderborn are not tainted in the same way as the Demonsouled. The Elderborn can become far more powerful wizards than any human. They command the earth and elements, make the very rocks attack their foes. And they often have the power to change their shapes, to take on the forms of birds and beasts.”

“Beasts?” said Mazael. “Like the a black wolf?”

“Yes. And that explains how she...survived the Old Demon's attack. The Old Demon struck her down with magic. And when he did, I believe, he fractured her soul. The spell expelled the human half of her soul from her body, and it latched onto the nearest available home.”

“Where?” said Mazael.

Lucan smirked. No doubt Marstan had once smirked in the same way. “Why, you, my lord.”

“Me?”

“You are only half-human yourself. Or a quarter-human, technically, since I suppose the Old Demon is only half-human. Which means you do not possess a complete human soul.” His dark eyes bored into Mazael. “The human half of Romaria's soul fused with yours. And you made her effectively immortal, my lord. Death is the permanent sundering of soul and flesh, with the soul moving to the world beyond ours. But the human half of her soul was anchored to yours. It could not move on. Which means, I believe, the Elderborn half of her soul remained trapped in her damaged body. And the Elderborn half healed the wound the Old Demon dealt her.”

“So she lay in agony for the last two years?” said Mazael, horrified.

“Probably not,” said Lucan. “From what you described, the Old Demon's spell likely destroyed her heart and lungs. It would take years to repair the damage. Look – see the edges on the coffin, on the lead plate? Those cuts are fresh. No dust. Odds are she only clawed her way out of the tomb recently. Perhaps only a few hours before the first Malrag raid on Cravenlock Town.”

“And that's why I dreamed of a black wolf,” said Mazael. In some ways it was a relief – he had feared the Old Demon had sent the dreams. “Because half her soul was fused to mine. Ultorin wounded her, during our fight, and I...felt it. Only faintly. But I still felt it.”

Lucan nodded.

“We have to find a way to help her,” said Mazael. “If there is a way to help her?”

“Perhaps,” said Lucan. “I...know a spell. A bit of Marstan's lore. It will expel the human half of Romaria's soul from you. It will return to her body, if you're close enough.”

“How close?” said Mazael.

Lucan shrugged. “Close. At least five yards. You might have to be touching her for it to work.”

“And how am I to manage that?” said Mazael. “She's terrified of me. And why not? I brought about her death, even if I did not will it. Whenever I've tried to approach her, she fled.”

“Yet she aided you in battle,” said Lucan. “Against the balekhan, against Ultorin himself. Clearly, she still has some feeling for you.” He sighed. “Though, I must warn you. Obviously she has undergone a great deal of torment. Even if we restore her soul, her mind might well be destroyed.”

“She might go mad, you mean,” said Mazael.

Lucan nodded.

“We must still try,” said Mazael. “I cannot...leave her like this. I owe her too much. I love her too much.”

“So be it,” said Lucan. “You will have my aid.”

“How will we even find her?” said Mazael.

Lucan grinned, just for a moment. It made him look young. “With this.” He reached into his cloak, withdrew a pouch filled with earth. “Romaria's blood spilled upon the earth when Ultorin wounded her. Not much, true...but enough that I can track her. To the ends of the earth, if need be.”

“Much as Circan can do with my nephew,” said Mazael.

“Yes,” said Lucan.

“Then we shall go at once,” said Mazael, gripping the younger man's shoulder. “Lucan, thank you. You are a true and loyal friend. Without your aid, I would have been slain a dozen times over the last year. And probably a dozen more times since the Malrags came.”

Guilt flickered over Lucan's expression. “I am not a good man, my lord. I am not. I have only done the best I can.”

Mazael nodded. “Let us go.”

###

Mazael walked into the courtyard to find his men and Sir Tanam's waiting for him. Rachel clung to Gerald, cleaning the blood and sweat from his face and armor. Squires hurried back and forth, tending to the horses and armor.

“We're here, my lord,” said Sir Hagen, his black-bearded face grim.

“Good,” said Mazael. “Gerald!” Gerald walked over, Rachel still at his side. “Sir Hagen, Gerald. Both of you take command here. I...have a task, and I will return by nightfall.”

“A task?” said Gerald. “What manner of task? Do you require my aid?”

“No,” said Mazael. “Lucan and I will go alone. Any extra men will only slow us.”

Sir Hagen scowled. “That is not wise, my lord. The countryside is crawling with Malrag scouting parties.”

“Aye,” said Sir Tanam. “My men think the Malrags' main host is on the move. So they'll have scouting parties out. As formidable as you are with that burning sword, and as powerful as my lord Lucan's arts are, I doubt the two of you can overcome a hundred Malrags.”

“This is something I must do alone,” said Mazael. “I owe a debt, and must discharge it. Trust me on this.”

Rachel stared at him, a strange expression on her face. Ever since they had been children, she had been able to judge his mood simply by looking at him.

“This is,” said Rachel, voice soft, “something Lord Mazael has to do, I think.”

At last the men nodded. They did not look happy, but they nodded.

“Keep Toraine from making trouble while I'm gone,” said Mazael, and he called for Rufus to bring him a horse.

###

An hour later Mazael rode south, atop an ill-tempered destrier named Hauberk, Lucan riding at his side. Lucan held a vial of bloodstained earth in his left hand, staff in his right, and every so often muttered a spell.

“Perhaps four miles to the south,” said Lucan, blinking. “Maybe five. She's moving...but not quickly. We can overtake her, I think, and...”

He frowned, twisting in his saddle.

Mazael followed his gaze, saw a group of horsemen riding across the plains.

Towards them, actually. They flew no banners, and from a distance, their armor and clothing looked...strange. As they drew closer, Mazael saw that they wore leather and furs, cloaks of gray wolfskin hanging heavy from their shoulders.

A breath hissed through Lucan's teeth.

“What is it?” said Mazael.

“Those riders,” said Lucan. “They're Elderborn.”

Chapter 13 - The Lord of Deepforest Keep

“The Elderborn?” said Mazael, astonished. “Here?”

“Perhaps they’ve come to aid us against the Malrags,” said Lucan, but there was doubt in his voice. “Sil Tarithyn came to White Rock, to fight against the Old Demon’s undead.”

“Only because they strayed into the Great Southern Forest,” said Mazael. “And I have never heard of the Elderborn coming this far north.”

“Perhaps they came in pursuit of a Malrag warband,” said Lucan.

Mazael squinted. One of the Elderborn riders carried a banner, a black field with a green shield upon it.

“That banner,” he said.

“I don’t recognize it,” said Lucan.

Mazael took a deep breath. “Romaria described it to me. It’s the banner of Deepforest Keep. Of her father, Lord Athaelin.”

“Did you not write him, telling him of her death?” said Lucan.

“I did,” said Mazael, watching the riders draw closer. “I sent the letter with a messenger. A messenger that never returned.” All the Elderborn were armed with the great bows they fired to deadly effect, quivers of obsidian-tipped arrows at their belts. At their head rode a human man, tall and strong, with thick black hair and a graying beard. A bronze shield hung from his back, and the hilt of a bastard sword jutted over his right shoulder.

Similar to the sword that lay broken in Romaria’s empty tomb.

“Ah,” said Lucan, raising his staff. “They want to kill you, don’t they?”

“Possibly,” said Mazael. “Don’t attack unless I give the word.”

He remained motionless atop Hauberk as the approaching riders reined up. There were a dozen Elderborn in all, their pale features angular and inhuman, their eyes like polished disks of silver and gold. Their leader, the human man, rode a few steps forward. Unlike the Elderborn, he wore a leather cuirass with steel studs, his cloak held in place by an elaborate bronze brooch. A bronze torque encircled his right arm, and a slender bronze diadem rested upon his brow. Age and weather had turned his face to seamed brown leather, but his blue eyes remained sharp and intense beneath his black hair.

Blue eyes, Mazael realized, exactly the same shape and color as Romaria’s.

"So," said the blue-eyed man, his voice thick and rough. "You are Mazael Cravenlock?"

"I am," said Mazael.

"And do you know who I am?"

"No," said Mazael. "But if were to guess, I would say you were Athaelin Greenshield, Lord of Deepforest Keep."

The blue-eyed man gave a sharp nod. "Aye. That I am." He thumped his chest. "I am Athaelin, the Greenshield, Champion of Deepforest Keep and Defender of the Mountain."

"What brings you to the Grim Marches, my lord?" said Mazael. "Have you ridden to aid us against the Malrags? For we have sore need of help."

"A year ago," said Athaelin, as if Mazael had not spoken, "a messenger staggered beneath the Champion's Tower, wounded unto death. He bore a letter from you, telling of my daughter’s death at the hands of the Old Demon. I would have ridden north, to take my vengeance at once, but the Seer bade caution. That, and I had no idea where to find you. At last the druids fashioned this for me with their spells," he held up a stone compass, its obsidian needle pointing straight at Mazael, "and I rode to the Grim Marches. And when I came to the Grim Marches, I found the land overrun with Malrags."

The Seer. Mazael remembered Romaria telling him of the ancient Elderborn druid, mighty in the magical arts of his people. He had prophesied that Mazael and Romaria would save each other, and that Romaria would save Deepforest Keep itself. His prophecy had proven half-correct; Romaria had indeed saved Mazael from himself. But after Romaria’s death, he had thought the rest of the Seer's prophecy to be rubbish.

Now he was not so sure.

"Are you Demonsouled?" said Athaelin, his rough voice snapping Mazael out of his recollections.

"What?" said Mazael.

"The Seer and the druids will not give me a straight answer," said Athaelin, moving his horse closer. "They do not see such things as humans do. But if you are Demonsouled, I will kill you for what you did to my daughter."

"I did not kill Romaria!" said Mazael, voice hot with sudden anger.

"Oh?" said Athaelin. "The Seer told me her destiny was bound with yours. And she came north, and rode with you against your brother and the Old Demon. And now she is slain." There was a hint of pain in the rough voice, the blue eyes tight. "A curious coincidence, no?"

"I did not kill her!" said Mazael. He would not tell Athaelin the truth about his nature, not unless necessary. If the Elderborn knew that he was a child of the Old Demon, they would shoot him on the spot. "I tried to save her. I loved her."

A stir went through the Elderborn, and Athaelin's eyes seemed to throw sparks.

"You loved her?" he spat. "A curious way to show it, since she lies cold and dead!"

"It was the Old Demon," said Mazael. "He slew her, before I could stop him."

"A fine tale," said Athaelin. "I think it more likely that you are Demonsouled, that you slew Romaria with your own hands. That you now summoned the Malrags to the Grim Marches, and make war upon your neighbors..."

Mazael hands curled into fists, Hauberk's reins squealing against his gauntlets. He did not want to waste time while Romaria needed his aid. "Listen to me! Romaria is still alive."

"What?" said Athaelin, his voice cracking like a whip.

"She was half-human, half-Elderborn," said Mazael. "When the Old Demon struck her down, the spell sundered her soul. The human half broke loose, while the Elderborn half remained in her flesh. The power of her Elderborn soul changed her, forced her into the form of a beast. But Lucan," he gestured at the black-cloaked wizard, "has a spell that can repair the damage. I have to find her. She was wounded in a fight against the Malrags, and I fear it is only a matter of time before they catch up to her."

Athaelin glared, his expression becoming cold and deadly.

"Do you seriously," he said, "expect me to believe such tripe? You slew my daughter, Demonsouled, and I will have vengeance for it." His glare shifted to Lucan. "And I know of you, Dragon's Shadow. Richard Mandragon's pet necromancer, isn't it? Try to use your filthy arts, and I'll see you dead."

Lucan sneered. "Raise your hand against me, fool, and I will show you what my filthy arts can do."

The Elderborn lifted their bows, and Lucan gestured, green light crackling around his fingertips. Mazael yanked Lion from its scabbard, sure that things had come to a fight, but Athaelin spurred his horse between Lucan and the Elderborn.

“No!” said Athaelin. “This is between Mazael and me. I will not have anyone’s blood shed to avenge my daughter but my own. Will you face me fairly, Mazael Cravenlock? Or will you hide behind your wizard?”

“Are you mad?” said Mazael. “Romaria is out there, we are surrounded by Malrag warbands, and you want to fight?”

“Among the men of Deepforest Keep,” said Athaelin, “we settle our disputes with our own hands, and do not hide behind others. And you murdered my daughter. Will you then face me and answer my challenge?” His lip curled in contempt. “Or will you run and hide like a beaten dog?”

“I did not kill Romaria,” said Mazael. “And if fighting you is the only way to prove it, then so be it.”

“This is folly,” hissed Lucan, voice low. “You have nothing to gain and everything to lose by killing Athaelin. Assuming you do even can kill him. I wager he is a capable swordsman, and you haven’t recovered fully from those poisoned crossbow bolts.”

Lucan was right. Athaelin had the hard hands and easy balance of a master swordsman. Mazael’s wounds had closed, but his shoulder and leg still ached, and from time to time a wave of dizziness from the calibah poison swept through him.

“Nevertheless,” said Mazael, “I must do this.”

He slid from Hauberk’s saddle, gripping the reins until the dizziness passed. Athaelin dismounted and dropped to the ground, moving with fluid grace. The Elderborn backed off, leaving Mazael and Athaelin in a ring about twenty paces across.

“If he gains the upper hand,” murmured Lucan, “I will strike him down.”

“Don’t,” said Mazael, though he doubted Lucan would listen.

Athaelin drew his bastard sword over his shoulder, the steel glimmering, its edges razor-sharp. “Are you ready?”

Mazael drew Lion. No azure flames appeared around its blade. Neither the Elderborn nor Athaelin were creatures of dark magic, after all. “I am.”

“The defend yourself!”

Athaelin came at him in a run, his sword blurring over his hand in a two-handed grip. Mazael parried, dodged the next blow, launched a thrust of his own. Athaelin beat aside the thrust and sidestepped, his sword swinging for Mazael’s neck. Mazael blocked the swing, Lion ringing against the bastard sword’s blade.

For a moment they regarded each other in silence.

“I did not kill Romaria,” said Mazael.

“I doubt that very much,” said Athaelin. He circled to the left, and Mazael moved right. “First your letter arrives, claiming that Romaria died at the Old Demon’s hands. The Seer confirms that a Demonsouled slew her. Then I arrive to find the Grim Marches overrun by Malrags, and you claim that she lives again? Yes, I doubt that very much.”

He attacked, his sword like a bar of steel lightning. Mazael parried once, twice, thrice. Athaelin’s fourth blow slipped past his guard and skidded across his chest, his armor just turning it. Had Mazael not been wearing his cuirass, the blow would have plunged into his heart.

He backed away, breathing hard, his chest aching from the thrust.

“Do you think I summoned the Malrags to make war upon my own lands?” said Mazael.

Athaelin's teeth flashed in his weathered face. "The Demonsouled are filled with bloodlust. And a Demonsouled of sufficient power can command the Malrags." He shifted his sword to his right hand, the blade spinning in a slow circle at his side, like a serpent preparing to strike. "Perhaps you take joy in watching bloodshed and suffering. As you took joy in watching my daughter die."

"I did not!" said Mazael, anger starting to fill him. "The Old Demon slew her in front of me! I would have stopped him, had I the power."

"Ah!" said Athaelin, pointing his sword at Mazael. "A moment ago you said she still lives. Now you say that the Old Demon slew her in front of you..."

"I thought the Old Demon slew her in front of me," said Mazael. "I didn't know his spell would cleave her soul."

"Your story changes from minute to minute," said Athaelin. "Are you really such a miserable liar? Or perhaps you believe your tales yourself. The Demonsouled often go mad, their minds destroyed by the taint of their souls."

Mazael hesitated, for an instant wondering if perhaps Athaelin spoke the truth.

And in that moment, Athaelin struck.

He leapt forward, all his strength and speed behind a two-handed slash. Mazael parried, but only just, and the force of the blow sent him staggering. He backed away as Athaelin came at him, the bastard sword rising and falling, his grip shifting from two-handed to one-handed and back again.

And in a flash, Mazael recognized the movements.

Romaria had used them against him, when they fought with practice swords in the courtyard of Castle Cravenlock. Athaelin's routines, his swings and slashes, were the same as the ones Romaria had used that spring morning. No doubt Romaria had learned them from him.

And Mazael knew what he would do next.

As Athaelin sidestepped and brought his sword around in a backhanded slash, Mazael dodged, the blade plunging past his face. Athaelin pivoted to recover his balance, but for a moment, he was open. Mazael could have plunged Lion into Athaelin's stomach, ripping through the leather cuirass and into muscle and flesh.

Instead he slammed Lion's pommel into Athaelin's stomach, knocking the older man back. Athaelin recovered quickly, his bastard sword coming up in guard, his eyes narrowed with fresh wariness.

"Do you know how I did that?" said Mazael, circling to his right. "Romaria showed me those attacks. Because she trusted me. Because I loved her."

"Your mouth pollutes her name," said Athaelin.

"She told me about you," said Mazael. "How you taught her to fight. How she loved Deepforest Keep, but she couldn't stay there."

For a moment anguish flickered over Athaelin's face, but he kept circling Mazael.

"And she could fight," said Mazael. "I would never have believed a woman could handle a sword so well. And she was the best archer I ever met. The best scout, the best tracker. Brave and bold, even though she was terrified of her fate. She told me about that, too, how half-breeds always succumb to the Elderborn half of their souls. And yet she carried on in the face of that. How could I not love her?"

"You know nothing," said Athaelin.

He attacked again, feinting in a low thrust, then bringing his blade up for a high cut. But Mazael had seen Romaria use this attack, and blocked it with ease.

"She saved my life," Mazael said, Lion straining against Athaelin's sword. "I have many regrets, but my greatest is that I failed to save her." They broke apart, still circling. "I did not kill her...but if she had never met me, she would still live. I curse myself for it."

"Do you think to inspire sympathy with this?" spat Athaelin.

"And when I learned that she still lived," said Mazael, shaking his head, "that she still lived, and I could help her...I set out at once. I will help her, my lord Athaelin. Whatever the cost to myself, I will help her. Even if I have to go through you to do it."

"Silence!" roared Athaelin, and sprinted at Mazael.

His attack came with such fury and power that Mazael, in his weakened state, barely deflected it. He parried, and tried to dodge, but Athaelin bulled forward, one hand seizing Mazael's shoulder. The other drew back his bastard sword for a lethal thrust. Mazael twisted, caught the wrist of Athaelin's sword hand, and yanked. Athaelin stumbled, his sword point skidding off Mazael's cuirass. Mazael ripped free and brought his sword up, laying the edge against Athaelin's throat.

In the same instant Athaelin's blade came to rest against Mazael's throat.

For a moment they stood like that, staring at each other.

He heard the creak as the Elderborn raised their bows, saw the flash of green light as Lucan began muttering a spell.

"Lucan," said Mazael, Lion resting against the side of Athaelin's neck.

"Hold," said Athaelin, his blade motionless against Mazael's throat.

"Perhaps we should kill each other and have done with it,” said Mazael.

Athaelin said nothing, his fingers tight against his sword's hilt.

"But if I'm right," said Mazael. "I'm the only one who can help Romaria. Her only chance for aid. And if you kill me, she'll lose that chance."

"You could be lying," hissed Athaelin, "preying upon an old man's grief."

"Perhaps," said Mazael. "Or I'm telling the truth. I make this oath to you, Lord Athaelin. Go to Castle Cravenlock, seek out my armsmaster Sir Hagen Bridgebane, and tell him that I sent you. He will give you lodgings. I will return within two days, and I will have Romaria with me."

"Or?" said Athaelin.

"Or I will be dead," said Mazael. "And if I am not, if I do return without Romaria...you can cut me down yourself. I won't stop you."

Lucan muttered something. It did not sound complimentary.

"Your oath?" said Athaelin.

"You have it," said Mazael.

For a long moment Athaelin did not move. Then he lowered his sword, his eyes and face tight with anger and...hope, perhaps?

"If you've led me false," said Athaelin. "I will kill you."

"If I've led you false," said Mazael, lowering his own sword, "then I've also led myself false, and I won't be alive for you to kill, my lord."

A wintry smile flickered across Athaelin's face. "I hope you are right. I hope I will see my daughter again, alive and well. But I fear you have only played upon an old man's foolish hope."

He walked back to his horse, swung into his saddle, and gestured to the Elderborn.

As one they rode to the north, towards Castle Cravenlock, leaving Mazael and Lucan behind.

Chapter 14 - The Duel

"You should have killed him," said Lucan at last.

"No," said Mazael.

Lucan snorted. "Then you should have let me kill him."

"No!" said Mazael. "I will not kill Romaria's father."

"Then he will kill you," said Lucan, "if we fail to return with Romaria. Or if she has gone mad, or..."

"Enough," said Mazael. "If you are so displeased, I can do this without you."

Lucan sighed. "No, you can't. You cannot cast the necessary spell without my aid."

Mazael swung back up into Hauberk's saddle. "Can you still sense her?"

"Aye." Lucan's eyes fluttered. "Three and a half miles to the south, I think. She's moving closer to us."

"Then let's find her," said Mazael, and put his boots to Hauberk's flanks.

###

The sky grew darker as they rode south, heavy gray clouds rolling overhead. The corpses of dead Malrags lay scattered here and there. To judge from their wounds and the black blood drying upon their gray flesh, they had not been dead for very long. No more than a few hours. No doubt they had fled from the battle outside Cravenlock Town, only to perish from their wounds here.

Until their dark spirits were reborn once more.

"That one is missing its throat," said Lucan, pointing. "And that one was hamstrung."

"Romaria," said Mazael.

Lucan nodded.

"Where is she?" said Mazael.

"Nearby," said Lucan. He frowned, and pointed. "There. There!"

Mazael twisted in his saddle, and saw the great black wolf.

Romaria.

She half ran, half limped, across the plain, making for a low hill. A ring of weathered stones, the foundation of some long-forgotten tower, topped the hill. The wolf had been wounded, her dark fur wet in places with blood.

Mazael saw the reason why a moment later.

A score of Malrags raced after her, axes and spears in hand, their colorless eyes wide and eager for the kill.

"No," said Mazael, drawing Lion and kicking Hauberk to a gallop.

The Malrags turned to look as Lion erupted into blazing azure flame. And as they did, the black wolf lunged forward, fangs ripping, and two of the Malrags fell, hamstrung. The rest hesitated, caught between fear of the wolf and fear of Lion's flame, and Hauberk crashed into them, knocking one Malrag to the earth. Mazael struck, driving Lion into a Malrag's skull, even as Hauberk kicked another Malrag.

But there were too many of them. Mazael urged Hauberk forward, but the Malrags followed, stabbing and slashing. He parried one blow, then another, but a spear bit into his hip, and the edge of an axe grazed his calf. He snarled in pain and killed another Malrag, even as a spear dug through his armor and into his shoulder.

Then a thunderclap rang out, and invisible force seized the nearest Malrags. Lucan stood in his saddle, hand raised, gray light flickering around his fingertips. Mist swirled below his horse, and a pair of shadowy beasts leapt from the mist, each looking like a cross between a hyena and a scorpion. The spirit beasts tore into the Malrags, rending them to pieces. Hauberk screamed in pain and fury and ripped free of the Malrags. Mazael leaned forward, putting the horse's momentum behind his swing, and Lion took another Malrag's head.

Even wounded, the wolf moved with grace and power, dealing death at every turn.

It was over soon, most of the Malrags slain, the rest fleeing. Mazael brought his panting horse to a stop, Lion dangling from his fist.

The wolf stared at him. Her flanks heaved with exhaustion, her legs trembling, her blue eyes glittering.

Mazael slid Lion back into its scabbard and dropped from the saddle.

The wolf backed away, fangs bared in a noiseless snarl.

“Romaria,” said Mazael.

The wolf went rigid.

“Careful,” murmured Lucan. “She might rip your throat out.”

Mazael risked a glance at Lucan. The younger man’s hood was thrown back, his dark eyes fixed on the wolf.

“Closer,” said Lucan.

Mazael took a step towards the wolf, and she crept back.

“Do you remember me?” said Mazael. “I remember you. I remember kissing you for the first time, on the steps of the King’s Tower. I remember watching you use a bow, or give coins to the hungry children in Cravenlock Town.”

He took another step, and this time the she did not back away.

###

Lucan watched as Mazael drew closer to the great black wolf.

Every line of the wolf’s form shivered with tension. Lucan could not tell if she was about to flee in terror, or spring upon Mazael in rage.

And if she did, Mazael was in a great deal of danger. His Demonsouled nature allowed him to recover from all but the most grievous wounds. But if his heart was pierced or his head smashed, he almost certainly would die. There had never been a chance to test it, of course, but Lucan knew that Mazael’s regenerative power would only go so far.

And he needed Mazael alive.

He sat atop his horse, ready to cast the spell.

And if that failed, if she attacked Mazael, Lucan would kill her. He would regret doing it, of course. He, too, knew what it was like to lose a woman one loved.

But Mazael had lost Romaria once before…and Lucan was reasonably certain that he could endure losing her again.

###

“And you stood with me against the Old Demon, at the end,” said Mazael.

He was only a few paces from the wolf, now, and still she gazed at him with that mixture of fear and terror. How close did he have to be for Lucan to cast the spell? Did he have to touch the wolf? The gods only knew how she might respond to that – she might flee, or she might rip his hand off.

“You saved me,” said Mazael, “you kept me from murdering Rachel, from murdering Mitor. You kept the Demonsouled part of my nature from overwhelming me, from turning me into a monster.”

The wolf did not move.

“Do you remember this?” said Mazael, lifting the silver coin on its chain. The wolf trembled, blue eyes fixed upon the coin. “You used to carry this. I kept it, to remember you. To remind myself of all you did for me.” He took a deep breath. “To remind myself of how much I love you.”

Another spasm went through the wolf, worse than before.

And then she changed, the lines of her form blurring and melting, her body shrinking and reshaping itself. One moment a great black wolf stood before Mazael. The next Romaria Greenshield crouched naked before him, her black hair wild and tangled, her pale skin marked with both Malrag blood and her own.

Bit by bit she straightened up, heedless of her nudity, blue eyes fixed upon his face. Her expression flickered from rage to fear and back again.

“Romaria,” he said.

Something like recognition came into her expression. “Mazael?” Her voice was thick, rusty, as if she had not used it for a long time. “You…are Mazael?”

He nodded. They stood face to face now, perhaps a foot or so apart.

“Yes,” he said. “You remember me?”

“Remember?” said Romaria, as if the word confused her. “It…I…you. I…remember you. We kissed.” A smile flickered over her lips. “There was…we fought together. I remember a chapel. A demon. Red light.” Her hands twitched towards her chest, where the Old Demon’s spell had burned away her heart and lungs. “Pain. I…remember pain.”

“The Old Demon,” said Mazael. “He killed you. Or, I thought he killed you. Instead, his spell did…this to you.”

“I can’t remember,” said Romaria. “Anything. I want to remember.”

“I can help,” said Mazael, holding out his hand. “The Old Demon’s spell tore your soul in half. It can be healed. Just take my hand, and you’ll remember.”

She hesitated, staring at him for. Then she reached out, and put her hand, thin and strong, against his.

###

Lucan watched as Mazael and Romaria stood staring at each other. His magic waited for his command. Ready to restore Romaria’s torn soul…or to strike her dead.

She took Mazael’s hand.

Touching. They were close enough for the spell to work.

Lucan began casting the spell, green light flickering around his fingertips, and Romaria’s face twisted with fury.

###

Romaria snarled, every muscle in her body going rigid.

“What is it?” said Mazael. He half-expected to see another band of Malrags charging at them. But the only Malrags he saw were dead. Lucan sat atop his horse, muttering, green light flashing around his hands.

The spell.

“Magic!” screamed Romaria, her eyes wild. “Magic killed me. The Old Demon’s magic!”

“This spell will help you…”

“You lie!” said Romaria. “You lured me to my death. You let the Old Demon kill me! And now you’re trying to kill me again!”

“No!” said Mazael. “I’m not, I swear it, I…”

She changed.

The woman vanished, and in her place stood the great black wolf, pressed up against Mazael, eyes ablaze with fury, claws sliding against his armor. And before Mazael could react she drove him to the ground, paws straining against his shoulders.

Her jaws closed around his throat, fangs stabbing through his skin. Mazael heard the sound of ripping meat, felt the hot blood splatter across his face and neck, and everything went black.

###

Lucan cursed as the black wolf's jaws closed around Mazael's throat.

There was no more time.

He finished his spell, flung out his hands, and the wolf disappeared in flash of swirling green flame.

Chapter 15 - Rebirth

For a long time, Romaria Greenshield had been lost to herself.

She had lain in darkness, full of pain, her mind drifting in oblivion. Bit by bit she forgot herself, forgot the pain, forgot everything. Sometimes images flickered through her mind. Fire and magic. A man, tall and strong, with a brown beard and gray eyes.

Then she awoke, clawed her way free from the crypt, and fled across the wild plains.

Yet dark things stalked the plains, filled with corruption and malevolence. And still the gray-eyed man with the sword of azure fire haunted her dreams. Seeing him filled her with fear, as if something horrible had happened to her the last time she had met him. Yet seeing him in danger from the dark things filled her with even greater fear, so she went to battle besides him, rending the dark creatures with fang and claw.

And her fear for him warred with her fear of him.

And then green fire devoured her world.

###

Romaria awoke on the hard ground, naked and cold, her body aching and her skin smeared with dried blood.

She got to her knees, blinking with confusion. How had she come to be here? This was the Grim Marches, wasn't it? Her father had sent her north, to investigate the undead things. Her memory churned. She remembered Castle Cravenlock. A stone chapel. A Demonsouled wizard, standing upon an altar.

His magic plunging into her chest, burning her, killing her...

She looked down at herself, at the unmarked skin of her breasts, at Mazael Cravenlock lying before her, bleeding to death from a torn throat.

The memories came back in a rush.

"Oh, gods!" said Romaria, trying to staunch the blood flowing from his throat. "Mazael. Mazael!"

"He'll be fine."

Romaria looked up.

Lucan Mandragon stood a short distance away, leaning on a black metal staff.

There was something...wrong about him.

In her wolf form, Romaria's sense of smell had been enhanced, and she smelled something vile inside Lucan. Some poison working its way through his veins, killing him, corrupting him, changing him into something monstrous.

But even that was nothing compared to the vile stench of his staff.

"Lucan," said Romaria. She remembered him, from Lord Richard's war against Mazael's brother Mitor. "What have you done to yourself?"

Lucan slumped against the staff, and for a moment he looked so young, so tired. "What was necessary. I...needed greater power, to meet the threats that faced me. And so I found it..."

Mazael shuddered, drawing a gagging breath, and Romaria forgot about Lucan and his corrupted staff.

"Oh, gods," she whispered. "I killed him."

"No," said Lucan. "He is Demonsouled, remember? Even now his wound closes."

He was right. Romaria saw the edges of the terrible gash in his throat closing, the blood flow slackening. She had seen his Demonsouled power close his wounds before. Soon he would recover.

But Mazael looked different than she remembered. Older. A little leaner. Fresh lines on his face. As if he bore new cares and worries since she had last seen him...

How long ago had that been?

"Lucan," said Romaria, "how long...how long...was I like that?"

"A little over two years," said Lucan.

"Gods of the earth and forest," said Romaria, repeating the old Elderborn oath she had often heard her father use. "Two years? How is that even possible?"

Lucan hesitated. "The Old Demon's spell was meant to kill you, but it instead split your soul asunder. The human half merged with Mazael's. The Elderborn half remained in your body, and its latent magic had...unusual effects. Hence your transformation into a wolf."

"Two years," repeated Romaria. "Did I kill anyone?"

"Only Malrags," said Lucan. "And you saved Lord Mazael's life several times. Do you remember anything?"

"Some," said Romaria. "It was like a dream. Or a nightmare. And only now have I awakened. I think..."

Mazael trembled, his mouth yawning wide as he gasped for breath.

###

Red pain flooded Mazael, and darkness drowned him.

Then consciousness filled him once more, and he wheezed for breath, coughing up a great deal of blood. He tried to sit up, and warm, strong hands took his shoulders, helping him up.

"Breathe," said a woman's voice. A woman's familiar voice. "You took quite a wound. Even you will need a moment to heal it."

Mazael opened his eyes, the world swimming into focus around him. He sat at the base of the hill and its ruined tower, dead Malrags scattered over the grasses. Lucan stood a short distance away, leaning on his staff.

Romaria knelt besides him, hands on his shoulders, steadying him. She looked utterly exhausted. Yet the madness had vanished from her face. And those blue eyes looked so familiar.

"Romaria?" said Mazael, his voice no more than a cracked whisper.

She nodded, blinking.

Mazael grabbed her hands. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I led you to your death. It was my fault, my mistake..."

"Enough," said Romaria, squeezing his hands. "Enough! You didn't kill me. The Old Demon did." Her familiar crooked grin spread over her lips. "Though it seems the old devil didn't even do a very good job, did he? Not if I'm sitting here." She took a shuddering breath. "And you saved me."

"No," said Mazael, turning his head. "Lucan did that. Thank you."

Lucan inclined his head, but Romaria frowned, her muscles tensing beneath Mazael's hands.

"I suggest," said Lucan, "that we return to Castle Cravenlock at once. There are still Malrag warbands roaming nearby, and we are exhausted.”

“The Malrags,” said Romaria. “What are Malrags doing in the Grim Marches, anyway? I’ve fought Malrags before, but I never through to see any out of the mountains.”

Mazael blinked. “You’ve fought Malrags?” Until a few months ago, no living man had seen a Malrag for over a century. Or so Mazael had thought.

“Aye,” said Romaria. “When I traveled in the Great Mountains, before I went west to the Old Kingdoms. Vile things, full of cunning, and the only thing they enjoy is cruelty and butchery. Have they been raiding the Grim Marches?”

"With a host tens of thousands strong, commanded by a man wielding a Demonsouled bloodsword.”

“For the gods’ sake!” said Lucan. “We can discuss this at Castle Cravenlock. Might I remind you that I am exhausted, you are weakened, and Romaria is both unarmed and naked? If we encounter any Malrags now, we are probably finished.”

Mazael looked at Romaria. In the chaos of the moment, he had almost forgotten that she was naked. He had thought her beautiful, two years ago, and he thought her beautiful now. Even beneath the dried blood and the scratches and cuts, even through his exhaustion, she was still beautiful.

Gods, how he had missed looking at her. How he had wanted her.

She stared at him, and he wanted to kiss her. But not here. Lucan was right about the Malrags.

Mazael climbed to his feet, his damaged armor clanking, Romaria putting a steadying hand on his arm. “Here.” He tugged off his cloak and put it around her shoulders. “I doubt I should ride into the courtyard with you naked upon my horse.”

That crooked grin flashed across her face once more. “Well. It would make quite a stir, wouldn’t it?”

###

Romaria sat behind Mazael, wrapped in his black cloak, as they rode north.

And as they rode, he told her what had happened over the last two years. Some of it she had expected. Gerald Roland married to Rachel. Mazael keeping peace between Lord Malden and Lord Richard. Some of it she had not expected. The Dominiar Order destroyed at the Battle of Tumblestone?

“You killed Amalric Galbraith?” said Romaria.

“Aye,” said Mazael. His voice was distant, as if recalling a memory that pained him. “He was Demonsouled. A child of the Old Demon. As am I.”

“No,” said Romaria. “No. You’re nothing like Amalric Galbraith. He was a monster. The crimes he committed in the Old Kingdoms…he would put entire villages to the sword. Men, women, children.”

“He did the same, near Tumblestone,” said Mazael.

She squeezed his shoulder, beneath the damaged armor. “You did well to stop him.”

And what Mazael had to tell her about the last few months was bad, very bad. A host of Malrags. A renegade wizard. Gerald’s and Rachel’s son kidnapped by a calibah. And the Malrag horde led by a madman with a sword forged from Demonsouled blood.

“Ultorin,” she said, spitting the name like a curse.

Mazael looked surprised. “You know him?”

“I do,” said Romaria. “He was Amalric Galbraith’s right hand. He did much of Amalric’s killing, and was just as cruel and brutal as his master. I told you I traveled in the Old Kingdoms, fought against the Dominiars.” She remembered those days, hiding the forests, ambushing the haughty Dominiar knights as they rode to collect taxes. “I foiled Ultorin, once, in a battle. I wonder if he remembers me. I hope he remembers me. Even if he hadn’t brought the Malrags to the Grim Marches, I would still put an arrow through his chest.”

Castle Cravenlock came into sight, grim and dark atop its crag, with Cravenlock Town resting at its base. The town had grown in the last two years. Mostly from refugees fleeing the Malrags, no doubt. The walls had been strengthened, and she saw crossbow-armed militia patrolling the ramparts. Despite the Malrags, men and women alike moved about their tasks with purpose, and while Romaria saw fear, she saw no sign of despair.

Mazael had rallied his people well.

They rode to the castle and clattered through the barbican. Armed men milled about the courtyard, while squires ran to and fro, tending to their knights. Romaria saw Sir Gerald Roland waiting near the gate, Rachel at his side. She looked up as Mazael approached, a relieved smile spreading over her face.

Then she saw Romaria, and her green eyes got very wide.

"Mazael, you're back, thank the gods," said Gerald. "Were you successful..."

He saw Romaria, and his voice trailed off.

"Evidently you were," said Gerald after a moment. "This must be quite a tale."

"It is," said Mazael, smiling. "We..."

"Romaria!"

She turned her head. A group of Elderborn stood near the curtain wall, aloof and alien in their furs and leathers, bows resting in their hands. A man ran across the courtyard, a man with graying black hair and blue eyes, a bronze diadem on his brow and a bronze shield slung across his back...

"Father!" said Romaria.

She slid from the saddle and ran to him.

###

Mazael watched Romaria run to Athaelin.

"You're smiling."

Rachel looked at him, eyes wide with wonder.

"You never smile," said Rachel. "At least, not as you once did, when we were young."

He dropped from Hauberk's back. Rufus Highgate came to take the reins, frowning at Romaria.

"My lord," he said. "If I might ask. Who is that...lady?"

"Lady Romaria Greenshield," said Mazael. "Daughter of Athaelin Greenshield, Lord of Deepforest Keep. And yes, she was slain, I know." Now it was Rufus's turn to wear an astonished expression. "Take care of Hauberk. And send word to the seneschal. Lady Romaria will need rooms at once."

"And clothes," added Rachel.

"You heard the lady," said Mazael. "Go."

Rufus bowed and led Hauberk away.

"Lord Mazael."

Athaelin approached, Romaria at his side. Some of the anger had fallen from his expression, and he no longer looked quite so grim.

"I have kept my oath to you," said Mazael. "Here is your daughter, safe and sound once more. You, your daughter, and your companions are my guests, and may remain at Castle Cravenlock as long as you like. Though we would welcome any aid you could give against the Malrags. We are sore pressed, as I'm sure you can see."

"I was wrong about you," said Athaelin.

You aren't, thought Mazael.

He was truly Demonsouled, a child of the Old Demon. And even if he had not killed Romaria with his own hands, even if she forgave him, he still blamed himself for what had happened. If Athaelin had cut him down during their fight, it would not have been murder.

It would have been justice.

"I see Romaria before me, alive and well," said Athaelin. "And I see what you have done here. How you have rallied your people, and fought to defend your lands. I had heard rumors of Malrags in the Grim Marches, but I never dreamed they would come in such numbers." He shook his head. "You have my aid, and the aid of my companions. And I shall send word to Deepforest Keep, to summon additional help. The Malrags must be defeated. Otherwise they will threaten the Elderborn of the Great Southern Forest, and even Deepforest Keep itself."

"Thank you," said Mazael. "We shall be glad to have your aid."

###

That night Mazael held a feast, to celebrate the victory over the Malrag warband outside of the Cravenlock Town, and Lord Athaelin's arrival.

And Romaria's safe return.

She dressed as she always had, in boots and trousers and leather armor, and drew a few disapproving looks from the ladies of the castle. But she did not care, and neither did Mazael.

The lords and knights assembled from their various camps around Cravenlock Town. Lord Richard greeted Athaelin with his usual calm courtesy.

"Our host marches east tomorrow," said Lord Richard. "We will draw out the Malrags, find Ultorin, and kill him. Your presence would be welcome, my lord Athaelin. The Elderborn are known to be archers without peer. Perhaps you would accept command of the archers and the skirmishers? Most of my lords and knights are accustomed to commanding heavy horse, and I have few men experienced as archers."

"It would please me," said Athaelin. He laughed. "You men of the plains know how to fight from the back of a horse, but on your feet? We men of Deepforest Keep could teach you a thing or two."

"Indeed," said Lord Richard.

Romaria sat at Mazael's side throughout the feast, and sometimes her hand strayed to touch his beneath the table.

From time to time Mazael saw Lucan standing on the balcony, wrapped in his cloak, eyes glittering beneath his hood as he leaned upon that black staff.

###

After the feast, Romaria joined Mazael in his rooms atop the King's Tower.

"There's something wrong with Lucan," said Romaria.

Mazael snorted. "There's quite a bit wrong with Lucan."

"No," said Romaria. "He...smells wrong."

"Smells?"

Romaria paced to the balcony doors, arms wrapped around herself. "My senses are...different, after what happened to me. Sharper, somehow. I can see more clearly. And I can smell things...wolves have a sharper sense of smell, after all. And Lucan smells rotten. Corrupted. Like meat that's gone bad."

Mazael crossed to her, took her hands. She did not pull away. "He's sick, you mean?" He had wondered at that himself. Lately Lucan had looked tired, and had been prone to collapses. It had begun when the Malrags invaded, almost after Mazael had first seen Lucan with that black staff.

"No. At least, I don't think so. He almost smells...he smells Demonsouled."

Mazael closed his eyes. "Like me, you mean."

Romaria turned to face him. "No. No. You smell," the crooked grin appeared, briefly, "you smell dangerous. Like a wolf. There's power in you, but you've learned to control it. Lucan smells...worse." She sighed in frustration. "I cannot explain it any better."

"He has been of great help to me," said Mazael. "Without his aid, I would have been killed, several times. And his spell restored you. But if you are wary, I will watch him."

"Thank you," said Romaria.

They stood in silence for a moment.

"I've missed you," said Mazael. "More than I can say."

She smiled. "I told you the Seer prophesied that we would save each other. Well, we have, haven't we?" She took a deep breath. "You know this doesn't change anything."

"What do you mean?"

"You have control of yourself," said Romaria. She closed her eyes, moved closer to him. He felt the heat of her body against his, the warmth of her hands, her breath against his neck. "But I am still half-human, half-Elderborn. The power in the Elderborn half of my soul...I cannot control it. Sooner or later, it will consume me. As happens to all half-breeds. I don't know how much time I have."

"No one knows how much time they have left," said Mazael. "We could all die tomorrow. You...just know more clearly how you will die."

"I know," said Romaria, voice quiet. "So I will spend what time I have left doing something worthwhile. Fighting the Malrags. And spending time with those I love. Like my father." She hesitated. "And with you."

"I love you," said Mazael.

He drew her face closer, and she kissed him. Slowly, gently, at first.

Then with greater urgency.

###

They wound up together in Mazael's bed, their clothes gone, joined together in body as they were in spirit and fate.

Mazael knew he might die tomorrow, that she might die tomorrow. But he did not care, did not care about anything but Romaria's eyes and lips and body.

###

He awoke the next morning with Romaria's legs tangled in his, her arm thrown across him, her head resting against his chest, the feel of her breath against his skin.

The sound of horns in his ears.

Mazael sat up, alarmed, and Romaria's eyes shot open.

War horns.

The Malrag host had come.

Chapter 16 - The March

The door to Mazael’s bedchamber burst open, and Rufus Highgate ran in.

Mazael remembered that night when Rufus had run into his room, bearing news that Cravenlock Town was under attack. It had been the first time he had seen the Malrags.

The first time he had seen the great black wolf.

Rufus skidded to a stop, gaping at Romaria.

“Damn it, boy,” said Mazael. “Stop gawking.” Again he heard the sound of horns, and the rattle of armor and the clamor of raised voices from the courtyard. “What is it?”

“The Malrags, my lord,” said Rufus. “Sir Tanam’s men say that are marching for the castle, in greater numbers than we have ever seen before. The…the entire Malrag host might be on the move, my lord.

“Help me dress,” said Mazael, climbing to his feet, while Romaria pulled on her clothes and armor. Had Ultorin decided to avenge his defeat outside the walls of Cravenlock Town, his two failed traps to kill Mazael? Or had he simply decided to break the resistance of the Grim Marches once and for all? The entire might of the Grim Marches had gathered in camps around Castle Cravenlock – nearly twenty-five thousand men – but Ultorin had at least seventy-five thousand Malrags. Maybe even more. Knights and mounted armsmen could tear their way through the Malrag lines with ease, but Lord Richard’s combined armies had only seven thousand heavy horse.

How many Malrags could they overcome?

Or perhaps Malavost, or the San-keth, had some other goal in mind.

“It doesn’t matter why,” said Romaria, slinging her sword over her shoulder. Mazael had found a bastard sword for her, and she carried one of the short horse bows favored by the militia, a quiver of arrows at her belt. “We’ll stop him first. Then we’ll figure out why he did it.”

“Aye,” said Mazael, and then realized that she knew what he had been thinking. Either they still shared some strange link due to Lucan’s spell, or she just knew him very well. He adjusted his armor as Rufus buckled his sword belt. His armor felt strange – many of the damaged steel plates had been replaced.

“If we can find Ultorin,” said Romaria as Mazael tugged on his black surcoat, “it doesn’t matter what he plans. We can end this, today. Malavost can’t control the Malrags without him, and they’ll turn on each other.” Her voice darkened. “And Ultorin deserves death, anyway, for the things he did in the Old Kingdoms.”

“Then let’s see if we can give it to him,” said Mazael.

He hurried down the stairs, Romaria and Rufus following, and entered the courtyard. Knights ran back and forth, climbing into their saddles, their squires adjusting their arms and armor. Gerald sat atop his horse near the steps to the keep, talking with Sir Hagen. Rachel stood in the doorway, watching him, her face a calm mask.

She was terrified, Mazael knew. Her husband, her brother, and her son might all die before the sun set.

"What news?" said Mazael.

"The Malrags are on the move, my lord," said Hagen, face grim beneath his black beard. He alone, of Mazael's friends and vassals, seemed unmoved by Romaria's return. Of course, he had only entered Mazael's service a year after the Old Demon had killed her. "Sir Tanam's scouts spotted them. A great host, marching directly for Castle Cravenlock."

Rufus sprinted in the direction of the stables. "How many?" said Mazael.

Hagen hesitated. "At least a hundred thousand strong, at a minimum. Most likely one hundred and fifty thousand, and perhaps as many as a quarter of a million. The Malrag host...it simply covered too much ground for Sir Tanam's scouts to get an accurate count."

"So many of them," murmured Rachel, her face white.

"A quarter of a million," said Mazael. Perhaps a hundred and twenty thousand men, women, and children lived upon the lands of Lord Richard and his vassals.

And now twice as many Malrags prepared to fling themselves at Castle Cravenlock.

"Lord Richard sends word," said Hagen. "The host is to assemble four miles east of Castle Cravenlock." He grimaced. "There we will take our stand against the Malrags, or so he says."

"Lord Richard has a plan, I hope?" said Mazael. Hagen did not answer. But there was only one hope of victory, wasn't there? They had to find Ultorin and kill him. Anything else was useless.

"So many of them," repeated Rachel. "And my son is in the middle of them."

"Fear not, Lady Rachel," said Romaria. "With so many of them, it will make it all the harder to miss."

Rufus returned, leading Hauberk, and Mazael pulled himself into the saddle. Romaria took one of the lighter, swifter beasts favored by the mounted archers in the militia. She turned the horse in a quick circle, nodded in satisfaction.

"Then we had best make haste," said Mazael. "We wouldn't Lord Richard to keep all the Malrags for himself, would we?"

"The gods go with you," said Rachel.

Gerald stooped, kissed her, and rode with Mazael to the barbican. Lucan and Timothy were there, grim in their black coats, while Lord Athaelin waited with his Elderborn companion. The Elderborn carried their massive bows, while Athaelin bore his bastard sword in his right hand and his bronze shield upon his left arm. The shield looked ancient, a ring of runes carved around its edge, and the bronze had acquired the green patina of age.

Ah. Greenshield. Of course.

"You're looking well, daughter," said Athaelin.

Romaria grinned. "And you as well, father."

"Lord Mazael!" Athaelin clashed the flat of his blade against his ancient shield. "We are ready to ride with you."

"Good," said Mazael.

He took one look around the courtyard, at the men ready on their horses, at the women watching from the walls. At Rachel, standing alone and forlorn upon the steps to the keep. Mazael knew he might well die today. Everyone in this courtyard might fall in battle against the Malrags.

Yet he would not surrender his lands and the lives of his people without a fight. And if he could fight his way to Ultorin, if he could cut down the renegade Dominiar...Mazael could end war. He could save his people and his lands. The Grim Marches could have peace.

Mazael could have more nights with Romaria.

But even if he fell in battle today, he was glad, so glad, that they had shared at least one night together.

He felt Romaria's eyes on him, saw her nod.

"Come," said Mazael. "Let's not keep Lord Richard waiting."

###

Sykhana rode in the heart of the vast host, Aldane cradled in her arms.

All around her marched Malrags, Malrags beyond count, armed with spears and axes, their black armor seeming to drink the sunlight itself. The balekhans marched with their warbands, the hilts of their massive swords rising over their shoulders. She also saw the Malrag shamans striding along, ragged black robes fluttering around their gaunt bodies, their third eyes flickering with ghostly light.

So many of them. Malavost had told her that Ultorin had gathered one hundred and sixty thousand Malrags under his command. Sykhana looked over them and felt a shiver of fear. Ultorin's will - and the power of his bloodsword - kept the Malrags in check. If not for that bloodsword, that Malrags would turn on each other in a heartbeat, enslaved to their endless lust for pain and death. They would rip apart Aldane, if not for Ultorin.

And Ultorin was going insane.

Sykhana glanced at Ultorin, a tower of black armor atop his horse, the bloodsword strapped to his back. For the moment, at least, he was not raving. His skin had gone deathly pale, and the veins in his neck and hands looked more black than blue. Flecks of venomous yellow dotted his gray eyes, and he flinched away from the sunlight as if it caused him physical pain.

The bloodsword was killing him. Sykhana only hoped he lasted long enough to reach their goal, for Aldane to become immortal and powerful. Because if he did not, if he died before they did...

"No," she hissed. Malavost would keep his promise. Aldane would live forever.

She cradled the child, her child, close against her chest, and watched as Malavost and Skaloban approached Ultorin.

"The scouts report," said Malavost in his calm voice. "The knights and lords of the Grim Marches have gathered east of Cravenlock Town. Twenty-five thousand of them in all, with perhaps seven or eight thousand heavy horse."

Skaloban's tongue flicked at the air. "A powerful force."

"Bah!" said Ultorin. Dark circles ringed his eyes. "Nothing. They are nothing! I have a hundred and sixty thousand Malrags at my command." His hand touched the hilt of his bloodsword. "My command! I will sweep away our enemies and dance through their corpses!"

He laughed then, long and loud and full of madness.

Skaloban's head reared back in alarm, the skeletal hands of his carrier coming up in the beginnings of a spell.

"Most certainly, Grand Master," said Malavost, unmoved by Ultorin's display. "You could indeed smash the army of the Grim Marches. But that would not bring you your vengeance against Mazael Cravenlock, would it? Not in the way that you desire."

"Vengeance?" said Ultorin, his voice dropping to a growl. "I will have my vengeance upon him. I will see blood and death and misery wreaked across the Grim Marches." He smiled, yellow-flecked eyes growing wide. "I will see fire and death wreaked upon the entire world!" He ripped his bloodsword free and lifted it over his head. "I will watch the world burn!"

"And so you shall," said Malavost. "If you proceed as we have discussed." Sykhana marveled at his ability to remain so calm. "For once we reach our goal, you can rain death upon the entire world, and no one will be able to stop you."

Ultorin snarled, and then all at once lucidity seemed to fill his eyes once more. "Yes. Yes, you are right, wizard. We must hew to the original goal." He looked at his bloodsword, as if confused to how it had gotten there, and returned the weapon to its scabbard. "I can smash the army of the Grim Marches, yes. But there are twenty-five thousand of them, and Lord Richard's seven thousand heavy horse could make us pay heavily. If they damage us enough, they could keep us from reaching our goal."

"The solution is simple, Grand Master," said Malavost, and laid out a plan.

Ultorin nodded. "That will work. I will command the balekhans to make it so. Again you have proven your worth to me, wizard." His face screwed up with rage once more. "I will make Mazael pay for what he has done! I will avenge Grand Master Amalric's death!" He ripped the bloodsword free and pointed it to the west, towards Castle Cravenlock. "Do you hear me, Mazael? I will make you scream!"

"I suggest we move at once, Grand Master," said Malavost.

Ultorin rode into the ranks of Malrags, shouting for the balekhans to attend him.

For a moment Skaloban and Malavost stood in silence. Aldane squirmed in Sykhana's arms, frightened by Ultorin's outburst, and she soothed him.

"That human is insane," said Skaloban.

"Oh, unquestionably," said Malavost, unperturbed. "And it's only going to get worse, I'm afraid. Amalric Galbraith was a potent Demonsouled, and any weapon forged with his blood will be too powerful for a mortal to handle. The bloodsword will induce a slow but steady deterioration of Ultorin's sanity. And he's used it to heal his wounds, as well, by draining the life force of Malrags. This will increase his strength and stamina, true, but greatly increases the risk of certain...physical abnormalities developing."

"The man is unreliable!" said Skaloban. "His madness places our plan, indeed, the Vessel himself, in dire jeopardy! You should have wielded the bloodsword yourself."

Malavost lifted his eyebrows. "Pardon, honored Skaloban, but do I look like a fool? I have survived this long by knowing my limitations. And no mortal can safely wield the power of the Demonsouled - most Demonsouled themselves eventually descend into homicidal madness." He smiled, briefly. "As the Dragon's Shadow will soon discover. No, honored Skaloban, Ultorin is...disposable. A necessary sacrifice to reach our goal. His sanity will continue to deteriorate, true, but he will last long enough for us to fulfill the Vessel's purpose."

"See that he does," said Skaloban, his black-slit eyes turning to Sykhana. "And you see that the Vessel reaches the Door of Souls safely. Fail, and it will not go well with you."

He turned and stalked away, green sparks flashing from the joints of his skeletal carrier.

"It is," murmured Malavost, so softly Sykhana almost didn't hear, "always such a pleasure conversing with you."

"How soon," said Sykhana, "until Ultorin decides to kill us?"

"He won't," said Malavost, glancing at her. "And even if he does, I will dispose of him, and find another fool to wield the bloodsword. We need the bloodsword's control over the Malrags. We do not particularly need Ultorin to be the one to wield it." He smiled. "Now, come. We have a battle to watch. And is it not fitting that the Vessel should witness the destruction of his enemies?"

###

War drums boomed over the plain.

Mazael rode past rank after rank of pikemen, their chain mail covered by black tabards marked with the red dragon of the House of Mandragon. Rows of horse archers, sitting ready with their short bows and javelins. Footmen equipped with shields and heavy maces. And the heavy horse, knights and mounted armsmen, armored in plate and chain, lances and swords ready in their hands.

Twenty-five thousand men, led by one of the most cunning and battle-hardened lords in the kingdom.

Mazael hoped that would be enough.

He found Lord Richard beneath the black Mandragon standard, clad in his armor of red dragon scales. With him waited Lord Robert, Lord Astor, Lord Jonaril, Sir Tanam, and his other chief vassals. Toraine waited atop his horse, a black shadow in his dark armor.

“Lord Mazael,” said Richard Mandragon, utterly calm. “Welcome.”

“My men are at your disposal, my lord,” said Mazael.

“Good,” said Richard. “Lord Athaelin, Lady Romaria, Sir Hagen, welcome. Today we shall end this fight.”

“What is the plan, then?” said Lord Robert Highgate. In his mail and surcoat, Lord Robert looked rather like a shiny metal pear.

“Our task is simple,” said Lord Richard. “We find Ultorin and kill him. Once he is dead, the Malrags will turn upon each other, and we can destroy them at our leisure.”

“How shall we draw him out?” said Lord Astor. “He must know we will try to kill him. Surely we would not be foolish enough to expose himself to unnecessary risk.”

“We have an unfair advantage, my lord Astor,” said Lucan, face shrouded in his cowl. “Ultorin hates Mazael, hates him beyond all reason. And the bloodsword is eating at his mind.” His hand tightened on his black staff. “He will take foolish risks, if he thinks he can cut down Lord Mazael. And twice now Ultorin has set traps for Mazael.”

“I shall command the reserve,” said Lord Richard. “Lord Astor, you will command the footmen in the center. Lord Robert, you will command the horsemen of the left wing. Toraine, you shall command the horsemen of the right. Sir Tanam, you have charge of the mounted archers. My lord Athaelin, I would be honored if you would take command of the foot archers.”

“The honor shall be mine,” said Athaelin.

“You, my lord Mazael, shall command the vanguard,” said Lord Richard.

Romaria frowned.

“Of course,” said Mazael. “But why?”

“Because Ultorin hates you,” said Lord Richard. “You presence at the forefront of the battle line will draw him out. And once he is drawn out, we can strike him down and end this war.”

Mazael nodded. It made perfect sense. And if both Mazael and Gerald were killed in the battle, and Aldane was not recovered from the San-keth...then Rachel would be the heir to Castle Cravenlock. And Lord Richard could force her to marry Toraine, and forever end any threat from the Cravenlocks.

Lord Richard would do anything to ensure the peace of the Grim Marches.

“If I find Ultorin,” said Mazael, “I will kill him.”

“Good,” said Lord Richard, turning. “Lucan. Join the other wizards with the reserve. We will need your skills to counter any attacks from the Malrag shamans.” Lucan nodded. “Sir Gerald, you may do as you wish, of course. But I would be grateful if you would remain with me in the reserve. Your father, as you know, does not think highly of me, and I would not give him further cause for grievance.”

“Of course,” said Gerald with a bow. “But if I see my son, I will take whatever action I think best.”

“As you will,” said Lord Richard. “To your commands, my lord.”

Mazael turned Hauberk, towards the banners of the vanguard. Romaria steered her horse besides his.

“He's hoping you will fall in the battle,” said Romaria, her voice low.

“I know,” said Mazael. “I'll just have to disappoint him, won't I?” He paused. “Where will you go?”

“With the mounted archers,” said Romaria. “I'd ride into battle with you, but I'm not a knight.” She gave him a sad smile. “Good luck to you, my love.”

He reached over and took her hand. “And to you, my love.”

Mazael turned and rode for the vanguard, while Romaria left for the mounted archers.

###

Aldane cried in Sykhana's arms.

The constant booming of Richard Mandragon's war drums had frightened him. Sykhana rocked the baby in her arms, trying to soothe him. None of the Malrags cared about his cries, of course. Except from time to time a pair of white eyes turned towards him, and Sykhana knew the creatures were thinking about killing him, torturing him.

As they had killed and tortured that woman and her baby in the burned village...

Sykhana shook aside the image and made herself listen.

-We are ready-

The voice echoed in Sykhana's mind. A balekhan stood next to Ultorin's horse, its massive black sword in hand.

-Release us to battle. We shall slaughter your enemies, great Master. Their blood shall fill the earth, and their screams shall be music to your ears-

“Richard Mandragon's host has drawn itself into battle formation!” said Skaloban, his voice croaking with alarm. “They are ready for us!”

“Of course they are, honored Skaloban,” said Malavost. Sykhana wondered if the San-keth cleric noticed the faint note of scorn in Malavost's voice. “That is the entire point of the plan, is it not? That we draw the full attention of Lord Richard's host?”

“Yes,” said Ultorin, drawing his bloodsword. “We will draw his attention...and then the whole world shall feel my vengeance!”

He lifted the bloodsword into the air and roared, and a hundred thousand Malrag throats answered him, the creatures howling their terrible battle cries to the sky. It was louder than thunder, louder than an earthquake, the most terrible noise Sykhana had ever heard.

“Kill them!” bellowed Ultorin. “Kill them all! Kill them all!”

The Malrag attack surged forward.

###

The Malrag war cry died away, its echoes lingering over the plain.

A half mile away Mazael saw the vast dark mass of the Malrag host, thousands upon thousands of them.

And then as one, the Malrags began running forward, still howling, the earth thundering beneath their armored boots.

Chapter 17 - The Battle of Castle Cravenlock

“My lord,” said Sir Hagen, voice low and urgent. “My lord, your orders?” For the first time that Mazael could remember, Hagen Bridgebane sounded anxious.

Looking at the charging Malrag horde, Mazael could hardly blame him.

“Hold,” said Mazael. Sir Hagen waited at his right, and Sir Aulus at his left, the black Cravenlock standard flying from his lance. Hopefully Ultorin would see it.

The Malrags thundered closer.

“My lord,” said Hagen. “Your commands?”

“Hold,” said Mazael, risking a look over his shoulder, at the Mandragon banner flying over the reserves. Far in the distance he saw the walls and towers of Castle Cravenlock atop the crag. Rachel could see the battle from the walls, along with the wives and mothers and daughters of his vassals and knights.

He hoped he could bring them victory. That he could return their husbands and sons and brothers.

“My lord!” said Hagen.

Lord Richard's war drums boomed out, sounding the charge.

“Now!” said Mazael. “Charge!” He lifted his lance. “Charge!”

Sir Aulus blew a long blast on his horn, and the vanguard, two thousand heavy horse, roared in answer. Hauberk leapt forward in excitement, and around Mazael the knights of the Grim Marches rolled forward, lances lowered.

###

Sykhana watched the wall of horsemen gallop at the charging Malrags, and felt a shiver of fear. They couldn't possibly reach her and Aldane. They couldn't cut their way through tens of thousands of Malrags.

But she wondered if Gerald Roland rode among them, eager to retrieve his son and avenge the death of his wife, and Sykhana felt something cold touch her spine.

No! Aldane was hers!

“Shamans!” bellowed Ultorin, gesturing with his bloodsword. “Give them a welcome!”

###

Blasts of green lightning screamed down from the sky, plunging into the vanguard like knives. One struck a dozen feet from Mazael, sending two knights screaming to the earth.

They died, trampled beneath the hooves of their comrades.

“Charge!” said Mazael, gritting his teeth. They had to reach the Malrags. They had to reach Ultorin.

###

Lucan felt the magical energy swirl overhead, saw green lightning rip out of the sky.

“Wards!” he said to fifty men in long black coats and cloaks near him, the court wizards of the lords of the Grim Marches. “To counter the lightning. Follow my lead.”

He lifted his hand and began casting a spell. The wizards of the Grim Marches, save for Timothy, feared him, or hated him. They knew Marstan's reputation.

But they would obey him.

Lucan lifted his hand, and the wizards released their spells.

The next bolt of lightning struck an invisible barrier and vanished. Lucan gestured, throwing his full power into the spell. Two more lightning bolts screamed down, only to strike his barrier and rebound into the Malrag ranks, ripping them apart.

###

More lightning came thundering out of the sky, only to bend at the last minute, twisting to strike down the Malrags.

Lucan and Timothy and the other wizards had come through.

Then there was no more time. Mazael lowered his lance and set himself, boots digging into Hauberk's stirrups. The vanguard crashed into the charging Malrags, the air filling with the clang of armor and the sound of tearing flesh and cracking bone. A Malrag fell beneath Hauberk's hooves, the big horse barely slowing, and Mazael rammed his lance through a Malrag's jaw with such force that the steel point exploded out of the back of the creature's head. Some horsemen fell, dying beneath Malrag spears and axes, but more, far more, Malrags perished.

Mazael killed another Malrag, and another, his mind racing. Again and again the Malrags had proven that they could not stand up to a charge of heavy horsemen on level ground. Yet Ultorin had thrown the Malrags in a huge attack against the knights. Why? Did he hope simply to bury the army of the Grim Marches in sheer numbers?

The lance ripped from Mazael's hand, buried in a Malrag's chest, and he swept Lion free from its scabbard, the blade ablaze with azure fire.

He cut down more Malrags, and more, always more.

And looking at the sea of Malrags that stretched before him, he realized that Ultorin might indeed be able to bury them under sheer numbers.

###

The war drums boomed out, and Romaria's light horse sprang forward.

Around her galloped Mazael's militia horse archers and Sir Tanam's raiders. Before them the vanguard plunged into the Malrag horse, driving through them like a scythe through wheat, and Romaria saw a flash of blue flame.

Mazael's sword.

The horse archers veered past the vanguard, moving along the Malrag lines, and Romaria drew an arrow from her quiver. The horse bow was smaller than she preferred, and the arrows not quite so well made. But she had learned to shoot a bow from the Elderborn of the Great Southern Forest, and there were no finer archers in the world.

Ahead of her, Sir Tanam's standard-bearer, the banner of Crow's Rock fluttering from his lance, blew out three blasts upon his war horn.

Romaria raised the bow, drew, and released. Then again, and again, and again. Every arrow found a mark, and Malrags bellowed in pain, wounded, or fell dead upon the earth. Around her hundreds of archers loosed their arrows, sending volley after volley into the Malrag lines. The Malrag ranks disintegrated as some fell back, trying to take cover from the arrows, while others broke free and moved in pursuit of the horse archers.

Which made it all the easier for Mazael’s horsemen to ride them down.

Romaria leaned to the left as she loosed another arrow into the pursuing Malrags. Her sturdy little horse had been well trained, and it mirrored her movement, veering to the left to follow the other horse archers. She twisted in the saddle, loosing arrow after arrow into the Malrags. Sir Tanam’s standard-bearer blew a long blast, the call to reform the line, and Romaria stopped shooting to join the other archers.

They had killed hundreds of Malrags, and Mazael’s charge had killed thousands more. Yet Ultorin’s host held tens of thousands more. Could they possibly kill all of them?

Even as the thought passed through her mind, green lightning crackled across the sky, followed by a sheet of sizzling flame.

###

“Again!” bellowed Lucan, lifting his hands to the sky.

Timothy and the other wizards obeyed, combining their powers to cast warding spells. Emerald lightning streaked towards Richard Mandragon’s host, only to crash against the combined warding spells of the wizards. Some of the lightning blasts fizzled into nothingness, or veered into the ground, digging glassy furrows into the earth. And still others rebounded into the Malrag ranks, burning the creatures to ashes and charred bone.

Yet the shamans’ attack continued. Lucan rather doubted that the shamans, or Ultorin himself, cared how many casualties the Malrags took.

So long as the humans died.

Then the lightning barrage doubled, and doubled again, hammering at the wards, all the blasts focused over the wizards. The black-cloaked men gritted their teeth, sweat pouring down their faces, hands thrust at the sky. The wards shimmered and crackled beneath the strain.

“Counterattack!” shouted Timothy. “Lucan, we must strike back!”

Lucan nodded. “Do it!” Timothy began casting a spell, yellow-orange flames dancing around his fingertips. “The rest of you, lend him your power. Do it now!”

The wizards complied, channeling their power into Timothy’s casting. Lucan focused upon the wards, pouring his full skill and power into them. At once he felt the strain against his will…and the black staff waiting ready in his hands. He yearned to send his will into it, to summon the blazing power and to lay waste to the Malrag shamans.

No. He didn’t dare. Not until the need was dire…

Timothy raised his hand, shouting the final words of his spell. A fireball blazed around his fist, and then erupted into a sheet of flame that burst across the sky. An instant later the green lightning sputtered, and then stopped entirely. Either the flame spell had killed the Malrag shamans, or distracted them enough to stop the attack.

Lucan frowned, gripping his staff.

Where was Malavost? The magical attacks had been powerful, but lacked skill and precision. Otherwise Lucan and the other wizards would never have been able to deflect them so easily. He expected Malavost to launch an attack at any moment.

Yet he still saw no sign of Malavost.

###

“They are advancing too quickly!” said Skaloban, his voice full of alarm. And, perhaps, a hint of fear. Sykhana’s contempt redoubled. The cleric of Sepharivaim was a coward. She had come to hold the San-keth priests in contempt years ago, and Skaloban in particular seemed weak and pathetic.

Malavost would give her more than the San-keth ever would.

She kissed Aldane on his forehead and watched the confrontation.

“Do not fear, honored Skaloban,” said Malavost, calm as ever. “If Lord Richard’s men advance too far, we shall simply unleash the Ogrags.”

Sykhana flinched. The normal Malrags were bad enough.

The Ogrags were worse.

“You said we would need the Ogrags later,” said Skaloban.

“This is true,” said Malavost. “However, a few Ogrags lost now would not make much of a difference later. And the men of the Grim Marches have not yet seen an Ograg, have they? They would not know how to fight them. They would slaughter the men of the Grim Marches most effectively.” He glanced at Ultorin. “Of course, it is the Grand Master’s decision.”

Though when he phrased it that way, Ultorin’s decision was certain.

“A dozen Ogrags,” said Ultorin, grinning. “That will give us enough time.” He laughed, eyes wide, the cords in his neck bulging. “And I’ll enjoy watching the Ogrags tear Mazael’s knights to pulp.”

###

Lion blazed in Mazael’s fist.

He struck down a Malrag, and then another, and then another, Lion cleaving through Malrag flesh with ease. Steel weapons wounded and slew the Malrags, but Lion had been forged to slay things of dark magic, and the Malrags feared the sword’s fire. They shied away from Mazael, flinching from the sword’s fire…and his knights and armsmen crashed into the distracted Malrags, cutting them down.

The Malrag charge had stopped, and now the momentum lay with Mazael and the rest of the vanguard.

He heard the distant boom of the war drums, followed by the roar of men and the thunder of hooves. Lord Richard had released the right and left wings under Lord Robert and Toraine. Once they arrived, they would crush the Malrag attack, and send any survivors fleeing.

Back to Ultorin’s host.

Where, no doubt, tens of thousands more Malrags waited to attack. And still Ultorin had shown no sign of himself. If he stayed to the rear, if he simply sent wave after wave of Malrags at the host of the Grim Marches without exposing himself to danger…then he would win.

And then a different kind of roar cut into Mazael’s thoughts.

He turned, smoke rising from Lion’s blade as the magical flames burned away black Malrag blood. A huge gray shape lumbered through the Malrag lines, clad in clanking black armor. It looked like a Malrag, but most Malrags stood no more than five or six feet tall. This creature, this giant, stood at least fifteen feet tall, sheathed in armor plates like black dragon’s scales. It looked even more deformed and gruesome than the smaller Malrags, its gray skin gnarled with growths and cysts.

The giant bellowed and ran forward, a spiked mace ready in its right hand.

###

Romaria heard the roar, and it sent a cold shiver through her.

She knew the Malrags well. She had fought them in the craggy valleys and narrow passes of the Great Mountains, guiding travelers and merchant caravans through the high roads.

And only an Ograg made a roar like that. She had seen such a nightmare, the larger cousin of a Malrag, only twice. The second time, it had killed half the caravan before she had managed to bring the creature down with an arrow through its eye.

Turning, she spotted an Ograg, and then another, shoving their way through the ranks of Malrags, spiked maces in their hands. From what Mazael had said, his men had not yet seen an Ograg. They wouldn’t know how to fight the creatures.

They would be slaughtered.

She galloped to Sir Tanam Crowley’s side. The Old Crow sat staring at the Ogrags, his mouth drawn into a hard line.

"Lady Romaria," he said. Most men would have dismissed her without a second thought, but whatever else he was, the Old Crow was no fool. "You know what these things are?"

"Aye," said Romaria. "They're called Ogrags. Like Malrags, but bigger."

Tanam snorted. "I can see that."

"They grow in the same sort of dark hives as Malrags," said Romaria. "But the Ogrags keep growing and growing...almost like a tumor. They have incredible strength, but their growth deranges their minds. They're absolutely insane, and almost always stupider than the normal Malrags."

Tanam nodded. "So how do you fight the big devils?"

"From a distance," said Romaria, fitting an arrow to her bow. "Shoot them full of arrows until they bleed to death. Their eyes and throats are vulnerable - an arrow there can finish them off, if you're lucky."

Tanam grunted. "It's as good as plan as any. We'll shoot down the Ogrags, and leave the Malrags to the heavy horse." He nodded to his standard-bearer, who lifted his horn and blew a short string of blasts. The horse archers surged forward, raising their bows. A storm of arrows fell upon the nearest Ograg. Most bounced from the giant's armor plates, but several struck home.

The Ograg roared in fury and came at them, mace raised high.

###

"Scatter!" shouted Mazael, standing in his stirrups and waving Lion over his head. "Don't let it get close..."

Too late.

The misshapen giant crashed into the nearest group of knights, laying about with its spiked mace. Its first blow sent both a knight and his horse flying into the air, man and beast screaming. The giant kicked, and sent a mounted armsman sprawling to the earth. The man tried to scramble to his feet, only to have his head crushed like an egg beneath the giant’s stump-like foot.

Mazael leaned from the saddle, snatched a fallen Malrag spear, and urged Hauberk forward. Yet the big horse hesitated, no doubt frightened by the giant’s hideous appearance, or perhaps its vile stench. Mazael shouted and dug his spurs into the horse’s side, and Hauberk whinnied and broke into a gallop.

The giant turned as Mazael thundered towards it. The spiked mace came up, ready to deliver a killing blow.

Exposing the creature’s unarmored armpit.

Hauberk galloped under the upraised arm, and Mazael thrust with all his strength. The spearhead, a foot of black steel, sank into the giant’s exposed gray flesh. The creature howled and lashed out with its mace, the spikes passing so close to Mazael’s face that he felt the wind of their passage. The giant flailed, mad with pain, slimy black blood dripping down its black-armored chest.

Mazael wheeled Hauberk around and drew Lion. The giant flinched away from the sword’s flames, and Mazael set Hauberk forward in a charge. The creature lifted its mace for another blow, and Mazael stood up in his stirrups as he passed, whipping Lion through a high overhand swing.

The sword’s tip ripped through the giant’s throat, black blood spraying.

It let out of a gurgling bellow and fell to its knees, clutching at its torn throat.

Mazael wheeled, snatched another spear from a slain Malrag, and went looking for another giant.

###

Romaria balanced in her saddle, loosing arrow after arrow.

Almost every arrow found a mark in Ograg flesh. Most of the other horse archers and skirmishers lacked her skill. But when a hundred men shot at the Ograg, some of the arrows found a mark. The Ograg bellowed, lumbering after them, but the swift horses with their light-armored riders moved far faster than the massive creature.

Romaria drew and released once more. Her arrow streaked across the empty space and buried itself in the Ograg’s throat. The creature roared, shaking in rage and pain, and Sir Tanam’s raiders veered close and loosed a volley of steel-tipped javelins. Most of the weapons bounced away from the heavy armor, but a half-dozen buried themselves in the Ograg’s face and throat.

The Ograg collapsed with a groan, the earth shuddering with the impact.

Romaria spun her horse, galloping for the next Ograg. All around her the heavy horsemen crashed through the Malrags, while the mounted archers and the skirmishers harried the Ogrags, luring them away from the knights. Her heart thundered beneath her ribs, her black hair streaming behind her head, and a wild grin spread over her face. They would win! They would smash the Malrags, drive them across the plains. And then Romaria would find Ultorin and put an arrow through his rotten heart, and they would have victory and peace.

She wanted to lift her face to the sky and howl.

Howl…

Her bow creaked, and Romaria looked at her hand in horror, the Ogrags and the Malrags momentarily forgotten.

Slender claws sprouted from her fingertips, digging into the wood and horn of her bow. Her hand looked more sinewy and muscular than usual, and a fuzz of fine black fur covered her fingers.

It was the beast within. The Elderborn half of her soul, charged with earth magic. Lucan’s spell had restored her, but her nature had not changed. The human half of her soul was not strong enough to contain the raw power of the Elderborn half. And sooner or later, that power would overwhelm her, and she would become the great black wolf once more.

And then no spell could change her back.

Shuddering, she forced herself to calm, forced back the eagerness for the hunt, and her hand returned to normal, the claws and fur vanishing.

But she still felt the beast stirring within her, just below the surface.

Romaria was the child of a human father and an Elderborn mother…and half-blooded children all met the same fate. Sooner or later, their Elderborn souls overwhelmed them. Sooner or later, they became the beast, and nothing could stop it.

Her heart cold, Romaria lifted her bow and joined the battle, losing herself in the killing.

###

“Spears!” said Mazael, brandishing Lion.

His men obeyed, lances and spears in hand, and galloped past the Ograg. The long spears let them stay out of reach of the Ograg's massive fists and enormous spiked mace. The creature bellowed in frustration, lashing out with the mace, but the horsemen evaded its blow. Then Sir Hagen galloped past, and flung an axe in a smooth overhand throw. The heavy axe buried itself in the Ograg's brow, and the creature fell to its knees with a snarl. Another knight thundered forward, lance extended, and plunged the steel point into the Ograg's featureless white eye.

The Ograg collapsed with a thunderous clang of black armor.

Mazael turned Hauberk, spear in his left hand, sword in his right, and looked for new foes.

And found none.

Lion's flame dimmed in his hand.

Mazael looked around, frowning.

He saw no remaining Ogrags. Dead Malrags, dead Malrags beyond count, carpeted the plains, along with many slain knights, militia, and armsmen. He saw a few bands of Malrags left, fleeing in all directions, pursued by groups of horsemen.

But no other Malrags.

There had been no more than fifteen or twenty thousand Malrags in the attack, Mazael guessed.

What had happened to the rest of them?

###

Sykhana swayed in the saddle, Aldane cradled in her arms.

To the north, far to the north, she saw the dust raised by the battle. Or, rather, raised by the distraction. Twenty thousand Malrags, flung at Lord Richard's army, while the rest of the Malrag host slipped away to the south. Perhaps the twenty thousand would prevail over the men of the Grim Marches, or perhaps they would be slaughtered. Either way, it would not matter.

Aldane was safe. That was what mattered.

"Do you see?" murmured Malavost, riding besides her. "I told you I would keep my word."

Sykhana nodded, her heart racing. Soon Aldane would reign in splendor forevermore.

And she would be his mother.

Forever,

In the distance, she saw the green mass of the Great Southern Forest.

###

"To the south?" said Mazael, astonished. "Why would they go to the south?"

Sir Tanam shrugged. "My scouts didn't get close enough to ask. The Malrags are not the conversational sort. But the rest of the host is marching to the south."

Lord Richard's principal vassals gathered below his standard, overlooking the carnage of the battlefield. Vast tents had been raised to house the wounded, and Mazael heard the groans and cries of the injured men. Twenty thousand Malrags had been wiped out, slaughtered to the last creature. Yet two thousand men of the Grim Marches lay dead upon the field, with at least twice as many wounded, if not more.

Some of them might even live out the night.

"And they've all gone," said Tanam. "My lads saw other Malrag warbands scattered across the plains. Yet they're all marching south."

"Why go south?" said Toraine. Unlike the rest of the lords, Lord Richard's oldest son looked relaxed. Almost exhilarated. No doubt he had enjoyed the battle. "There's nothing to the south. Nothing but the Great Southern Forest, and no one lives there."

"No," said Mazael, looking at Romaria. She looked haggard and tired. Lord Athaelin stood besides her, ragged and spattered with Malrag blood. "The Elderborn live in the Great Southern Forest."

He looked at Lord Richard.

"Ultorin is going to Deepforest Keep."

Chapter 18 - The Pursuit

The morning after the battle, the lords and knights of the Grim Marches met in council atop the King’s Tower of Castle Cravenlock.

They would have met in the great hall, but the wizards and the priests had filled it with cots for the wounded. The same had happened with the chapel,  the courtyards, and the church in Cravenlock Town. The turret atop the King’s Tower was the only flat space not filled with the wounded and the dying.

And the men of the Grim Marches had won the battle.

Mazael leaned against the battlements, still tired from the fighting, and listened to the other lords.

“It’s confirmed, my lord,” said Sir Tanam Crowley. “All my scouts say the same thing. The Malrags are marching into the Great Southern Forest. Every last warband. Most of them have already entered the Forest, and in another two days, there won’t be a single Malrag left in the Grim Marches.” He looked towards the town, and the battlefield beyond it. “A single living Malrag, anyway.”

“Why?” said Lord Richard, still clad in his armor of crimson dragon scales. “Had Ultorin acted more boldly, he could have destroyed our host and taken Castle Cravenlock. Does he bear you some enmity, my lord Athaelin?”

“I cannot see how,” said Athaelin. The sunlight caught on the bronze diadem encircling his gray hair. “I have never met a Dominiar knight. Neither the Elderborn nor the men of Deepforest Keep leave the Forest often.”

“I fought against Ultorin,” said Romaria. She looked better than yesterday, but dark circles ringed her blue eyes. “When the Dominiars waged war against the Old Kingdoms. But that was years ago. No doubt he remembers me…but he has far more cause to hate Mazael. And I doubt he even knew I was from Deepforest Keep.”

“Will the Elderborn tribes fight against the Malrags?” said Lord Richard.

“Aye,” said Athaelin. “Every step of the way. The Malrags hate the Elderborn even more than they hate humans. The Elderborn are archers without peer, and the Forest offers a thousand places to launch an ambush. But there are no more than two thousand Elderborn living in the Forest.”

“They will not be able to stop the Malrags from reaching Deepforest Keep?” said Lord Richard.

“No,” said Athaelin, voice grim. “They will not. My people will need aid.”

“Then our course is clear,” said Gerald. Somehow, he had managed to find a clean surcoat, his armor polished back to its usual mirror shine. “We must ride to the aid of Deepforest Keep and defeat Ultorin once and for all.”

Lord Richard and Toraine shared a look. Lucan shook his head, a faint smirk on his lips.

“I see no reason for us to do so,” said Toraine, and many of the lords nodded in agreement.

“What?” said Gerald, baffled. “But…you’re simply going to let them go?”

“We have driven the Malrags out of the Grim Marches,” said Toraine. “And now they have gone in search of easier prey. Our lands have been defended – that is all that matters.”

“You would stand by and do nothing?” said Gerald.

“Lord Athaelin is not my father’s vassal,” said Toraine. “He need not obey my father. But neither is he entitled to the protection of the Mandragons.”

“I agree with Lord Toraine,” said Lord Robert. “My lands have suffered grievously from the Malrags. The Grim Marches have suffered grievously. Women have been made into orphans and widows, and we shall be lucky if we do not have a famine. If we have driven off the Malrag devils, I say let them go.”

“So my father and the Elderborn fought with you against the Malrags,” said Romaria, voice cold as she glared at Toraine, “and you…” She stopped, closed her eyes, flexed her right hand for a moment. “And you will simply abandon them?”

“Lord Athaelin,” said Toraine, “despite his prowess, brought a dozen Elderborn to our fight. That hardly merits sending the host of the Grim Marches through the Great Southern Forest.” He smiled, black eyes glittering. “And we lords of the Grim Marches must look after ourselves first. Perhaps the Elderborn and the Malrags will slaughter each other, and we need not deal with them ever again.”

Romaria’s expression turned thunderous, and Athaelin's eyes narrowed, but Lord Richard raised his hand.

“Enough, Toraine,” he said. Again Mazael saw Lucan roll his eyes. “Lord Athaelin, we are grateful for your aid. But Lord Robert and Lord Toraine are correct. The Grim Marches have lost thousands of fighting men in the last four months, losses we can ill-afford. And the survivors must return home soon to plant crops, or we shall indeed suffer famine. And I dare not send men south to fight the Malrags. The neighboring lords will look upon our injured state and watch for any sign of weakness. The Castagenets of the High Plain, or perhaps Lord Malden of Knightcastle.”

Gerald scowled. “My lord father would do no such thing.”

Lord Richard raised a single flame-colored eyebrow. “Would he not, Sir Gerald?”

Gerald’s frown deepened, but he said nothing.

“Lord Richard,” said Athaelin, “this argument is pointless. There is no bond between our peoples. You have your duties, and I have mine. I must leave at once and return to Deepforest Keep. War is coming, and my people shall need me.”

Lord Richard nodded. “It grieves me that I cannot send more aid, my lord Athaelin. Ultorin and his Malrags have done great injury to my lands, injury that I would see repaid tenfold.” He paused, and looked at Mazael for a moment. “If any of my vassals wish to accompany you south, to win glory fighting the Malrags, I will not oppose them.”

“I will ride with you, Lord Athaelin, along with my remaining men,” said Gerald. “The San-keth have my son. The only way I will get Aldane back is over Ultorin’s corpse.”

Athaelin nodded. “You would be welcome, sir knight, along with all your men.”

“And I shall come, as well,” said Lucan, voice quiet.

Toraine snorted. “You, brother? What will you do? Strike the Malrags with that metal stick of yours?”

Lucan’s fingers slid over the black staff. “Perhaps, brother, one day I shall show you just what this staff can do.”

Toraine’s sneer intensified. “And perhaps I shall show you just what my sword can do.”

“Enough,” said Lord Richard.

“I will come,” said Lucan to his father, ignoring Toraine. "I suspect that Malavost is pulling Ultorin's strings. And I very much wish to know what Malavost wants, why he desires to attack Deepforest Keep, why he kidnapped Sir Gerald’s son. Malavost is a skilled wizard and a necromancer of considerable power. Whatever he wants, whatever goal he pursues, it will be something baleful. And I will see him stopped.”

“Very well,” said Lord Richard. “I give you leave.”

“I…would be glad of your assistance,” said Athaelin, but Mazael heard the hesitation in his voice. No doubt Romaria had shared her fears about Lucan with him.

“And you, Lord Mazael?” said Lord Richard.

Mazael hesitated. There was a great deal of truth in what Lord Richard had said. Mazael needed to defend his lands. Hundreds of his fighting men had been slain, and the gods alone knew how many peasants. He needed to stay, to rebuild, to prepare if the Malrags returned.

But Ultorin had brought fire and sword to Mazael’s lands, crimes that cried out for vengeance. And Ultorin had to be stopped, lest he bring war to Deepforest Keep and even lands beyond.

And the San-keth had taken Mazael’s nephew.

Rachel's son

He remembered the pain on her face.

And Lucan was right. Ultorin was the master of the Malrag host, but Mazael suspected Malavost was the master of Ultorin. Whatever the wizard wanted, it could not bode well for the people of the Grim Marches.

Mazael felt Romaria’s eyes on him.

For her, he would ride to the ends of the earth.

“Yes,” said Mazael. “I will go.”

“A word, Lord Mazael,” said Lord Richard, beckoning.

They walked to the corner of the tower’s roof, away from the other lords.

“Are you sure this is wise?” said Lord Richard. “I will not command you to stay. But there are only two thousand Elderborn in the Great Southern Forest, and no more than seven or eight thousand humans living in Deepforest Keep. No matter how puissant their skill in battle, Ultorin and the Malrags will destroy them utterly.”

“Not unless Ultorin is slain first,” said Mazael.

“Perhaps,” said Lord Richard.

“I will only take a few hundred men with me,” said Mazael. “A small force, so I can get ahead of the Malrags and reach Deepforest Keep before Ultorin. In my absence, I will name Sir Nathan Greatheart as castellan, to hold my castle and lands in my name until I return.”

“Very well,” said Lord Richard. “What of Lady Rachel?” He paused for a moment. “Will she remain in Sir Nathan’s care, as well?”

“She will want to come,” said Mazael. “She pursued Sykhana this far, after all.”

Lord Richard said nothing.

“But you knew that,” said Mazael, “and that does not trouble you. And I know why.”

“Do you?” said Lord Richard.

“Because if I am killed, and Rachel is killed, and Aldane is slain or never reclaimed from the San-keth,” said Mazael, voice quiet, “then there are no Cravenlocks left. As liege lord, you can then claim Castle Cravenlock and its lands and bestow them upon whoever you wish. Perhaps Toraine, or one of your more loyal vassals.”

“You see very deeply, my lord Mazael,” said Lord Richard. “Your father and your brother both worshiped Sepharivaim, and ripped apart the Grim Marches in futile war. You have been a loyal vassal and worthy ally, which is why I have not lifted my hand against you.” He paused. “Yet I do what is necessary for the security and safety of my lands. Whatever that might be.”

“I understand,” said Mazael.

“Then I wish you well, Lord Mazael,” said Richard Mandragon. “I hope you return victorious, with Ultorin slain, Deepforest Keep saved, and your nephew rescued. And if you do not…then I will do what must be done.”

###

Rachel paced her rooms in the King’s Tower, back and forth, back and forth. At last she flung herself into a chair, forced herself to sit, to remain motionless.

Her hands shook.

It had been so very long since she had seen her son.

Her hands balled into fists, and she stood again. Even now, she knew, the Malrag host marched south, to Deepforest Keep. And Sykhana was with them, and Sykhana had her son. Circan had confirmed it, when she asked him. He still had the crystal vial of Aldane’s blood, and Sykhana was moving south with the Malrags.

With her son.

She felt her lips tremble.

Oh, gods, when would she ever see Aldane again?

Rachel heard footsteps outside the door and wiped her eyes. She recognized Gerald’s tread, and would not fall apart in front of him. His men relied on him, needed him to stay strong. And she would help him to stay strong.

No matter how much Rachel wanted to scream and weep.

The door opened, and Gerald stepped inside. His armor gleamed, his blue surcoat crisp and clean. She badgered his squire and pages into making sure his armor looked its best. Gerald was the youngest son of Lord Malden Roland – he might even be Lord of Knightcastle one day, if Tobias died childless. He had to look the part.

“What did they say?” said Rachel. She had wanted to attend the council, but she could not bear to face Lord Richard and his vassals again, not after her outburst the last time.

“Mazael and Lord Athaelin are certain that Ultorin means to attack Deepforest Keep,” said Gerald. He sighed. “Lord Richard will not send any aid.”

“Why not?” said Rachel, aghast.

“He will not risk his army against the Malrags,” said Gerald. “Apparently, he is afraid that my father will take advantage of any weakness.”

Rachel opened her mouth to protest, but fell silent. She knew her father-in-law, and Lord Richard was not wrong.

“But Mazael will go,” said Gerald. “He plans to take two hundred men and ride south at once. I will go with him.”

“Only two hundred?” said Rachel.

“Mazael thinks that Ultorin will besiege Deepforest Keep,” said Gerald. “And a siege is quite different than an open battle – one man upon a wall can hold off ten men below it. Or ten Malrags, one hopes. With only two hundred men – and my men – we can get to Deepforest Keep before the Malrags. It’s our best chance to kill Ultorin and get Aldane back.”

Rachel nodded. She yearned to ride into the Malrag horde, snatch her son back, and take him to safety at Knightcastle. But if she tried that, she would die. She wouldn’t even get within sight of her son. They had to use their wits to get Aldane back.

“I’m coming with you,” said Rachel.

Gerald closed his eyes. “No, Rachel.”

“I’ve come this far,” said Rachel.

He took her hands, his fingers hard with calluses from the hilt of his sword. “That was different. I thought we were only pursuing Sykhana. Dangerous enough, aye, but I didn’t know we would ride into a war. If you come with me to Deepforest Keep…I know the Malrags will attack it. They might kill every man, woman, and child at Deepforest Keep. They might kill us before we even reach it. And if you are with us…”

“If I stay here and you are slain,” said Rachel, “Lord Richard will force me to wed Toraine.”

“Then you should go back to Knightcastle,” said Gerald. “Some men are taking the wounded back to Knightcastle. Sir Cavilion could escort you…”

“No!” said Rachel. “If you die, if Aldane dies, then I will die with you. You are my husband and he is my son. I will not be parted from you.”

“But you could live,” said Gerald, his fingers rubbing hers. “You needn’t perish. You could remarry, you could…”

“Remarry?” said Rachel. “To Toraine Mandragon? To one of your father’s knights? No. No!” She shook her head. “The San-keth promised Mitor power and wealth and immortality, and look how that ended. The priests of the Amathavian church say that we all must die sooner or later. Well, they are right. But I would rather die as your wife and Aldane’s mother than as an elderly widow or some other man’s wife.”

For a long time Gerald stared at her, the skin tight around his eyes.

Then at last he nodded.

“The gods forgive me,” he said.

Rachel blinked back tears, and hugged him.

###

“What is it?” said Mazael, his fingers tracing the smooth skin of Romaria’s back.

They lay together in his bed, the moonlight leaking through the balcony doors. Romaria lay against him, her cheek resting on his chest, her long legs tangled with his. Her breathing came slow and steady, yet he felt the tension beneath her skin

“The beast almost took me,” she said.

“The beast?” said Mazael.

She smiled, faintly. “It’s what I call the Elderborn part of my soul. The part infused with earth magic, the way part of yours is infused with the power of the Demonsouled.”

“But the Elderborn aren’t evil, the way the Demonsouled power is,” said Mazael.

“No,” said Romaria. “But it’s still terribly strong.” She closed her eyes. “I cannot control it. Sooner or later it will overwhelm me. And then I will become that black wolf again, forever.”

“I know,” said Mazael. “But we all die of something, do we not?” His hand moved up her back, caressing her neck. “And…I am glad you chose to spend your remaining time here, with me.”

She smiled, her eyes still closed. “How could I not?” For a moment they lay in silence. And then she said, “I don’t want to go back to Deepforest Keep.”

Mazael frowned. “You told me that it was your home. That it was the most beautiful place you had ever seen.”

“It is,” said Romaria. “But half-breeds like myself are…not favored among the Elderborn. Most Elderborn find a half-human, half-Elderborn child disgraceful. And some think we are outright abominations.” He hesitated. “My mother…she is the High Druid of the Elderborn, the chief of their priestesses. Traditionally the Greenshield, the Lord of Deepforest Keep, lies with her upon taking up the diadem. Only rarely does the High Druid become pregnant. But she did. She wanted to purge her womb of me, but my father insisted that she carry me to term.” Her voice grew soft. “She hates me.”

“You never told me this,” said Mazael.

Romaria shrugged. “I never thought I would go back to Deepforest Keep.”

“You must have known you would,” said Mazael. “The Seer prophesied it. He said we would meet, that we would save each other. You kept me from giving in to my Demonsouled side…”

“And you brought me back from the beast,” said Romaria.

“And the Seer said you would save Deepforest Keep,” said Mazael.

“I was hoping he was wrong,” said Romaria.

“But he was right about us,” said Mazael.

There was a long pause.

“Yes,” said Romaria at last. “There are…caves beneath Deepforest Keep. Inside Mount Tynagis, leading to the ruins atop the mountain. Every man of woman of Deepforest Keep enters those caves on their sixteenth birthday, to come of age. And inside the caves, the Seer shows us visions of our future. I hoped the visions would not come true.” She shook her head, black hair sliding over Mazael’s chest. “I don’t know how I can save Deepforest Keep.”

“Shoot Ultorin,” said Mazael. “That will solve everything.”

She laughed. “Simple. Yet effective.” She slid a hand over his shoulder and onto his chest. “But why are you going to Deepforest Keep? I have to go – it is my home, even if the Elderborn hate me. But Lord Richard was right. You have no obligation to defend it.”

Mazael took a deep breath. “Ultorin brought the Malrags to the Grim Marches, brought them to attack my lands and my people. I will be damned before I let him escape retribution for that. And the San-keth have my nephew. I will get him back. If I can.” His arm tightened against her back. “And because Deepforest Keep is your home. If you fight to defend it, I will go with you.”

Romaria hesitated. “Is this guilt, Mazael? Because you blame yourself for what happened to me? I told you, it was the Old Demon’s fault, not yours.”

“That’s not it,” said Mazael. “I do blame myself, but that’s not the reason I’m going to Deepforest Keep. It’s your home. And I will help you defend it. I love you.” His fingers stroked her cheek, her neck. “And if I kill Ultorin and rescue Aldane while defending your home…I suppose I can live with that.”

Romaria grinned. “I suppose you can. I love you.”

“I love you,” said Mazael.

He kissed her once more, and they drifted off to sleep.

###

Mazael left Castle Cravenlock before dawn, riding at the head of two hundred and fifty men. Two hundred of his own men – one hundred heavy horse and one hundred armsmen trained in the bow and crossbow. The survivors from Gerald’s party. Lord Athaelin and his Elderborn, screening out around them to act as scouts.

Romaria rode alongside Mazael, bow balanced atop her saddle, the hilt of her new bastard sword rising over her shoulder. Gerald and Rachel followed, and then Circan and Lucan. Mazael had left Timothy and Sir Hagen behind to aid Sir Nathan. Mazael’s lands would rest in capable hands until he returned.

One of the Elderborn rode up to Athaelin.

“There’s not a sign of Malrags for five miles in any direction,” said Athaelin.

Mazael nodded, and lifted Hauberk’s reins. “Then let’s reach Deepforest Keep before they do,” he said, “and make Ultorin regret ever setting foot into the Grim Marches.”

They rode to the south.

Chapter 19 - The Great Southern Forest

A day later they reached the Great Southern Forest.

The Grim Marches’ rolling plains ended at a wall of trees. Massive, ancient trees, their trunks heavy with moss, their roots a tangled web covering the earth. The sun shone over the plains, but inside the Forest, Mazael saw only cool shadows, the ground shaded by the overlapping branches.

A thousand places for a Malrag ambush to hide.

"One man on foot can reach Deepforest Keep in two weeks, if he takes the most direct path," said Athaelin, reining up alongside Mazael. "Ultorin will take the most direct route, I think. Though he will not be able to move quickly, not with a hundred and fifty thousand Malrags. It will take him at least three weeks to reach Deepforest Keep. Maybe four."

Mazael shared a look with Gerald.

"The enemy always moves quicker than you expect, my lord Athaelin," said Gerald. "Far quicker."

"I assume you will not take us on the direct path to Deepforest Keep?" said Mazael. "Not with a hundred and fifty thousand Malrags blocking the way."

Athaelin shook his head.

"There are dozens of paths throughout the Forest," said Romaria, scanning the trees, one had resting on her bow. "The Elderborn tribes use them to hunt game. One path will take us around the main route, get us to Deepforest Keep in two and a half weeks. If we hasten. The ground is uneven, and we will need to walk the horses."

"It should keep us clear of the Malrags, though," said Athaelin.

"I doubt it," said Mazael.

Athaelin looked puzzled, which surprised Mazael. Romaria's father was a capable fighter, but Mazael wondered how much experience Athaelin had leading men in battle.

"I suspect these paths are narrow," said Mazael, "and a hundred thousand Malrags would clog them quickly. So Ultorin will move his host in groups. I also suspect the Elderborn tribes will attack the Malrags," Romaria nodded, "and so Ultorin will send out scouting parties and warbands to deal with the Elderborn. We may stumble across them. For that matter, the Forest is vast, and Ultorin will not have the benefit of you and Romaria to guide him. Some of the Malrags will get lost, or separated from the main host. We might cross their paths, as well.”

“Then we will fight them,” said Athaelin, “and be victorious, and arrive at Deepforest Keep.”

“It will take hard fighting,” said Mazael. “Our great advantage over the Malrags has always been cavalry. On the plains, our horsemen broke the Malrags over and over again. In the Forest, the advantage will belong to the Malrags. Fortunately, we have rarely seen them use bows or missile weapons.”

“Your men should use javelins,” said Romaria.

Mazael shook his head. “Hard to use in the forest. Bows are better.”

Athaelin nodded. “That’s why half your men are archers.”

“Aye,” said Mazael. “I hope to avoid the Malrags, with the aid of your scouts. But if it comes to a fight, then knights and armsmen will make a shield wall to protect the archers.” He glanced up at the sky. “We had best get moving.”

Gerald nodded. “I’ll get the men ready.” He rode off.

“Romaria,” said Athaelin, “tell the Elderborn to start scouting. Teams of two. If there are any Malrags within five miles, I want to know about it.”

“As you say, Father,” said Romaria, and rode towards the Elderborn, leaving Mazael alone with Athaelin.

“I am glad you are here,” said Athaelin. “I have little experience in this kind of war.”

Mazael snorted. “I doubt that. You almost took my head off, as I recall.”

“Aye,” said Athaelin, “but fighting man-to-man, or in a small band, is different from this. I’ve led men in raids, in small battles…but never against such numbers.”

Mazael shrugged. “It’s little different. Fighting man-to-man, you slay your foe. In this kind of war, there are simply more to slay. And the only one we really need to kill is Ultorin.”

Athaelin laughed. “Spoken truly. Then let us return to Deepforest Keep, and show Ultorin how to wage a war.”

Mazael nodded, and led his men into the trees.

###

They saw the signs of the first skirmish before noon.

A dozen Malrags lay at the base of an ancient oak, their black blood soaking into the mossy earth. Arrows jutted from their bodies, fired with inhuman precision into the gaps in their armor. Romaria swung from her saddle, knelt by a dead Malrag, and wrenched an arrow from its wounds.

“An obsidian head,” she announced. “The Elderborn did this.”

One of the Elderborn reined up by Athaelin, speaking in their strange tongue.

“The scouts say there are more dead Malrags, dozens of them, scattered over the next five miles or so,” said Athaelin. “No sign of any living ones. Or of any Elderborn, for that matter.”

“They must have been pressed hard,” said Mazael.

“Why?” said Athaelin. “Obviously, they won.”

“But they did not stop to collect their arrows,” said Mazael. “I imagine those obsidian arrowheads break easily and take some time to replace.”

The Elderborn shared a look amongst themselves, speaking in their own language.

“You’re right,” said Romaria. “The Elderborn always collect their arrows after a battle.”

Athaelin listened to the Elderborn for a moment, nodded. “They say there are signs of flight on the ground. A hunting party of maybe twenty Elderborn. But they cover their tracks too well. We cannot trace them.”

“Then that hunting party is on their own,” said Mazael. “If we come across the Elderborn, we will aid them, but chasing them is a fool’s errand. I suggest we keep moving, Lord Athaelin.”

Athaelin nodded, and they traveled deeper into the Forest.

###

They made camp among the great trees, tents going up, banked firepits dug to mask the smoke from the cooking fires. At least they had no shortage of wood, and the Forest’s small streams provided ample drinking water. Mazael stood at the edge of the camp with Gerald and Romaria, staring into the gathering darkness.

“It’s so quiet,” said Gerald.

“Too quiet,” said Romaria. “We should be able to hear the birds singing, the animals moving through the brush.”

“Perhaps we’ve scared them all off,” said Mazael.

“Aye,” said Romaria, “or something else has.”

But no Malrags came during the night.

###

They saw the first traig the next morning.

Athaelin and the Elderborn led them along a trail that broadened until it became something resembling a road. The roots of the massive trees had dug into the path, and moss and brush grew thick upon the earth, but here and there Mazael saw ancient, lichen-spotted white paving stones. From time to time half-crumbled columns rose out of the underbrush, some toppled by the roots of the trees.

Then the road narrowed, and Mazael saw the traig.

Rachel gasped. “What is that thing?”

A statue of white stone, nearly fifteen feet tall, stood in a ring of trees. At first Mazael mistook it for a massive boulder, but despite the weathering and the lichen, the stone had been worked by skilled hands. It had been carved in the shape of a great armored warrior, leaning upon a greatsword, covered head to toe in ornate plate armor. As they drew closer, Mazael saw that the armor had once been covered in intricate reliefs. Time and weather had eroded the scenes, but they still showed some long-forgotten battle.

“The Elderborn call them traigs,” said Romaria, voice soft. Most of the Elderborn were out scouting, but three rode near Athaelin. They looked at the traig with reverence in their alien faces.

“What are they?” said Mazael. “Tombs, perhaps?”

Athaelin shook his head. “No one really knows, not even the Elderborn, or even the druids themselves. The traigs are relics left by the High Elderborn, the ancestors of the Elderborn tribes who now hunt the Great Southern Forest.” His voice grew formal, as if reciting a long-remembered story. “In ancient times, the High Elderborn built mighty cities of marble and glass, reared with skill and magic spells, and their kingdoms sprawled across the face of the earth. Then the children of the Old Demon came, bringing with the San-keth and Malrags beyond count. The Elderborn kingdoms fell in ruin and fire, their knowledge lost. Now only a few Elderborn tribes still roam the world, and revere the ancient ruins of their ancestors.”

“That’s so sad,” said Rachel, blinking.

“The traigs represent, I think, the defenders of the ancient Elderborn kingdoms,” said Athaelin. “Warriors clad in spell-wrought armor, with magical blades in their hands. Their like cannot be found today…except, perhaps, for the sword at your hip.” He nodded at Mazael, at where Lion hung in its scabbard.

"Elderborn knights of old," said Rachel. She always did like old stories.

"Perhaps," said Athaelin. "Though if they were the warriors of old, I would like to have a legion of them at my command. Then I would sweep the Forest clean of the Malrags, and return your son to your arms, Lady Rachel."

For a moment Rachel gave the traig a longing look, and then they left it behind.

###

Later that night they saw a living Malrag for the first time.

The creature staggered along the ancient road, wounded, black blood leaking from its armor. The Elderborn shot the Malrag before it even came within sight of the horsemen.

"More arrow wounds," said Romaria, examining the dead creature. "At least a day old, I think."

"The only survivor from a battle, no doubt," said Gerald.

"Then the Elderborn are having the better of it," said Athaelin. "We have not yet seen a single slain Elderborn."

"Good," said Mazael.

But he did not allow the Elderborn, or his own scouts, to relax their vigilance, and he made sure to pick a defensible location for their camp.

###

That night Mazael saw flashes of green lightning far to the south.

He walked to the edge of the camp. Lucan stood there, black staff clenched in his pale hands. For an instant Mazael thought the sigils upon the staff's length blazed with hellish light, and he reached for his sword, but the light vanished.

He blinked, shaking his head.

Lucan saw him, nodded.

"How far away are they?" said Mazael.

Lucan shrugged. "Twenty miles. Perhaps thirty. Far enough away that I cannot sense them with any accuracy. I feel the disturbances, though. Someone is using a great deal of magic."

"Are the Elderborn druids are fighting the Malrag shamans?" said Mazael. Another flash lit the southern sky.

"Perhaps," said Lucan. "If they are, I wish them a great deal of luck. The shamans lack fine skill, but they make up for it in raw power." He snorted. "Maybe we'll get fortunate and the Elderborn will kill Ultorin and Malavost for us."

"We," said Mazael, "are not that fortunate."

"No. No, we are not."

They stood in silence for a moment.

"Are you ill?" said Mazael at last.

He saw a dark eyebrow lift in Lucan’s cowl. "Why do you say that?"

"Because you look ill, frankly," said Mazael. "You’ve collapsed during battle, repeatedly." He hesitated, unsure of what to say. "And Romaria...thinks you smell ill."

Lucan laughed. "None of us have bathed since leaving Castle Cravenlock. A few more days and we all shall smell ill."

"It is more than that," said Mazael. "Her senses have...changed, since you merged the pieces of her soul. She thinks something is very wrong with you." He reached out, gripped the younger man's shoulder. "You have been a loyal friend and ally against some terrible foes, Lucan. If I can aid you, I will."

Lucan's expression did not change, but for a moment he no longer seemed the sneering, cynical necromancer, but a young man of twenty-two, exhausted and confused by a terrible burden.

"Thank you, my lord," said Lucan, voice soft. "And...you are a lord worthy to follow. I am pleased to serve you, as I was never pleased to serve my lord father." He bowed his head. "And...yes, I am ill. It is...the strain of drawing too much magical power for too long. Not all of us have your...vigorous nature, my lord. I have to turn to other sources of power to sustain myself. And some of those sources have unpleasant side effects."

"Are you in danger?" said Mazael. "Timothy never suffers these side effects."

"Timothy is a good man, my lord, but he is only a mediocre wizard," said Lucan. "And so I can access...sources of power that he cannot." He took a deep breath, leaning on the black staff. "I know the risks. I know what I am doing. It is necessary, if I am to stand against the likes of Malavost." His voice dropped. "And you understand, my lord. You have fought long and hard against your...nature, but without its power, you would have been slain a dozen times in the last few years. In the last few months."

Mazael looked into the camp, where Romaria sat with Athaelin by a fire. "You may be right. But...the price for that power was still more than I wanted to pay."

Lucan's smile was brittle. "What we want, my lord, has little bearing upon what we actually receive."

###

The next day Romaria and her father went scouting together.

It had been too long, she realized. Too long since she had glided through the trees of the Great Southern Forest, moving from shadow to shadow without making a sound. Too long since she had felt her boots grip the mossy soil, since she had heard the wind rustle through the leaves of the great oak trees.

Deepforest Keep was her home, but she had not missed it very much. But, gods, she had missed the Great Southern Forest.

She and Athaelin moved silently through the trees. They had both learned from the hunters of the Elderborn, and years of practice proved just as effective a teacher. Now Romaria could move through the Forest without a whisper of sound.

Athaelin held up a hand. "Let's rest for a moment. I doubt there are any Malrags in the area."

Romaria nodded and leaned against a tree. Her father reached into his pack, handed her some hard bread and jerky. She took a bite, washed it down with a swig from her waterskin. The salty food was less than pleasant, but certainly better than nothing.

"I wonder where all the Malrags went," said Athaelin around a mouthful of bread.

"Deepforest Keep," said Romaria. "Ultorin wants to attack it, and the Malrags follow him. Or at least his bloodsword."

Athaelin nodded. "Your mother asked about you."

Romaria froze. After a moment she forced herself to relax. "Did she?"

"Ardanna wanted to know what had become of you," said Athaelin. "At the time I thought Mazael had killed you."

Romaria scowled. "And I suppose the High Druid was delighted to hear the news."

Athaelin hesitated, which was all the answer Romaria needed.

"Did she want to send Mazael congratulations?" said Romaria, voice tighter than she would have liked.

Athaelin sighed, pulled his shield over his shoulders, rested it against his knees. The ancient bronze shield with its patina of age, the symbol of the Greenshield, the Champion of Deepforest Keep and Defender of the Mountain.

"No," he said at last.

"But I doubt she was grief-stricken to hear of my death," said Romaria.

"She thought it should be avenged," said Athaelin. "That the Elderborn blood within you should not have been spilled with impunity."

"Even if the blood was in a filthy abomination of a half-breed," said Romaria.

"Do not speak of yourself like that," said Athaelin, scowling. "You are brave, and skilled, and have survived trials that few could endure. Ardanna will accept that you have returned to Deepforest Keep. I will make her."

Despite herself, Romaria almost smiled. "And when have you ever been able to make her do anything?"

"There is a first time for everything under the sun," said Athaelin. "Besides. You know what the Seer said about you."

Romaria sighed. "That I would save Deepforest Keep."

"You doubt him?"

"No," said Romaria. "I've seen his visions come true enough times. He said that Mazael and I would save each other, and so we have. But they never come true in the way you might expect. And I wonder what his vision means."

"Mazael," said Athaelin.

Romaria snorted. "Is this the part, Father, where you express disapproval? You already tried to kill him once."

"He's Demonsouled," said Athaelin, "is he not?"

Romaria said nothing.

"I've seen him in battle," said Athaelin. "I've seen how he mows down the Malrags like so much wheat, how his minor wounds seem to heal up very quickly. I've seen how his men follow him without question." He shook his head. "Gods, I've even started following his commands without thinking. But he has control of himself, does he not?"

Romaria closed her eyes. "Aye. The Old Demon himself is Mazael's father. Do you remember those undead things that appeared in the Forest? The Old Demon raised them, disguised as the necromancer Simonian of Briault. And he was the one who killed me." She shook her head. "Or...struck me down, I should say."

"But Mazael does have control of himself?" said Athaelin.

"Yes," said Romaria. "The Old Demon tried to corrupt him. Rachel betrayed him, left him to die in the San-keth temple below Castle Cravenlock. Mazael would have killed her, but I stopped him. Or I helped him stop himself. But he does have control of himself. The Demonsouled power has not warped him into a monster."

"Good," said Athaelin. "I've killed minor Demonsouled before, but never have I seen one who mastered the darkness within. I always heard that such a man would be a warrior without peer." He shook his head, and raked a hand through his gray hair. "Watching Mazael fight, I can believe it."

"So...you will not act against him?" said Romaria. "Even knowing what he is?"

Athaelin snorted. "You're in love with him, daughter, and you're no fool. I doubt you would take a monster to your bed. If you trust him, then so do I."

Romaria smiled. "Thank you."

He reached over and touched her cheek. "And he seems to make you happy. You haven't had much joy in your life, Romaria, I know. And much of that is my fault. But..."

Something moved in the trees behind Athaelin.

Romaria exploded to her feet, snatched her bow from her shoulder, drew an arrow, and released, all in one smooth motion. Athaelin scrambled to his feet, reaching for his sword, and Romaria shot another arrow.

She laughed at his expression.

"What?" said Athaelin, scowling, looking back and forth. "What is it? Malrags?"

She laughed again, pointing with the bow. "Look!"

Two deer lay upon the ground, her arrows jutting from their throats.

Athaelin grinned. "Good shooting."

"At least we'll have fresh meat tonight," said Romaria.

###

Rachel rode in the center of the column, surrounded by knights. Mazael had insisted - she wore no armor, and one arrow fired from the trees could kill her. Rachel agreed without any protest. She needed to stay alive to get her son back.

"Thirty-seven," she said.

Gerald looked at her, his armor flashing in the rays of sunlight leaking through the leafy canopy overhead. "Thirty-seven what?"

"Days," said Rachel. "Thirty-seven days since I last held Aldane."

Gerald closed his eyes, nodded. "I know."

They rode without speaking for a while, the only sound the crack of branches beneath the horses' hooves. Mazael rode with Athaelin and Sir Cavilion at the head of the column, speaking in low voices. Romaria and most of the Elderborn were gone, scouting for Malrags and hunting for provisions. Romaria said that the Malrag invasion had sent the deer herds fleeing in all directions. They might have fresh venison and pheasant every night until they reached Deepforest Keep.

"Do you think we'll ever see Aldane again?" said Rachel.

Gerald nodded. "We'll get him back."

"Do you really believe that?" said Rachel. "Tell me the truth."

Again they rode in silence.

"I don't know," said Gerald at last. "This...has turned out to be more than I ever expected. At first I thought the San-keth only wanted revenge on you. But then we rode into a war. And the San-keth are working with Ultorin and his Malrags..." He sighed, pulled off his gauntlets, and rubbed his face. "We are caught up in great events, my wife. Our son is caught up in great events."

"I just wish I knew why," said Rachel. "If the San-keth...if the San-keth wanted to hurt Aldane, I could understand that. But why kidnap him? Why take him with the Malrags to Deepforest Keep?" She gazed at the endless tangled branches of massive trees. "I wish I knew why."

"We will know why," said Gerald. "We'll find Ultorin and kill him. And when the Malrag host turns on itself, we'll get Aldane back."

He spoke so confidently. Rachel wondered if he believed it himself. But she understood. He could not show weakness in front of his men.

"It's almost midday," said Gerald. Both Mazael and Athaelin insisted that they travel all day, and take their meals in the saddle. Or on foot, when the ground became too uneven, and they had to lead their horses. "There's still some fresh pheasant left. I think..."

The distant sound of a war horn rang out, echoing through the trees.

Gerald frowned, hand flying to his sword hilt.

An instant later a blast of green lightning blazed down from the sky, the thunderclap following.

Chapter 20 - Falling Leaves

"Form up!" roared Mazael, jumping from his saddle. "Knights to the front! Archers, ready your bows!"

Fighting from horseback in the dense forest would be useless at best and suicidal at worst. The knights and armsmen scrambled from their saddles, shields on their arms, swords in their hands. Behind them the archers stood ready, arrows resting against their bows.

"The reserve!" said Mazael. "Stay with the animals!" Twenty-five armsmen and twenty-five archers, along with Circan, fell in guard formation around the pack horses and the destriers. Rachel waited by the pack horses, her face tight with anxiety. Gods, how many times had she watched Mazael and Gerald go into battle, wondering if today they would not return?

He swallowed. Romaria was out there, with the Elderborn scouts. Another blast of emerald lightning flashed to the west, the roll of thunder coming a few heartbeats later. Had the Malrags caught Romaria and the Elderborn? Were they fighting for their lives even now? Mazael wondered if he should lead the men in the direction of the lightning, if...

A moment later Romaria crashed through the trees, breathing hard, four Elderborn scouts at her heels.

"Mazael!" she said. "Two miles south of here, in a circle of traigs. Forty Elderborn are trying to hold off a hundred and fifty Malrags. The Elderborn are holding their own..."

"But the Malrags have one of those damned shamans," said Mazael, glancing at Lucan.

"Two, actually," said Romaria. "The Elderborn have a druid, but she's overmatched. I don't know how much longer they can hold."

Mazael glanced at Lucan, who stood a short distance away, wrapped in his black cloak. He nodded, his eyes glinting beneath his hood. He was ready.

"Should we aid them?" said Sir Cavilion, frowning. "I mean no disrespect to your people, my lord Athaelin, my lord Romaria. But our best chance at reaching Deepforest Keep lies in speed and stealth. If the Malrags notice us, or if they call up reinforcements..."

"No," said Mazael. "We aid them. If we come across more bands of Elderborn, we'll assist them as well. The more we can gather and take with us to Deepforest Keep, the better chance we'll have against the Malrags when Ultorin launches his assault."

Cavilion nodded and drew his sword.

"Let's go," said Mazael. "Romaria, lead the way."

Romaria nodded and moved into the trees, the Elderborn fanning around her. Athaelin drew his bastard sword in his right hand, the ancient bronze shield upon his left arm. Mazael kept Lion in its scabbard. The sword would burn with azure flames as they drew closer to the Malrags, and he did not know how far the light would carry in the trees.

His men marched south, keeping as close together as the massive trees and the tangled underbrush allowed. Mazael scanned the trees, hand resting on Lion's hilt. Had the Malrags used archers or javelin-equipped skirmishers, the close-packed formation of his men would have made them easy targets. Fortunately, the Malrags preferred hand-to-hand combat. Perhaps their love of cruelty and torture demanded it.

Again a green lightning flashed down, followed by a thunderclap, much louder this time. Then the earth trembled for a moment beneath Mazael's feet, and he heard a distant rushing noise. He looked at Lucan.

"Earth magic," muttered Lucan, staff held at the ready. "The druid is fighting back, I think."

Mazael nodded, and they kept marching.

Soon he heard the familiar bellow of Malrag war cries, and something else - voices shouting in the lyrical tongue of the Elderborn. He smelled smoke, the harsh scent of burning wood.

Then, all at once, he saw the battle.

A low hill rose in the forest, crowned by a ring of a dozen traigs, like white teeth jutting from a bone. About fifty Elderborn stood in the ring, clad in gray furs, firing their bows. Over two hundred Malrags milled at the base of the hill, armed with shields and axes. They crept slowly up the slope, the Elderborn sending volleys of obsidian-tipped arrows at every opening in the line. For every volley, some of the Malrags fell dying to the earth. Yet there were too many Malrags, and they were too well-armored. Mazael saw a balekhan at the rear of the Malrags, bellowing commands. The Malrags had formed a shield wall, and the Elderborn arrows could not penetrate. When the Malrags reached the crest of the hill, they would slaughter the Elderborn.

A green lightning bolt streaked towards the Elderborn, only to veer aside and rip apart a tree in a spray of burning splinters. Mazael saw an Elderborn woman, clad in a cloak of brown fur, thrust her arms at the sky, an oaken staff in her hands. A druid then - and one on the brink of exhaustion, to judge from the trembling of her arms.

Then the balekhan saw Mazael. It roared a command, and the Malrags turned, howling.

Mazael ripped Lion free from its scabbard, the blade shining with azure fire.

"Stand fast!" yelled Mazael as the Malrags charged.

His men raised their shields, forming a wall, and behind him he heard the creak of the militiamen's bows.

###

Lucan muttered a spell, wrapping himself in a veil of concealment. The spell Timothy had used against Malavost, it wrapped the light and shadow of the forest around him. It was not powerful enough to draw the notice of the Malrag shamans, and it would hide him from their eyes.

He smiled. He might possess the greater power, but it seemed Timothy still had a thing or two to teach him.

The Malrags charged at Mazael's men, heedless of the Elderborn arrows that ripped into their flanks. The creatures struck into the shield wall with a great crash, swinging their axes with abandon. Yet the shield wall held, the knights stabbing over the top of the shields, arrows from the militia hissing over their shoulders to plunge into gray Malrag flesh. Mazael fought at the front, Lion a storm of blue flame in his fist, and every blow flung a Malrag upon the earth. Lord Athaelin and Sir Gerald fought at his side, protecting each others' flanks. Arrows hissed out of the trees, and Lucan saw Romaria and the Elderborn scouts, picking off the Malrags one by one.

They were winning.

At least until the shamans took a hand. Two or three well-placed lightning bolts would kill half the knights.

Unless Lucan took action.

He strode through the trees, bloodstaff ready in his hands. He felt its Demonsouled power beneath his fingers, half-asleep, waited for him to call upon it, to fill him with strength and blazing might. But he dared not use it. Mazael was right - the staff's power let him perform feats of magic far beyond even his considerable skills, but it was killing him. He dared not draw upon that power.

Not unless, of course, the situation was hopeless...

He shook aside the thought. This situation, at least, was not hopeless. Two Malrag shamans were not beyond his powers, especially with surprise on his side.

The first Malrag shaman stood in the shadows of a nearby tree, no doubt to provide cover from the Elderborn arrows. The shaman's third eye blazed with emerald light, and the creature turned towards the battle, hands lifted in the beginnings of a spell. Lucan felt the tremendous surge of power as the shaman summoned a lightning bolt.

But this time, Lucan had the advantage.

He drew in power and thrust out his hand. A psychokinetic burst erupted from his fingers, ripping into the Malrag with the force of a sledgehammer. The blast picked the creature up and smashed it against the oak tree with such force that its head shattered, black blood spraying across the trunk.

Lucan whirled, preparing another spell, ready to strike before the other shaman could attack.

His heart sank.

Another shaman stood perhaps twenty yards away, all three eyes focused upon Lucan.

A third shaman stood besides the second.

They cast their spells as one, and green fire thundered upon Lucan.

###

Mazael cut through the Malrags, Lion blazing in his fist.

He struck down a Malrag, and another, and then another, black blood sizzling against Lion's blade. Besides him Athaelin fought with the same dancelike movements he had seen Romaria use in battle, while Gerald remained immovable, Malrag axe and spear alike rebounding from his shield.

A Malrag bellowed, and Mazael heard the words echo inside his skull.

-Fight! Fight and die! We shall be reborn, but they shall not-

Mazael saw the balekhan striding through the mass of Malrags, a black greatsword ready in a mailed fist. It stood almost eight feet tall, covered head to toe in black plate mail.

The creature came to a sudden halt when it saw Mazael.

-You! I have heard of you. The one who could have the Master, yet turned his back upon his heritage. I will slay you, and enjoy your screams of torment, pitiful one-

The balekhan lifted its black sword, and Mazael sprang to meet it.

###

Lucan had no other choice.

The bloodstaff's power flooded him, filling him with strength, with vitality, with manic and wild glee. Twin lightning bolts screamed down to slay him, and Lucan lifted his staff, casting a warding spell. A sphere of blood-colored light shimmered around him, and the lightning blasts smashed against it. One rebounded to rip apart a tree, sending burning splinters flying in all directions.

The other lashed across the clearing to slam into a Malrag shaman. The creature's head and torso simply disappeared, the charred remains of its body toppling to the forest floor. Lucan attacked at once, channeling another psychokinetic burst through his staff and flinging it at the remaining Malrag. But the shaman cast a ward, and the blast redirected into the ground at its feet, throwing up clods of torn earth.

The shaman began casting again, and Lucan slammed his staff against the ground, calling into the spirit world. Gray mist swirled at his feet, and a score of spirit beasts, more than he had ever summoned before, leapt forth. This time they looked like great black cats with the heads of vultures, the wings of bats, and the tails of scorpions. With a horrid skittering sound, they raced forward, the ground visible through their translucent forms.

The Malrag shaman put up a good fight. A blast of emerald lightning sent two of the beasts back to the spirit world, while a psychokinetic burst sent three more tumbling through the air. But the rest sprang upon the shaman, claws and breaks ripping at its flesh. The shaman staggered, black blood spraying, and collapsed, the spirit beasts feasting.

Lucan laughed with delight and forgot the shaman and spirit beasts both.

So many things to kill, so little time. Where to begin? The Elderborn first - their supernatural accuracy with their bows might inconvenience him. Then Lucan would mow down the Malrags and Mazael's men both. Or perhaps he would only kill Mazael's men, and keep the Malrags for himself. He would kill Ultorin, take command of the Malrag host, and march north to make his father and brother pay for all the pain they had inflicted upon him.

He lifted his hand. The bloodstaff's sigils blazed brighter, and darkness swirled around the staff. Power flooded into Lucan like molten iron, and he focused his will, preparing to unleash death upon the Elderborn...

The ground heaved beneath his feet. Roots erupted from the ground, twining around his legs.

Lucan staggered, leaning upon the bloodstaff for balance. The Elderborn druid raced towards him, disgust and horror upon her angular face, and began to cast another spell.

###

Mazael dueled the balekhan, black sword straining against Lion's azure flame.

The balekhan was stronger, but Mazael was faster. As the mass of Malrags crashed against the shield wall, as Elderborn arrows whistled through the air, Mazael danced around the balekhan's strokes, whipping Lion at the weak points in the towering creature's armor. His blade crunched through the elbow joint on the balekhan's left arm, and it bellowed in rage and pain.

Then a steel-tipped arrow thudded into the back of the balekhan’s leg, and then another. The creature stumbled to one knee, roaring, and Mazael glimpsed Romaria in the shadows of the trees, her bow in hand.

He surged forward, and plunged Lion into the eye slit of the balekhan's helm. A storm of azure fire erupted down Lion's blade, and the balekhan toppled backwards with a clatter of black armor. A ripple went through the Malrags, and they fell back, white eyes fixed upon Mazael.

"Take them!" shouted Mazael. "Strike hard!"

His men surged forward, and the storm of arrows from the Elderborn redoubled.

###

"Vile creature," said the Elderborn druid. "You defile the Forest with your dark magic. No more! You will pay for your..."

Lucan snarled and struck his staff against the earth. Ribbons of blood-colored flame erupted from the sigils, cutting the roots to pieces. The druid's silver eyes widened, and she pointed at Lucan, pale blue light flashing around her fingers.

He struck first.

His psychokinetic burst picked her up, flung her a dozen yards, and smashed her against a traig. Her blood splattered against the statue, shockingly red against the white stone, and the dead druid crumpled to the ground, eyes staring at him.

Lucan strode forward, the bloodstaff burning in his hand. The fool woman had dared to use her spells against him? Then so be it! First he would slay every last Elderborn in the clearing, and then he would...

The staff's light winked out.

The strength drained out of Lucan. He collapsed to his knees, his limbs like wet string, and vomited . Then his vision blacked out, and for a terrible moment he thought he had gone blind. He blinked, and his sight returned, but everything looked distorted, rotting, as if the world had died.

Bit by bit, his vision returned to normal, though his stomach churned and his head felt as if iron spikes had been hammered into his temples. Gods, gods, why did he use that damned staff? He should throw it away, destroy it before it destroyed him.

But the stolen Demonsouled power was so very sweet...

He saw the dead druid slumped against the traig, eyes staring at him as if in accusation.

Lucan's nausea redoubled, but there was nothing left to come up.

He had murdered her. Caught in the frenzy of the bloodstaff's power, he had butchered her without a second thought. His hands shook against the staff. He had only acted in self-defense. If she had not attacked him first...

But that was a feeble justification. She had only attacked him because she thought him a threat. Because she had seen the Demonsouled power of its bloodstaff for what it really was. And he had killed her without mercy.

Lucan closed his eyes and waited for the Elderborn arrows to sink into his flesh.

Nothing happened.

He opened his eyes, and saw that the battle was over. Most of the Malrags lay slaughtered upon the earth. The rest had fled in all directions, the Elderborn moving to speak join Mazael's men. Most likely, no one had seen Lucan kill the druid. When they found her corpse, they would blame the shamans, or one of the common Malrags.

For a wild moment he wanted to confess, to tell them everything...

No. A foolish thought. He had to see this through. He had to stop Malavost. Whatever the cost to himself. He would not permit others to suffer from dark magic as he had...

But the Elderborn druid had suffered from dark magic, hadn't she?

His dark magic.

Lucan pushed the thought aside and got to his feet.

###

The battle was over.

And to Mazael's astonishment, he had not lost a single man. Some had suffered wounds, but none fatal. Between the valor of his men and the uncanny skill of the Elderborn, the Malrags had been slaughtered.

The Elderborn descended from the hill and its ring of traigs. They wore clothes of leather, and mantles made from gray wolf fur. Their leader walked in front, carrying a great bow and a spear with an onyx head. His eyes were a strange shade of purple, and fixed upon Mazael with electric intensity.

Mazael bowed. "Ardmorgan Sil Tarithyn."

He knew this Elderborn. Sil Tarithyn was the ardmorgan, or high chief, of the Tribe of the Wolf. They had come north two years ago, to fight the undead abominations raised by the Old Demon, and had helped Mazael in the final fight against Skhath and the San-keth.

"Mazael Cravenlock," said Sil Tarithyn. He stopped, gazed at Mazael for a moment, and then his angular face split in a smile. "So. You have faced yourself, and conquered yourself."

"You could say that," said Mazael.

Romaria strode from the trees, Athaelin's Elderborn following, and Sil Tarithyn looked at her. "And the Greenshield's daughter. For a dead woman, you look most hale."

Romaria grinned. "Clean living."

"Do not speak to her, ardmorgan!" said another of the Elderborn, scowling. "She is an abomination!"

Romaria's grin faded, and Athaelin scowled.

"Abomination?" said Sil Tarithyn. "You should hold your tongue, Gardan. Her skill helped save our lives." Lucan limped over, looking exhausted, leaning upon his staff. The battle with the shamans must have drained him. "If she is an abomination, I would have a dozen more. The Malrags have us sore pressed."

Gardan's scowl deepened, but the Elderborn looked away.

"Lucan," said Mazael. "You did well. I fear those shamans would strike us all down, but here we are. Thank you."

Lucan nodded, not meeting his gaze.

"A dozen of my tribe were slain this day," said Sil Tarithyn, "along with one of our druids. Your arrival was most timely, Mazael Cravenlock and Romaria daughter of the Greenshield. Without your intervention, we would all have been slain. And the Elderborn are a dwindling people. "

"You have our aid," said Mazael.

"And mine," said Gerald. "The Malrags' leaders took my son, and I will not rest until he is returned to me."

Sil Tarithyn blinked in surprise. "They took your firstborn, Gerald Roland? That is strange. The Malrags slay. They do not take captives."

"It is a long story," said Mazael. "Suffice it to say, the Malrags are led by a Dominiar knight named Ultorin. He has a sword forged in Demonsouled blood, which gives him the power to command the Malrags.”

“Ah,” said Sil Tarithyn. “That explains much.”

“The San-keth kidnapped Sir Gerald’s son,” said Mazael, “and took him to Ultorin. A renegade necromancer named Malavost is also traveling with Ultorin, aiding the Malrags in their battles. Why Ultorin, Malavost, and the San-keth have allied to attack Deepforest Keep, I don’t know. Whatever their goal, I hope to kill them before they reach it.”

“Nor do we know,” said Gerald, “why they have taken my son, instead of simply killing him.”

Sil Tarithyn bowed his head, deep in thought. When he looked up, his purple eyes were hard with anger.

“The temple,” said Sil Tarithyn. “They come to defile the temple.”

“Temple?” said Mazael. “What temple?”

“The temple atop Mount Tynagis,” said Sil Tarithyn. “Long ages ago, our forebears, the High Elderborn, ruled this land, and they built a great temple to our gods atop the crown of Mount Tynagis. The Malrags and the Demonsouled destroyed the High Elderborn. But we guard the ruins of the temple to this day, for it remains sacred.”

“Wait,” said Mazael. “Mount Tynagis. Deepforest Keep is built upon its slopes, is it not?”

“Aye,” said Athaelin, “upon a spur of the mountain, overlooking the Forest itself.”

“And the only way to this ruined temple is through Deepforest Keep?” said Mazael.

Romaria nodded. “Mount Tynagis is too rocky to be climbed. The only path to the peak is through the caverns. The Ritual of Rulership takes place in those caves.” Athaelin’s face tightened, as if at a painful memory. “And when we of Deepforest Keep come of age, we go into the caves, and the Seer shows us our vision of the future.”

“Defender of the Mountain,” said Mazael to Athaelin. “That’s one of your titles, isn’t it? I assume you’re defending Mount Tynagis and its ruins.”

Athaelin drew himself up. “I am the Greenshield, the Champion of Deepforest Keep and the Defender of the Mountain. You northerners might call me ‘Lord’ Athaelin, but that is only your word. I am the protector of Deepforest Keep, and the defender of the road to the mountain’s top. The only way to the temple is through the mountain’s caverns, and the only way to the caverns is through Deepforest Keep.”

“Which is why Ultorin is attacking Deepforest Keep,” said Mazael. “He wants to get to this ruined temple.”

“Why go to such effort and trouble for some ancient ruin?” said Gerald.

“He wishes to defile it,” said Sil Tarithyn.

“But why?” said Gerald, smacking a fist into his palm with frustration. “Ultorin cannot have even seen an Elderborn until a week ago. Most men outside the Grim Marches believe the Elderborn to be nothing more than a legend. Why would he bear your people such enmity?”

“I fear you misunderstand, Sir Gerald,” said Lucan, his voice bone-weary. He looked terrible. “The ancient High Elderborn were wizards of tremendous strength. Any temple they built would be a place of great power. Or it would contain magical relics of vast potency.” He looked at Sil Tarithyn. “Am I not correct?”

“You speak truly,” said Sil Tarithyn. “The High Elderborn wielded great magic. We believe there is a mighty power in the temple atop the mountain, though none of my people have trodden there for many centuries.”

“I think this is Malavost’s doing,” said Lucan. “Ultorin cares only about carnage. Malavost must know about the temple, and he’s using Ultorin and the Malrags as a club to clear the path. Once Deepforest Keep is destroyed, Malavost can claim the temple, and whatever it contains, without interference.”

“Then what do the San-keth want with my son?” said Gerald.

Lucan shook his head, sweaty black hair sliding across his pallid forehead. “I don’t know. Perhaps they are Malavost’s partners. Or perhaps Malavost promised them some share of the power from the temple.”

“We cannot allow Ultorin and the San-keth to defile the temple,” said Sil Tarithyn. “We must return to Deepforest Keep at once with his news. Ardanna, the High Druid, will know more.”

Romaria flinched at the name. It was only for a moment, but her eyes remained steely afterward.

“I ride for Deepforest Keep, to take command of our defense against the Malrags,” said Athaelin. “Lord Mazael and Sir Gerald and their men have agreed to aid us, in vengeance for what Ultorin did to the Grim Marches, and to reclaim Sir Gerald’s son from the San-keth.”

“Noble goals,” said Sil Tarithyn.

“I suggest we travel together,” said Mazael. “The closer we come to Deepforest Keep, the more likely we are to encounter Malrags.”

“And we should gather up any other of my people we encounter,” said Sil Tarithyn. “The Malrag onslaught came without warning, and we are scattered before it like leaves upon a storm. We shall need to shelter within the walls of Deepforest Keep, if we are to have any chance of victory.”

“Then let’s get moving,” said Mazael.

###

Sykhana sat upon her horse, feeding Aldane milk and ground-up beets, when she heard Ultorin’s enraged bellow. Aldane jerked against her chest, his blue eyes wide in surprise, and started to cough. She pounded him on the back, and Aldane paused, took a deep breath, and started to scream at the top of his lungs.

Sykhana hushed Aldane, rocking him back and forth, and looked around for danger.

She rode in the heart of the Malrag host, tens of thousands of Malrags surrounding her in every direction. The tangled roots and towering trees of the Forest often blocked the Malrag host, and the Malrags responded by attacking the Forest, ripping down the trees and tearing up the ground. Sometimes the shamans called lightning to scorch the earth, so that nothing would ever grow there again.

That made Sykhana uneasy.

It was the sure and certain knowledge that the Malrags would do the same thing to Aldane, if they could.

Ultorin sat on his black horse, towering over a Malrag, bloodsword in his hand. Ultorin looked...Ultorin did not look at all well. His gray eyes had taken a distinct yellowish cast, as if lit from by sulfurous flames. His skin had turned pale and waxy, his veins black, like corruption spreading through dead meat. His teeth had become jagged and uneven.

Almost like fangs.

Sometimes the mere sight of him was enough to make Aldane cry.

"What is this?" said Ultorin, gesturing with the bloodsword. "What do you mean to say?"

The Malrag growled in response, and if Sykhana concentrated, she heard the creature's loathsome voice echoing inside her head.

-It is as you say, great master. Mazael Cravenlock has come south-

Ultorin shivered like an enraged animal.

-I escaped from the fight. Mazael Cravenlock has two hundred men with him. And more of the cursed Elderborn. Mazael gathers them to his side, and makes his way south, faster than we can pursue. He will reach Deepforest Keep before we do, will defend it from our host-

"I will crush him!" said Ultorin. "I will break him utterly, I will hear him scream and beg for mercy, and then, only then, will I kill him!"

-You will not-

Ultorin frowned at the Malrag, shocked. "What did you say?"

-You will not. Mazael Cravenlock could have been greater than you. Yet he has denied his power. Even so, he is still stronger than you, far stronger than a fool wielding stolen power even as it kills him-

Ultorin roared and brought the bloodsword crashing down. The Malrag collapsed to the earth, its skull a ruin of shattered bone and black blood. The bloodsword’s sigils flared, and Ultorin shivered as the blade drained the Malrag's life energy. Again Ultorin bellowed, and he leapt from the saddle, landing with light grace, despite his bulk.

The bloodsword and the stolen Malrag life forces were making him stronger and faster. It was, however, turning him into a ravening nightmare.

"Hold still!" said Ultorin, and the nearest Malrags went motionless. Ultorin stalked over and began butchering them one by one, his black armor splattered with blacker Malrag blood. A strange combination of ecstasy and agony filled his features.

Aldane wailed in Sykhana's arms.

Ultorin turned, glaring at Sykhana. His yellow-shot eyes fell upon Aldane, and a wide smile lit up his face.

He stepped forward, lifting the bloodsword.

"No," said Sykhana, snatching the poisoned dagger from her belt. "No. Stay back! Stay back!"

Ultorin grinned, eyes wide with madness, and stalked forward.

"Grand Master!"

Malavost's calm voice cracked like a whip. The wizard hurried past the ranks of Malrags, the hem of his long black coat whispering against the forest floor. Skaloban followed upon his skeletal carrier, ghostly green flames flickering around the joints. Ultorin blinked, confusion on his face.

"Grand Master," said Malavost, his tone soothing. "I congratulate you on your victory."

"Victory?" said Ultorin. "What victory? Do not speak in riddles!"

"Over the Elderborn, of course," said Malavost. "You must have slain them all, surely. Else why would you be slaying your own Malrags?"

For a moment Ultorin blinked in chagrin. Then the rage returned. "Mazael Cravenlock has come south! He has followed us, wizard!"

"And this is bad news?" said Malavost, raising his white eyebrows.

Again Ultorin seemed confused.

"You wished vengeance on him, did you not?" said Malavost. "And now he is close at hand. When our goals are achieved, when we have power beyond the wildest dreams of mortal man...you shall take your vengeance upon him. It will last for ten thousand years. And then the world shall be yours, Grand Master."

Ultorin nodded. "Yes. Yes. You are right. See to it."

He climbed back into his saddle and rode into the ranks of Malrags, the horse's black armor clanking.

For a moment Skaloban and Malavost stood in silence, the ranks of Malrags marching past them, Sykhana motionless upon her horse.

"He threatened the Vessel!" hissed Skaloban, pointing at Malavost. "He has gone utterly insane!"

"Quite right," said Malavost, unruffled. "I fear poor Ultorin's sanity has passed a tipping point. He has a month, perhaps, before he descends into raving madness. Or he transforms into something utterly inhuman and begins slaying everything in sight."

"What are you going to do about it?" said Sykhana. "He would have killed Aldane!" The thought of Aldane dying upon the bloodsword, his life force sucked into Ultorin's body, was hideous.

"Nothing at all," said Malavost, smiling. "In another month, Deepforest Keep will be destroyed, and the Vessel shall be immortal and invincible. Just as I promised you."

Chapter 21 - Deepforest Keep

Mazael and his men rode southeast.

After another week, the terrain grew hillier, the ground rockier. Great hills rose out of the earth, their crowns and sides dotted with weathered granite boulders. Yet the trees remained enormous, some of them standing higher than the hills themselves. The rocky ground forced Mazael and the others to dismount, to lead their horses along by foot. He cursed the delay. Every day Ultorin and his hordes drew closer to Deepforest Keep, to whatever powers and treasures lay hidden in the ruined temple atop Mount Tynagis.

To whatever fate they intended for Aldane.

Mazael pushed on as fast as he dared.

###

Of course, wooded hills made perfect terrain for an ambush.

Twice Athaelin’s and Sil Tarithyn’s Elderborn scouts found roving Malrag warbands making their way through the hills, converging in the direction of Deepforest Keep. The first time Mazael’s men plowed into the Malrags from behind, while the Elderborn sent volley after volley of arrows into the creatures.

He lost three men in that fight, with two more wounded.

The second time was easier. Romaria and Athaelin lured a band of three hundred Malrags into a narrow, dead-end gully. Mazael’s men prepared the gully beforehand, chopping down trees and piling rocks, and when the Malrags charged, the men unleashed avalanches, sealing the Malrags in the gully while Romaria and her father scrambled up ropes to safety.

After that, the Elderborn archers made short work of the trapped Malrags.

###

The next day, they found a band of Elderborn, from the Tribe of the Bear, fighting a losing battle against a Malrag warband. Mazael’s men attacked them from the flank, while the Elderborn loosed a storm of arrows, and Lucan and Circan unleashed conjured spirit beasts. The Malrags, taken by surprise, fell without inflicting a single loss upon Mazael’s men.

The Tribe of the Bear joined the Tribe of the Wolf, and Mazael found himself leading a hundred and fifty Elderborn south to Deepforest Keep.

He did not mind. The extra archers, no doubt, would come in handy.

They hastened south, and the ground grew ever hillier.

###

Two days after they rescued the Tribe of the Bear, Mazael saw Mount Tynagis for the first time.

“Mazael!” called Romaria, running down one of the slopes. Mazael turned, dropping Hauberk’s reins, and drawing Lion. But no flames erupted from the sword’s blue-tinted steel blade. There were no Malrags nearby.

And Romaria had a smile on her face.

“What is it?” said Mazael.

"Come look at this," said Romaria. "It will take just a moment."

Mazael shrugged, left Gerald in command of the column, and followed Romaria up the side of the stony hill. He was stronger than her, but she was more agile, and from time to time she had to stop and wait as he hauled himself over a boulder or around a jutting tree trunk.

"I hope," said Mazael, "this is worth the climb."

She grinned. "Trust me."

He kept following. The hill was large enough to rise above even the Great Southern Forest's massive oaks, and only a few scraggly trees marked its crown. Romaria led him to the top of the hill and pointed to the south.

"Look," she said. "Mount Tynagis."

And it was, Mazael admitted, an impressive sight.

The mountain rose out of the trees like an island jutting above a sea of green leaves. It was not a large mountain, no more than five thousand feet high, not tall enough for a crown of ice and snow. Yet he did see something white gleaming atop the mountain's crest, something white and jagged...

He squinted. "Is that..."

"Aye," said Romaria. "Those are the ruins of the High Elderborn, atop the mountain."

Mazael stared for a long moment. The mountain was still three or four days' travel distant. He could just make out the faint white shape of walls and soaring arches atop the mountain, of towering buttresses and broad courtyards. To be visible at this distance, the temple had to be truly enormous.

"The High Elderborn," said Mazael, "must have been mighty builders."

"They were," said Romaria. "No one has set foot in that place for years beyond count. Yet still it stands."

"And whatever Ultorin and Malavost want," said Mazael, "it's in there."

Romaria's face hardened. "What they want, and what they shall not have."

Mazael gave her a tight smile. "Yes. We will stop them."

Her answering smile was just as hard. "You almost make me believe it."

"We have a fair chance," said Mazael, gazing at the distant mountain. "We cannot defeat one hundred and fifty thousand Malrags, true. But Ultorin is the key to everything. If we can slay him, or if we can destroy his bloodsword, then victory will be ours. And I can take him, Romaria. I've almost defeated him before. If I can get close enough, if I can get him away from any aid, I can slay him."

"Or I can just put an arrow through his eye," said Romaria.

Mazael snorted. "That will work too, I suppose."

She leaned forward and kissed him. "Whatever happens, Mazael...I am glad you are here with me. That I had a chance to show you my home."

Mazael nodded, took her hand.

"I love you," said Romaria.

"I love you, too," said Mazael.

They kissed once more and descended the hill to join the others.

###

The next day they encountered a band of a dozen Malrags.

The creatures tried to flee, but the Elderborn hunted them down and shot them without mercy.

"Scouts, most likely," said Athaelin, examining the bodies.

"That's good news, then," said Gerald.

"Why?" said Athaelin.

"Because," said Mazael, "these Malrags were likely scouting ahead of the larger warbands, or the main part of Ultorin's host. Which means that we're ahead of him, and we will reach Deepforest Keep before the Malrags."

But not, Mazael suspected, by very much.

They would reach Deepforest Keep no more than a day or two ahead of the Malrags.

###

"Almost home," said Athaelin, leading his horse over a root.

They traveled through the foothills around Mount Tynagis. The forests here were even thicker, the trees tall and massive, their gnarled trunks heavy with layers of moss. Only dim sunlight leaked through the overlapping canopies of leaves, and the Forest here seemed dim and cool and silent.

At least, Mazael thought, until the Malrags arrived.

"So desolate," said Rachel, steering her mount around a massive traig.

Athaelin looked back. "Desolate? A desert is desolate, my dear lady." He swept out a hand. "The Great Southern Forest is filled with life."

"Forgive me, my lord Athaelin," said Rachel. "It's just...we have traveled so very far, and seen no one else but Elderborn and Malrags. No other humans. And yet you said nine thousand people live at Deepforest Keep? How did so many people come to live in such a remote place?"

Romaria laughed.

"What?" said Rachel, annoyed. "I was only asking."

"Aye," said Romaria, "but Father loves to speak of Deepforest Keep's history. If you let him, he will talk until we cross Deepforest Keep's gates, and then perhaps some more."

"Pay no heed to these doubters," said Athaelin. "For you, my lady...I think you like stories, you like tales."

"I do," said Rachel, and Mazael smiled. When they had traveled to her wedding, she had listened raptly to Gerald's and Tobias's stories of Knightcastle's long history. "Though...I prefer the stories that have happy endings, my lord. My life has had too many sad tales, of late."

"Ah!" said Athaelin. "Then I'm pleased to oblige. For Deepforest Keep's tale is a glorious one, and it will have a happy ending, once we slay Ultorin, retrieve your son, and drive the Malrags back to their mountain holes. You know that the dragon kings of Old Dracaryl once ruled the Grim Marches?"

Rachel nodded.

"Then you know that Dracaryl fell in fire and blood," said Athaelin. "Many were slain. A few survived to found new towns and castles. Young Lucan's family, I believe, descended from old Dracaryl nobles." Lucan gave a slow nod. "But many others fled the horrors that plagued the Grim Marches. They escaped into the Great Southern Forest, hoping to find refuge on the other side of the mountains."

"How did they end up at Mount Tygnais?" said Rachel.

Athaelin laughed. "They got lost. They were starving and freezing, and hoped to take shelter in the ruins atop the mountain. At the very least, they thought, the ruins might keep them safe from the dark magic that had destroyed Dracaryl."

"But my people stopped them," said Sil Tarithyn, who had come over to listen. "The temple of Mount Tynagis is sacred to our gods, and we will not let it be defiled by the foot of man or Elderborn or San-keth or Malrag."

"It almost came to a fight," said Athaelin. "But the leader of the refugees was a wise man. He bore a shield of bronze and a diadem, both ancient, both magical, and his people called him the Greenshield. And the Greenshield in his wisdom made a pact with the High Druid of the Elderborn. The Elderborn would let the refugees settle upon the slopes of Mount Tynagis. And in exchange, the refugees would remain the friends and allies of the Elderborn, and forever guard the path to the sacred temple atop the mountain. And Deepforest Keep was born. To bind their pact, the Greenshield and the High Druid lay together as man and wife, to symbolize the union of their two peoples, and my ancestors raised the first stones of Deepforest Keeper. And the Greenshield became the Champion of the Deepforest Keep and Defender of the Mountain, a title that has been passed down from generation to generation to me."

“It is a good tale,” said Sil Tarithyn. “Only rarely have Elderborn and human been able to dwell together in peace. But here, in the shadows of Mount Tynagis, we have done so, and together we have defended the temple against all who would defile it. The Elderborn dwell in the forests, and the humans in Deepforest Keep and their farms.”

“Why did they lie together?” said Rachel. “The first Greenshield and the High Druid, I mean. Did they wed, to join their peoples together?”

“A ritual,” said Athaelin. “To symbolize the joining of human and Elderborn. It is now a tradition. Every new Champion of Deepforest Keep, upon taking up the Greenshield and his diadem, will lie once with the High Druid.”

Rachel frowned. “It seems a strange way to make an alliance.”

Athaelin shrugged. “Perhaps. But you wed Sir Gerald, did you not? And there is now peace between Lord Mazael and Lord Malden.”

“I hadn’t looked at it that way,” said Rachel. “When the Greenshield and the High Druid lie together, do children ever…” She looked at Romaria, and Mazael saw the understanding fill her eyes. “Oh.”

“Aye,” said Romaria. “Humans and Elderborn rarely lie together. It is…frowned upon. And when they do, only rarely are half-breed children born. The Elderborn do not approve of such children, of the mingling of the blood.” Her eyes grew distant. “Some of the Elderborn call such children abominations, and believe they should be left in the woods to die of exposure.”

“A folly,” said Mazael. “Your skill and cunning has saved my life, several times.”

“When I was young,” said Sil Tarithyn, “I thought much the same way. But now I am older, and have seen more of the world. A half-breed may be just as valorous as an Elderborn or a human.” His purple eyes shifted to Romaria. “Though her path may be harder.”

Romaria looked away.

###

They saw farms as they drew closer to Deepforest Keep, scattered here and there among the trees. Carved terraces climbed up the hillside, and Mazael saw that the men of Deepforest Keep grew wheat and olives and grapes there, or fruit in small orchards. A traig stood by a wine press, its martial appearance strange against the peaceful look of the farm.

Yet every last farm was deserted. Some had been burned to the ground.

“Malrags’ work,” said Athaelin, looking at a burned farm, voice hard with anger. “They’ll pay for driving my people from their homes.”

They saw more and more farms, Mount Tynagis looming ever larger over them.

The next day, three weeks after leaving Castle Cravenlock, Mazael saw Deepforest Keep for the first time.

The city sat upon an outthrust spur of Mount Tynagis, perhaps three hundred feet above the foothills, with its walls rising another forty feet. Inside he saw houses and towers built in the same graceful style as the ruins atop the mountain, though constructed of the mountain’s gray stone rather than white marble. Massive oak trees also grew within the walls, rising over the houses and some of the towers as well. Behind the city, Mazael saw terraces climbing up the mountain’s sides, lush and green with crops. Hundreds of traigs dotted the hills below the city, all of them facing outward, as if to watch for enemies.

“Earth magic,” murmured Lucan.

Mazael glanced at him. Lucan looked worse than ever, his face almost white, his eyes glittering and feverish.

“That’s how those trees are growing inside Deepforest Keep,” said Lucan. “The soil should be too rocky to support them. Earth magic. The walls are enhanced with it, as well, warded against magical attack.” He almost smiled. “Which means Malavost and the shamans won’t be able to simply blast the walls down.”

“And the city is strongly situated,” said Mazael, looking it over. “East, west…and south, I think, we have nothing to fear. The mountain is too steeply pitched for anyone to assault the walls from those directions. The city is only vulnerable from the north, where the spur joins the rest of the mountain. Ultorin will have to order the Malrags to climb that road, there,” he pointed, “and then circle to the south.”

“And that road goes directly under the western wall,” said Lucan. “Where the Elderborn will be able to pour down arrows.”

“Aye,” said Mazael. “An attacker would need an ocean of blood to take Deepforest Keep.”

“And Ultorin has oceans of Malrag blood to spend,” said Lucan. “He will not care how many Malrags are slain, so as Malavost and the San-keth can reach the temple atop the mountain.”

"Ultorin may have Malrags beyond count to spend," said Mazael, "but we need only spill his blood."

"To deal with the Malrags, yes," said Lucan. "I suspect Malavost will prove more troublesome."

"Perhaps," said Mazael, "but Malavost is still only a mortal man. A blade through the throat will slay him, just like any other man."

Lucan lifted an eyebrow. "Bloodthirsty today, my lord."

Mazael pushed back his anger. "You are right. But, gods, it makes me angry. The men of Deepforest Keep live in peace. Save to trade, I doubt any of them have left the Great Southern Forest for years. And yet Ultorin and Malavost and the San-keth have made war upon them, and for what? Some magical bauble from the temple." He made a fist, forced himself to relax. "It reminds me of Amalric Galbraith. Or of Morebeth. Both of them were willing to trade away anything for power. And Ultorin and Malavost are willing to slaughter everyone in Deepforest Keep for power. No. I will stop them, Lucan."

"Be careful of that," said Lucan, his voice soft. "The temptation to wield the necessary power...the consequences can be unpleasant."

"I know," said Mazael. "And I know of what you speak. But I will not use that...part of myself. I will defeat Ultorin as a man, not as a monster. Or I will die trying."

Lucan stared at him a long moment, then bowed his head and looked away. No doubt he thought Mazael a fool. But Mazael did not care. He knew that if he gave in to his Demonsouled nature, he would have vast powers at his disposal. And he knew the price those powers would carry, how they would twist him into a ravening monster like Amalric Galbraith or Ultorin. And he would not do that.

Romaria had paid too steep a price for it.

“Perhaps you are right,” said Lucan, his voice faint. He rubbed the black metal staff he always carried. “Perhaps…I always thought that power was worth any price, because once I had power, I could do good with it. I could keep innocents safe from dark magic, keep them from suffering as I had suffered. But perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps the price is too steep,” he looked in the direction of Sil Tarithyn’s Elderborn, “if innocents pay the price for my power.”

“He who fights monsters must take care,” said Mazael, “lest he become one.”

Lucan blinked at him.

Mazael shrugged. “Sir Nathan and Master Othar used to tell me that when I was a boy. Some ancient priest said it – I don’t remember his name.” He snorted. “Though, considering who and what I am…it turned out to be good advice.”

“Excellent advice,” murmured Lucan, and a shout caught Mazael’s attention.

“Mazael!” Gerald strode to his side, armor clanking. “Someone’s coming.”

A group of armed men hurried down the road from the city, thirty or so of them, clad in mail with long spears in their right hands. At their head walked a tall man, perhaps ten years Mazael’s junior, with the hilt of a bastard sword jutting over his shoulder.

“We’ve been seen,” said Mazael. “Tell everyone to stop.” Athaelin and Romaria came to the head of the column, staring at the approaching men. “And stay calm. I’m sure the men of Deepforest Keep are eager for aid, but it’s best to remain polite.”

The column stopped, and the men from Deepforest Keep approached them.

The leader frowned at Mazael. He looked a great deal like both Romaria and Athaelin, with the same strong features, the same blue eyes, and the same thick black hair. Unlike Romaria, the man bore no trace of Elderborn ancestry upon his face or ears. A half-brother, Mazael thought, a son Athaelin had gotten on a human woman.

Then the leader saw Athaelin, and his eyes widened.

“Well, Rhodemar?” said Athaelin. “No greeting your father? Or for your sister?”

“Father!” said Rhodemar, grinning, and walked over and caught the older man in a vigorous hug. Still grinning, he reached over and pulled Romaria close, and she laughed in surprise. “It is good to see you. Especially in this dark hour.” He stepped away, looking at Romaria. “And you, sister. I had thought you dead, slain at the hands of some lord in the north.”

“Not quite,” said Romaria, stepping between Mazael and Rhodemar. “This is Mazael, Lord of Castle Cravenlock.” Mazael offered a grave bow, and Rhodemar answered in kind. “And he saved my life.”

Rhodemar looked at Athaelin, and then back at Romaria. “And he is the one in the Seer’s prophecy…”

“Aye,” said Romaria.

“So the Seer’s prophecy did indeed come true,” said Rhodemar. “And I hope he spoke truly, as well, when he said you would save Deepforest Keep.” He looked at Mazael. “I am glad Father brought you here, Lord Mazael, along with your men. We are sore pressed, and every man or Elderborn able to swing a sword or draw a bow is welcome.”

“What news?” said Athaelin. “Have any Malrags attacked the city itself yet?”

“No,” said Rhodemar. “The outlying farms have been raided, with grievous loss of life. I have ordered all the farmers and herders within the walls – their farms and flocks can be rebuilt, but their lives cannot. Every man able to fight has been impressed into our militia, and the Elderborn tribes have sheltered within our walls as well. When the Malrags come, we shall have three thousand fighting men, and fifteen hundred Elderborn with their bows.”

Three thousand spearmen and fifteen hundred Elderborn archers. Even with the strong walls of Deepforest Keep, that would not be nearly enough against one hundred and fifty thousand Malrags.

"How far are the Malrags from the city?" said Athaelin. "We have gathered every Elderborn we can, and led them here, but our scouting ability is limited."

"We didn't dare send out too many scouts," said Gerald, "lest the Malrags follow them back, and send numbers enough to overwhelm us."

"There are Malrag warbands prowling all over the foothills," said Rhodemar. "None of them have yet come within a day's travel of the city, though that will change, I deem, once more arrive. The Elderborn say that the main host of the Malrags is no more than two days' march from Deepforest Keep."

Two days.

Mazael looked at the towering height of Mount Tynagis.

Within a week, this would be settled. Either he would slay Ultorin and break up the Malrag host, or the Malrags would raze Deepforest Keep and Ultorin would seize the ruins atop the mountain.

"What of provisions?" said Athaelin.

"As many foodstuffs and flocks as we could manage have been gathered within the walls," said Rhodemar. "We food enough to last for a year."

"Good," said Athaelin. "Very good."

"That won't be necessary," said Mazael.

Father, son, and daughter looked at him.

"Ultorin has one hundred and fifty thousand Malrags," said Mazael. "Even with my men, Deepforest Keep has four thousand defenders. Ultorin has strength enough to simply storm the city."

"This Ultorin - I assume he is the leader of the Malrags - will pay a grievous price for doing so," said Rhodemar, "and we have the magic of the druids to aid us."

"But Ultorin doesn't care about the price," said Mazael, and he explained to Rhodemar about the bloodsword and Malavost's desire to seize the temple atop the mountain. "The Malrags are nothing more than his tools, his weapons. He cares nothing for them. If he has to butcher every last one of them to destroy Deepforest Keep and take the ruined temple, he will do it. No, this will not be a long siege. Ultorin will try to take Deepforest Keep by storm. In a week's time, either we all shall be dead - or we will kill him first."

"Gods of wood and stone," said Rhodemar, shaking his head. "What sort of fool would wield a blade forged in the blood of a Demonsouled?"

Lucan stepped to Mazael's side, gazing at Rhodemar, face expressionless.

"Come," said Athaelin. "Join me in the Champion's Tower. We must discuss our defense."

"That is why I am here," said Rhodemar. He took a deep breath. "The High Druid requests the presence of the Champion and his guests, in the courtyard below the Great Traig."

Romaria's face grew hard.

Athaelin sighed. "Ardanna wants to speak with us, does she? I suspect she did not quite say it that way, Rhodemar."

Rhodemar nodded. "She demanded your presence, Father. As if you were a servant."

"No matter. Come, then," said Athaelin. "Let us see what Ardanna has to say about the defense of Deepforest Keep."

Chapter 22 - The High Druid

Rhodemar led them through the gates and into the main plaza of Deepforest Keep. Houses and towers of gray stone lined the plaza, their walls faced with lichen and long green vines. A massive oak tree rose overhead, looming higher than both the towers and the houses. A group of spearmen in mail drilled in the square, following the directions of a grim-faced sergeant.

“Find quarters for Mazael and his men,” said Athaelin.

Rhodemar nodded. “We can quarter them in the Northern Tower, along with the horses. Lord Mazael, Sir Gerald, and Lucan Mandragon will be our guests in the Champion's Tower.”

Mazael left his men and Gerald's at the foot of the Northern Tower, a tall fortress of gray stone, telling them to follow the instructions of Rhodemar's men. Then he followed Athaelin and Rhodemar into Deepforest Keep, Romaria, Gerald, Rachel, and Lucan following after him. Romaria walked at his side, her face grim, her right hand clenching and unclenching.

“Is she that bad?” said Mazael.

Romaria gave a sharp nod. “You'll see for yourself, soon enough.”

He looked at Deepforest Keep as they walked. Mazael had visited numerous cities in his younger wanderings, but he had never seen one quite like Deepforest Keep. Gardens and groves lay among the stone houses and towers, tended with skill and care. Some of the gardens had white traigs, their sides spotted with lichen. The great oak trees were enormous, often bigger than the towers. Most cities smelled of smoke and waste, but the air of Deepforest Keep was clean and clear, the sun shaded by the trees.

The Champion's Tower, a round tower of gray granite, stood at the southern corner of Deepforest Keep's walls, overlooking the foothills below. A ring of smaller oak trees encircled a courtyard at the base of the Tower, surrounding an enormous traig, twice as large as any of the others Mazael had seen. This traig bore a stone sword in either hand, its head concealed with a crowned helm.

The Great Traig itself, no doubt.

A dozen Elderborn women waited below the Great Traig, each clad in a ragged robe made from animal furs. Every woman bore an oak staff in her right hand, and wore strange amulets of polished bone and stone. Piercing eyes of gold and silver and purple fixed upon Mazael.

“The druids,” murmured Lucan. “Each one is powerful. Tread carefully.”

Mazael nodded.

One of the Elderborn women stepped forward, her oaken staff tapping against the weathered flagstones of the courtyard. Her amulets were more intricate than the others, and she wore a diadem of woven cord and uncut sapphires. Her golden eyes gleamed like coins, cold and hard, and swept over Mazael and his companions.

Then the golden eyes narrowed as they fixed upon Romaria, and Romaria glared back.

Ardanna, Mazael realized. The High Druid of the Elderborn.

“Athaelin,” said Ardanna, her voice clear and cold as a crystal. “So good of you to come, and deign to fill your responsibilities as Champion of Deepforest Keep and the Defender of the Mountain.”

Athaelin made a grand bow that had more than a hint of mockery to it. “And it is good to see you again, most noble High Druid.”

“Do not make a joke, Champion,” said Ardanna. “I weary of your japery. And this latest joke is the worst of all.” She looked back at Romaria. “I see you have brought your pet abomination to Deepforest Keep.”

“Mother,” said Romaria, her voice ice.

Ardanna ignored her. “I told you not to bring it back to Deepforest Keep, after you sent it north to investigate the undead. And I was relieved when I heard word that it was dead. And yet you have returned it to Deepforest Keep. In this hour of trail, when both the Elderborn and your people face grave threat, you choose to run north and chase after your pet abomination.”

“I chose to go north and avenge my daughter's death,” said Athaelin, all trace of good humor gone from his tone. “I returned with my daughter, our daughter, still alive, and allies willing to fight on our side against the Malrags. And instead you choose to mock our daughter and scorn me, instead of discussing the danger.”

Ardanna's nostrils flared in rage. “You insult me by bringing this abomination into my presence, and...”

Rhodemar frowned. “Should we not discuss our defense? The Malrag host is almost upon us. This is not the time to bring up old quarrels.”

Neither Athaelin nor Ardanna heeded him, and both began to shout.

“Enough!” said Romaria, glaring at the High Druid. “You will not discuss me like I am a piece of furniture, Mother. Not when I am right in front of you.”

Ardanna's voice dripped with contempt. “I have nothing to say to you, abomination.”

“It seems like you have plenty to say,” said Romaria. “You have always had plenty to say, even if you are too cowardly to say it to my face. Plenty to say, while Father does the hard work of defending Deepforest Keep.”

The golden eyes flashed. “Cowardly, you call me, you miserable vermin?” She stepped closer to Romaria, every inch of her body taut with rage. “Then let me tell you the truth. To your face, if you prefer. You were a mistake. No child is supposed to be born of the ritual coupling between the High Druid and the Champion. When I learned of you, I would have purged my womb of your tainted presence, but the Champion and the druids forbade it. When at last you were born and I was free of you, I would have left you to die of exposure in the woods, but again your foolish father forbade it.”

Ardanna continued to rant, and Romaria said nothing, but Mazael saw the muscles twitching in her face, and he had heard enough.

“Stop,” he said. “Not another word.”

“Do not interfere, human lord,” said Ardanna. “You think her worthy? I will prove you wrong.”

Ardanna pointed her staff, and Romaria went rigid.

“She is half-human, half-Elderborn,” said Ardanna, the tip of her staff glowing with blue light. “The Elderborn live in harmony with themselves. But a half-breed, an abomination, cannot. Sooner or later the Elderborn half of her soul will overwhelm her, and she will become a ravening beast, out of harmony with herself and the world. Sooner or later...or sooner, if I hasten the process. As I should have done long ago.”

The blue light around the staff brightened, and Romaria began to shudder. Mazael saw claws appear on her fingers, fangs upon her lips, and black fur sprout from her hands. Rhodemar reached for her, and she growled, face looking more wolfish by the second.

“Stop!” said Athaelin. “Stop this now, Ardanna! Damn you, stop this now!”

But Ardanna ignored him. The Greenshield, Mazael realized, had no power over the High Druid.

“Stop,” said Mazael, “now.”

Ardanna ignored him, and Romaria screamed.

And fury blossomed in his mind.

One moment he stood between Romaria and Athaelin. The next he stood over the High Druid, his boot upon her chest, Lion's tip resting at her throat. Ardanna's haughty arrogance disappeared in shock, and for the first time a hint of fear appeared in her golden eyes.

“I told you,” said Mazael, voice quiet, “to stop.”

Every Elderborn man in the courtyard had his bow drawn, the arrows pointed at Mazael.

Romaria collapsed to the ground, shivering, and Athaelin bent over her.

“You must leave at once!” said one of the Elderborn druids, her face livid with fury. “You have dared to draw a blade against the High Druid! Leave, or we shall shoot you and all your men where you stand.”

Gerald drew his sword, and Lucan lifted his hand, green flames writhing around his fingertips. Rachel backed away from him, eyes wide.

“Stop this folly!” bellowed Athaelin, still on one knee besides Romaria. “Have you gone mad, Ardanna? You attacked your daughter!”

“She is a vile abomination,” spat Ardanna, “and not my daughter.” Her golden eyes remained fixed on Mazael. “You must go, human lord. You must go now. Take your precious abomination and do not return to Deepforest Keep.”

“As you wish,” said Mazael, taking his boot from the High Druid's chest “I will take her, and my men, and go.”

Athaelin surged to his feet. “You are indeed mad, Ardanna! One hundred thousand Malrags descend upon Deepforest Keep, and you turn away aid? Because you cannot get over your useless hatred of Romaria?”

“As you wish,” said Ardanna. “The human lord and his men may stay. But the abomination must be expelled from Deepforest Keep.”

“No,” said Mazael. He slid Lion back into its scabbard. Whatever else happened, he would not start a bloodbath here that would deprive Deepforest Keep of its ablest defenders. “No, you've shown me your true colors, my lady Ardanna. If you will expel Romaria, then I will go with her, and you may face the Malrags on your own.” He would find a way to get to Ultorin, to get Aldane back from the San-keth. “Romaria has saved my life, and shown her valor to me many times over. If you expel a woman of her courage...then you do not deserve my aid.”

“As you will!” spat Ardanna, climbing to her feet, but the fear returned as she looked at Mazael. “Go! Take your filthy abomination, and go...”

“No.”

The deep voice was soft, yet it carried over the shouting.

An Elderborn man stood at the base of the Champion's Tower, leaning hard upon an oak staff. He was the first Elderborn Mazael had seen to show signs of age, his hair long and gray, his face weathered and marked with deep lines. The Elderborn, Romaria had told him, could live for a thousand years, which meant that this man had to be truly ancient. His eyes were silver, clear and bright, like polished coins.

“Seer,” said Ardanna, dipping her head in a quick bow.

The Seer. The Elderborn druid who had foreseen that Mazael and Romaria would meet, that she would save him, and he would save her.

Who had predicted that she would save Deepforest Keep.

The Seer's silver eyes settled upon Mazael, and he stared back without flinching.

“So,” said the Seer. “It has come at last.”

“The abomination must be expelled, Seer,” said Ardanna, and Mazael realized that the Seer's words carried greater weight than the High Druid's. “It will bring disaster upon us, and...”

“No,” said the Seer. He walked into the circle of trees, limping, leaning on his staff. “No future is certain. And doom lies heavy upon Deepforest Keep, upon the world. For if Deepforest Keep falls, then all the world shall fall with it. If Romaria, the daughter of the Greenshield, remains here, then Deepforest Keep might fall.” He gazed at Ardanna. “But if she departs, then Deepforest Keep shall certainly be destroyed. This I have foreseen.”

“But...”

“This,” repeated the Seer, with perfect, calm, “I have foreseen.”

Ardanna stared at him, hands tight around her staff, but at last gave a short, sharp nod.

Romaria climbed to her feet, dark circles under her eyes, gazing at her mother with loathing.

“Mazael, son of House Cravenlock,” said the Seer. “Will you stay, and fight alongside us?”

“I see no reason why I should,” said Mazael. “My men and I hardly seem welcome here.”

“This is so,” said the Seer. “But I know what you seek. You seek your nephew's safe return, and the destruction of your foes, the necromancer and the corrupted knight.”

“So?” said Mazael. “I suppose you'll tell me that if I leave Deepforest Keep, I will surely die?”

“All men die,” said the Seer. “Whether human or Elderborn. And no one can see the future. Not even I. But if you leave Deepforest Keep, your nephew will surely die. And your foes will gain power beyond your ability to oppose, and will come north to seek your ruin. This I have foreseen.”

“Mazael,” said Rachel, voice tight. “Aldane. If you go, Aldane will die.”

And Ultorin and Malavost had to be stopped. Whatever they wanted from the ruined temple atop Mount Tynagis, Mazael had to keep them from it.

“Very well,” said Mazael, looking to the Seer. “I will fight alongside you against the Malrags. But let me make myself clear. If anyone tries to harm Romaria again, I will leave. Is this understood?”

“Ardanna,” said Athaelin.

The High Druid's voice could have cut stone. “Your terms are acceptable.”

“Now,” said Rhodemar with some asperity, “perhaps we can discuss our defense? Or shall we stand here and bicker until the Malrags cut us all to pieces?”

Both Athaelin and Ardanna looked ashamed, if only slightly, but Romaria's venomous glare at her mother did not waver.

“The Malrags come in great numbers,” said Rhodemar. “Our scouts counted at least one hundred and twenty thousand of them. Undoubtedly there are more, but Lord Mazael says one hundred and fifty thousand of them left the Grim Marches.”

“Our tribes will have put up a fierce fight,” said Ardanna, lifting her chin, “and our arrows shall have thinned the ranks of the foe.”

“But not by very much,” said Rhodemar. “As to what they want, or who leads them, we do not yet know.”

“But I do,” said Mazael. “The Malrags are led by Ultorin, a Dominiar knight, Malavost, a necromancer of power, and an unknown number of San-keth clerics. Ultorin has a sword forged in Demonsouled blood, which gives him the power to command the Malrags.”

“A bloodsword?” said Ardanna. “My people have encountered such weapons before. They bestow terrible power, but inevitably drive their wielders into madness.”

Lucan looked away, rolling the black staff between his palms.

“Malavost is probably controlling Ultorin somehow,” said Mazael. “The San-keth also kidnapped my nephew, Sir Gerald's son. Ardmorgan Sil Tarithyn of the Tribe of the Wolf believes that Malavost and the San-keth want to seize the ruined temple atop Mount Tynagis and claim it for themselves.”

Ardanna's golden eyes narrowed. “They would dare,” she hissed, “to defile the sacred temple. We shall not allow it. We...”

“The Door of Souls,” said the Seer.

Again everyone looked at the ancient Elderborn.

Lucan frowned. “The...Door of Souls? What is that?”

“I know what your foes seek,” said the Seer. He looked at Gerald. “And I know why your son has been kidnapped.”

“Why?” said Rachel, stepping to Mazael's side. “Why? For the love of all the gods, please tell me why.”

“In ancient times,” said the Seer, “the High Elderborn communed with the spirit world and spoke with its princes and lords. Their mightiest wizards could even enter the spirit world, through an artifact called the Door of Souls.”

“An artifact,” said Mazael, understanding, “within the temple atop Mount Tynagis.”

“You speak true,” said the Seer. “The Door of Souls is perilous, which is why my people have guarded Mount Tynagis for long centuries, why we made the pact with the men of Deepforest Keep. If Malavost acted alone, I would say he simply wished to seize the Door's power for himself. But with the San-keth, and the child...no, he wishes something different.”

“What?” said Rachel. Gerald grabbed at her arm to support her. “What is he going to do?”

The Seer looked at her, his weathered face grave. “Your son shall become Sepharivaim reborn.”

“I don't understand,” said Rachel.

“Do you know the story of the San-keth?” said the Seer. “How once they walked as you and I do, with arms and legs, until they followed their god Sepharivaim into wickedness, and the rest of the gods stripped the San-keth of their limbs and forced them to crawl in the dust to humble their pride. And Sepharivaim himself was cast down and defeated. But a god cannot be slain, even by other gods. Sepharivaim's body was destroyed, and his spirit cast into the dark void between the worlds. A mortal wizard of sufficient skill could use the Door of Souls to draw Sepharivaim's spirit back into the world and infuse it into a mortal body.”

“A mortal body,” said Mazael, understanding like at last, “like Rachel's son.”

Rachel's hands were at her mouth, her face white.

“If it were as simple as that,” said Lucan, “why have the San-keth not done this long ago?”

“Because it is not simple,” said the Seer. “They would need a wizard of great skill and power to even attempt the summoning spell.”

“Malavost,” said Mazael.

“And they would need a way to force their way past Deepforest Keep and reach the temple,” said the Seer.

“Ultorin and the Malrags,” said Mazael.

“And they would need a special child,” said the Seer. “Not just any mortal body could receive the soul of a god. The child would need to be young, in his first year. And he would need to be born of a woman who had been marked by Sepharivaim, yet had rejected him. For an apostate's child would be vulnerable to such possession...”

Rachel started to weep. “I did this. I did this. Oh, Aldane. Oh, I'm sorry. Gerald, I'm sorry. This is my fault, my fault, all my fault...”

Gerald led her to a stone bench and sat her down, and Rachel buried her face in her hands, still weeping.

“Then we know the purposes of our enemy,” said Ardanna, but even she looked shaken, “and we must find a way to defeat him.”

“The way is simple,” said Mazael.

“Oh?” said the High Druid. “So confident?”

“No,” said Mazael. “But the path to victory is clear. We must kill Ultorin and destroy his bloodsword. Then the Malrags will turn up each other, and we can destroy them in the aftermath. It is the only way. I have seen your defenses, my lord Athaelin, my lady Ardanna, and I have seen your men and Elderborn. Your walls are high, and your men skilled. But Ultorin will smash your walls and slay your men. The sorcery of Malavost and the Malrag shamans will overpower your druids. They will leave Deepforest Keep a desolate ruin.”

“And open the Door of Souls to unleash a horror upon the world,” said the Seer.

“We must slay Ultorin,” said Mazael. “It is our only hope of victory or survival. Whatever else happens, we must find a way to kill him.”

“Perhaps we should consider killing the child, as well,” said Ardanna, “should the opportunity present itself.”

Rachel surged to her feet, her hands curled into fists, and for a moment Mazael thought she would throw herself upon the High Druid, but Gerald's hands closed about her shoulders.

And even Gerald looked angry.

“It is only sensible,” said Ardanna. “Even if we fail, even if Deepforest Keep falls, perhaps we can spare the rest of the world...”

“You would like that, I'm sure,” said Athaelin. “The men of Deepforest Keep slain. But the Elderborn can wait in the forests until the Malrags depart, and...”

“Damn it, enough!” said Mazael. “Your are on the verge of destruction, and yet both of you squabble like children! You will cooperate, or by the gods, I will leave you to your fate.”

Athaelin gave a nod, and Ardanna looked away, saying nothing.

“What do you suggest we do, then?” said Rhodemar.

“Prepare for a siege,” said Mazael, “as you have been doing. Ultorin will send the Malrags against the walls. We must hold him off as long as we can, to exploit our advantage.”

“What advantage?” said Ardanna.

“Ultorin is insane,” said Lucan, voice quiet. “The bloodsword is destroying his mind, piece by piece. He will take risks, expose himself to dangers that a sensible man would otherwise avoid.”

“Malavost and the San-keth will try to restrain him,” said Mazael, “but sooner or later he will make a mistake, and that will be our chance to strike.”

“So be it,” said Athaelin.

“The scouts say the main bulk of the Malrag host will be here in two days,” said Rhodemar.

“Then I suggest we get to work,” said Athaelin.

Chapter 23 - The Seer

“I am sorry about Ardanna,” said Athaelin.

Mazael, Romaria, and Athaelin stood on one of the balconies of the Champion’s Tower, the foothills sloping away into the Great Southern Forest below them. Mazael saw men marching on the walls, spears in hand, while the Elderborn followed, carrying their great bows. Women and children hurried back and forth, stacking quivers of arrows and bales of spears.

“Why does she hate you so much?” said Mazael. “Because of Romaria?

Romaria had not spoken since their confrontation with the High Druid and gazed grim-faced at the activity below.

“Her hatred is nothing personal, either for me,” said Athaelin, “or Romaria. Ardanna...simply detests humans. She believes the Elderborn to be the superior race, because of their longer lives and greater magical prowess. It galls her that humans now possess most of the world, while only a few remnants of the Elderborn linger on in remote places. And it infuriates her that a child of mixed human and Elderborn blood walks Deepforest Keep.”

“Infuriated or not,” said Mazael, “she will help defend Deepforest Keep, whether she likes it or no.”

“Aye,” said Athaelin. “Ardanna is proud and cruel, but she will fight to save the city. And we have something more important to discuss than Ardanna's temper.”

“What is it?” said Mazael.

Athaelin took a deep breath. “I need you to take command of our defense.”

“Father?” said Romaria.

“You are the Greenshield, the Champion of Deepforest Keep,” said Mazael. “The command should be yours.”

“The Champion's task is to defend Deepforest Keep and Mount Tynagis,” said Athaelin. “And I cannot do that, not as well as you can. I am skilled with sword and bow, true. But I have never led more than five hundred men in battle. Certainly I have never commanded the entire host of Deepforest Keep. But my daughter told me how you have commanded mighty armies in great battles, and Romaria is not one to exaggerate. In this, Mazael, your hands are more capable than mine. Take command of our defense.”

“But your men respect you,” said Mazael. “I've seen the way they heed you. I am a stranger to them. They will not follow my lead.”

“The men of Deepforest Keep respect me,” said Athaelin, “but...”

“They love you, Father,” said Romaria.

“Perhaps,” said Athaelin. “They may respect me, but I cannot save them. Even you might not be able to save them. But you have a better chance of keeping them alive than I do.”

For a long moment they stood in silence, staring at each other.

“Very well,” said Mazael. “I will take command of the defense.”

Athaelin closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. “Thank you.”

“But you will remain in command,” said Mazael. “This is your city and your people. They will follow you, not me. So I will advise you. Whether you follow my suggestions or not is up to you. But you will retain command of Deepforest Keep.”

Athaelin smiled at Romaria. “He is a clever one, isn't he?”

For the first time since arriving in Deepforest Keep, Romaria smiled. “I've always thought so, Father.”

Mazael squinted at the sky. “We've still three or four hours of daylight left, and we should put it to use. Here are my first suggestions...”

They got to work.

###

That night Mazael and Romaria returned to their rooms atop the Champion's Tower, gazing into the darkened forest.

“It's so quiet,” said Romaria. “It's never this quiet in the Forest at night.”

“The Malrags,” said Mazael. “Everything flees before them. This is the last quiet night Deepforest Keep will know for a while, I think.”

She nodded, and they stood in silence for a moment.

“Your mother,” said Mazael.

“I hate her,” said Romaria, and he saw the unshed tears shining in her eyes. “I thought...I thought I was past this. I left Deepforest Keep for years, to travel in the Great Mountains and the Old Kingdoms. I forgot about her. Even when I returned to Deepforest Keep to visit Father, I stayed away from her. Not hard, since the great High Druid would have nothing to do with a wretched abomination.” She sniffled. “It is so foolish to say...but I hoped, perhaps, that she would think differently of me, after all that I have done. That perhaps she would see that I had some value.”

“It is not so foolish,” said Mazael, putting his arm around her. “I thought the same way once, about my father.”

She gave him a puzzled look. “The Old Demon?”

“No. Lord Adalon,” said Mazael, naming the man he had thought was his father. “He banished me from the Grim Marches when I was eighteen. He gave me a horse and a sword and a chain mail shirt, and told me never to return. For a while, I thought that if I did great deeds, he would take me back.”

“What changed?” said Romaria. “By the time I met you, you didn't give a damn what anyone in your family thought. Except for Rachel.”

Mazael shrugged. “I moved on. I joined Lord Malden's court as a sworn knight, and by the time I heard that Lord Adalon had died and Mitor had become the new lord of Castle Cravenlock, I no longer cared. I would never have returned to the Grim Marches, had Lord Malden not sent me to investigate.”

She leaned against him. “I am glad that you did.”

Mazael pulled her closer against him. “So am I.”

They went to bed together.

###

Mazael woke before dawn the next morning, blinking.

Romaria lay against his side, her black hair pooling across his chest. Dim gray light came through the balcony doors, along with the sounds of men moving along the city's walls. For a moment Mazael thought that the Ultorin had come, that the Malrags had launched an assault against the walls.

Romaria sat up, sensing his alarm. “What is it?”

But no sounds of combat filtered through the window.

“Nothing,” said Mazael, climbing out of bed. He began to get dressed, and Romaria did the same. “It's going to be a long day. Best to...”

“Mazael,” said Romaria.

Mazael turned.

A huge black raven settled upon the balcony’s stone railing, watching them with gleaming black eyes. It was the biggest raven Mazael had ever seen. Even as he stared at it, the raven hopped to the floor of the balcony.

And as it did, it changed, its form blurring. The raven became an Elderborn man, gray-haired and weary-faced, leaning upon an oak staff.

Romaria bowed. “Seer.”

“Just how long,” said Mazael, “have you been there watching us? All night, I suppose?”

To his surprise, the Seer smiled. “Fear not. I do not spy upon things which are rightly private.” His smile faded. “And I have learned this well. Once something has been seen, it cannot be unseen. And I have seen much that I would otherwise forget.”

“But...you were a raven,” said Romaria, confused. “How is that possible? I've never seen any wizard do that. Is it a skill the druids learn?”

“No,” said the Seer. “I will tell you a secret only known to the Elderborn. Not even your father knows it. It should have been told to you long ago, but the High Druid refused.”

“What secret?” said Romaria.

“The Elderborn are born with earth magic in their souls,” said the Seer, “and exist in harmony with it. And this harmony manifests in the ability to change forms, to take the shape of birds and beasts.”

“The Tribe of the Wolf,” said Mazael, understanding. He remembered the rumors Lucan had told him about the ability of the Elderborn druids to change their shapes. “Or the Tribe of the Bear. That's why the Elderborn tribes take those names. It's their...chosen animal, no? They have the ability to change their forms to a wolf or a bear.”

The Seer nodded. “The Seer is of all tribes. But before I became Seer, long ago, I was of the Tribe of the Raven. And this ability, Romaria, you have inherited from your mother, and it is killing you. It is unbalanced, uncontrollable, and killing you slowly.”

“I know,” said Romaria. “Is that why you've come? To tell me how I'm going to die? I already know that. I don't have much time left. So I'm going to spend it well, and take as many Malrags with me as I can. And Ultorin, if I have a clear shot to his throat.”

“No,” said the Seer. “You are the key. This I have foreseen. You were destined to save Mazael from himself. This has happened. Mazael was destined to save you from yourself. This, too, has happened. And I have foreseen that you have the power to save Deepforest Keep.”

“How?” said Romaria.

“I did not know,” said the Seer, “until last night. I entered the caverns below the mountain, and meditated, and a vision came to me.”

“So,” said Mazael, “how is Romaria to save Deepforest Keep?”

“She must face herself, and overcome herself,” said the Seer, “in the Ritual of Rulership.”

“The trial that the lords of Deepforest Keep must face,” said Mazael, remembering what Romaria had told him, “before becoming the Champion and Defender.”

The Seer nodded.

“Why must I do this?” said Romaria. “The Ritual is dangerous. Half of those who undertake the Ritual never return.”

“Your brother Rhodemar undertook the Ritual and survived,” said the Seer. “Your father insisted, so that he could serve as the Champion if Athaelin fell in battle. And you must undertake the Ritual, as well, to face yourself...”

“No,” said Romaria.

The Seer said nothing.

“Why not?” said Mazael.

“Because they have no right to ask this of me,” said Romaria.

“You said Deepforest Keep was your home,” said the Seer.

“It is!” said Romaria, voice rising. “At least, I thought it was, for all those years. And then I came back, and I saw my mother again, what she thinks of me. What she still thinks of me. Do all the Elderborn think that way about me? And my father. He would do nothing about her. Nothing!” Her voice climbed to a shout. “He chided her, and scolded her, and did not lift a finger to help me!”

She paced to the balcony, shaking with anger. Mazael followed her, put a hand on her shoulder.

“I will fight for Deepforest Keep,” said Romaria. “Even to the death. But this...I will not do this.”

“So be it,” said the Seer.

Romaria glared at him. “Why? What have you seen?”

“You will do as you will,” said the Seer.

Romaria scowled, pushing the hair away from her eyes. “Don't tell me that nonsense. You tell us your visions, and we all dance upon your strings. So what strings do you want to tie around my arms and legs?”

The Seer sighed and closed his silver eyes, resting his forehead upon the staff. “The Seer's vision is more of a curse than a blessing, far more of a curse. For the future is not fixed. Did you not know this? It is a shadow, cast by the weight of the past and present. Shadows are changeable. And yet...so very often the shadow does not change. A man continues in his folly, when he might change his ways, and the shadow of destruction becomes a reality.”

“And so what visions have you seen?” said Romaria. “What shadows?”

“I see the Elderborn destroyed, slain to the last man, woman, and child,” said the Seer. “I see Deepforest Keep in flames. I see a child murdered atop an altar, and I see a god of blood and death rising in power from Mount Tynagis. All these shadows I see before me...if you do not enter the caverns and endure the Ritual of Rulership.”

For a long time Romaria said nothing.

“And what shadows do you see,” said Romaria, “if I undertake the Ritual?”

“The shadows are uncertain, tangled,” said the Seer. “Anything could happen.”

“But if I do not perform the Ritual,” said Romaria, “then Deepforest Keep will certainly be destroyed.” Mazael felt her tense. “Everyone will die. Mazael will die. My father and brother will die.”

“Those shadows,” said the Seer, “will become reality.”

“If I do not perform the Ritual,” said Romaria. She closed her eyes and gave a bitter little laugh. “Trying strings around my arms and legs.”

“I told you,” said the Seer, still leaning against his staff, “that foresight is often more of a curse than a blessing.”

“Very well,” said Romaria. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, opened them again. “I will face the Ritual of Rulership.”

The Seer nodded. “We must go now.”

“Are you sure about this?” said Mazael.

“I am not,” said Romaria.

“Do you need my help?” said Mazael.

“She must face herself,” said the Seer. “And that is something every man and woman of mortal kind must do alone.”

“I would like your help,” said Romaria, “but if I am to face this...it seems I must do so alone.” She gazed at his face. “Just as you did...when your time of trial came.”

Mazael remembered Romaria lying dead upon the chapel floor, remembered Rachel unconscious upon the chapel.

“That wasn't your fault,” said Romaria. Even in her troubled mood, she still knew him so well. “I've told you that.” Her crooked grin flashed across her face. “And there's no Old Demon this time.”

Mazael nodded. “I love you.”

She leaned up and kissed him. “I love you, too.”

She squeezed his hands, then turned and followed the Seer from the tower.

Mazael stared after them for a moment. Then he paced to the balcony and leaned against the railing, staring at nothing. Watching her go, letting her go, had been so much harder than he had expected. He knew that she might die in the upcoming battle, that he might die. But watching her walk away with the Seer, knowing that he might never return...that had been almost more than he could bear.

He would have helped her, if he could. He would have died for her. But she had to face this battle herself. Just he had faced the Old Demon alone, in the chapel, at the end.

Romaria's fate was in her hands now. And Mazael had work to do.

He took a deep breath, donned his armor, and went to find Athaelin and Rhodemar.

###

Romaria followed the Seer through the heart of Deepforest Keep.

She looked back at the Champion's Tower. Leaving Mazael to fight the Malrags had been harder than she had thought. But if any man could lead the defenders and kill Ultorin, it was him. And if the Seer was right, if she did not do this, then Mazael and every man, woman, and child in Deepforest Keep would die.

And the Seer had always been right so far.

The Seer led her to the center of the city. A huge circular garden lay there, the Garden of the Temple, surrounded by a ring of enormous oak trees. Traigs dotted the garden, covered in vines and flowers. In the center of the garden yawned a stone well, spiral stairs sinking to the earth.

The entrance of the caverns that led to the crown of Mount Tynagis, to the sacred temple at its crown.

And the caverns where she would face the Ritual of Rulership.

“Come,” said the Seer, and she followed him into the caverns.

###

The Malrags marched through the night.

Sykhana rode in the heart of the Malrag host, encircled by the bodyguard of Ogrags that Malavost insisted Ultorin use. She was surrounded by tens of thousands of Malrags, Malrags that would kill any Elderborn they saw, Malrags that killed any deer or rabbit or wild pig they encountered, simply for the pleasure of it.

Yet she still lived in terror of an Elderborn arrow. Not for herself, but for the baby cradled in her arms. All it would take was one arrow, one stray arrow to sink into Aldane's unprotected flesh. And Elderborn scouting parties raided the more distant Malrag warbands. The scouts brought reports to Ultorin, and Ultorin flew into a rage every time he heard them, killing two or three Malrags before Malavost calmed him down.

Sykhana shivered. Very often Ultorin frightened her more than the Elderborn. There was not much sanity left in Ultorin.

And less that was even still human.

But only a little longer, Malavost told her in his calm voice. They only need Ultorin and his bloodsword a little while longer. Then they would gain the Door of Souls atop the mountain, and Aldane would become a god and live in splendor forevermore.

And she would be his loving mother, forever.

Sykhana wanted that so badly that it hurt.

The sun rose, and she saw Deepforest Keep standing atop its mountain spur, the walls lined with men in mail.

Chapter 24 - The Siege

Mazael stood atop Deepforest Keep's wall, Athaelin, Rhodemar, Gerald, and Lucan at his side, watching the Malrag horde fill the hills below the city. He wore his armor, plate and chain beneath a black Cravenlock surcoat, Lion riding in its scabbard at his hip, a shield slung over his shoulder.

“There's so many of them,” murmured Rhodemar.

Gerald shrugged. “It will merely make it harder for the archers to miss.”

“Are all scouts in?” said Athaelin.

“Aye,” said Mazael. “The last ones came in less than an hour ago. The Elderborn thinned the Malrags' ranks somewhat, along with the attacks of my men.”

“How many are left?” said Athaelin.

“At least a hundred and thirty-five thousand,” said Mazael. “Maybe more. Probably more.”

“The old rule is that every man atop the wall is worth ten below it,” said Athaelin. “And we have three thousand men of the Keep and fifteen hundred Elderborn. Ultorin has three times as many Malrags as he needs to assault us.” He took a deep breath. “What do you suggest, Lord Mazael?”

“Put the Elderborn on the western wall,” said Mazael. “Ultorin will send a strong force up the road to attack the gates. If the Elderborn aim well, perhaps we can keep them from reaching the gate. Keep the spearmen upon the southern wall, with a reserve by the gates and in the Garden of the Temple.”

“Why the southern wall?” said Rhodemar. “The bluffs there are steep.”

“But not steep enough,” said Mazael. “The scouts reported that the Malrags were felling trees. They could construct ladders able to scale the bluffs and the walls. Or raise an earthwork ramp, and roll siege towers up to the wall.”

“And we lack siege engines to counter any the Malrags might construct,” said Gerald.

Mazael grinned. “But we have Ardanna and her druids. They can loose earthquakes, and blasts of ice, and command the roots to rise up and destroy any siege engines the Malrags might employ.”

“And what about the Malrag shamans?” said Gerald. “If they loose a concentrated barrage of those lightning bolts, they might bring down a section of the wall.”

Lucan gave a nasty little laugh. “No, they won't.” He squinted over the battlements. “I wonder, in fact, when one of them will get bold enough to try it. Probably...ah, here we go.”

No sooner had he spoken than a blast of green lightning screamed out of the sky. But even as it did, sigils of ghostly blue-white fire flickered across the stone wall. The lightning bolt slammed into an invisible barrier a dozen yards above their heads and dissolved into sparks. A heartbeat later another bolt thundered down, and this time it ricocheted from the barrier, ripping into the Malrag ranks.

Lucan laughed through the entire thing.

“The wards upon the walls are most potent,” said Lucan. “I doubt even Malavost could send a spell past them. But if the shamans break into the city, they will be able to use their spells unhindered. And both the shamans and Malavost might counter any spells the druids employ against the Malrags.”

“The best we can hope for, I think,” said Mazael, “is that Ardanna and her druids will nullify Malavost and the Malrag shamans. So it will come down to steel, in the end. Man and Elderborn against Malrag.” Mazael shook his head. “Remember, all of you. Our only hope of victory is to kill Ultorin. We must kill him, whatever the price, even at the cost of our own lives.”

The other men nodded. They all might well die before the day was out, Mazael knew. They might die before noon.

At least Romaria was safe from the battle. Though she possibly faced a greater danger.

Then the growling voice rang over the walls.

###

Sykhana gazed at the walls of Deepforest Keep. The city was not as grand as Knightcastle, or as fortified as Castle Cravenlock. Yet the towers and walls stood tall and strong, and men and Elderborn waited atop the battlements, weapons in hand. Deepforest Keep would not yield without a sharp fight.

How would they ever get inside?

One arrow, that was all it would take. One stray arrow sinking into Aldane's flesh, and all of Sykhana's hopes would turn to ashes.

She steered her horse past the looming Ogrags, to where Malavost and Skaloban conferred with Ultorin.

“Our numbers are insufficient!” said Skaloban, head swaying back and forth in alarm. “There are more defenders that we anticipated! And I can sense the gathered power of the Elderborn druids. They are most potent.”

“Our numbers are sufficient,” said Malavost, calm as ever. “Your forget our goal, honored Skaloban. Our goal is not to destroy Deepforest Keep, or build an empire for the Malrags. Our goal is to take the Vessel to the Door of Souls atop Mount Tynagis. True, we may lose nine out of ten Malrags by the time the battle is done. But what of that? The Malrags are expendable tools. Even the Malrags themselves think so – they'll be reborn again in a few decades, after all. And once the Vessel has fulfilled his purpose, once Sepharivaim has been born, we shall have no further need of Malrags.”

“I will,” said Ultorin, “speak to them. Now! I will speak to them now!”

Sykhana looked at the Dominiar knight, trying to hide her fear.

Ultorin's deterioration had accelerated over the last few days. His eyes had turned a sulfurous yellow, stark against his waxy skin. Black veins threaded their way through his hands and temples, and he stank of rotting blood. Strange gnarled tumors of twisted gray flesh bulged from his jaw and forehead. He held his bloodsword constantly now, the blade veiled in swirling darkness, and sometimes he talked to the weapon, muttering in a crooning voice.

Either the bloodsword itself was destroying him, or the sheer amount of Malrag life force had stolen through the blade was corrupting him into a monster. But even as his mind crumbled and his body warped, Ultorin had grown stronger and faster. She had seen him cut through an Elderborn scouting party, butchering a dozen Elderborn in as many heartbeats, laughing all the while.

As soon as Aldane achieved godhood, Sykhana decided, she would kill Ultorin.

“Speak with them, Grand Master?” said Malavost.

“Are you deaf?” bellowed Ultorin. “I will speak with them! Use your magic, wizard. Let them hear me! I will tell them their fates, how they will perish upon my blade. Let them know me and despair!”

“A sound strategy,” said Malavost, and he cast a spell. The air in front of Ultorin rippled, and the wizard nodded. “They can hear you now.”

Ultorin began to speak.

###

Rachel stood in her guest room in the Champion's Tower, staring at the Malrag host.

She had seen the great battle near Castle Cravenlock, watching as the men of the Grim Marches strove against the Malrags. But this was worse. Barely five thousand men defended Deepforest Keep.

Her hands tightened into fists.

Aldane was out there, somewhere, in the middle of those Malrags.

A voice like thunder boomed over the city.

###

Mazael recognized Ultorin's voice at once.

“Men of Deepforest Keep!” boomed the Dominiar knight. “I am Ultorin, Grand Master of the Dominiar Order!”

“A spell,” muttered Lucan. “To amplify his voice.”

“You cannot stop me!” said Ultorin. “I have Malrags and Ogrags beyond count. My shamans will butcher your precious druids. My Ogrags will tear down your walls. My Malrags will swarm through your gates, and butcher your women and children before your eyes, butcher them like hogs! Only then, only after you drown in your tears and choke upon the blood of your families, only then will I permit you the gift of death!”

Silence answered his pronouncement.

“But there is no need for unnecessary suffering,” said Ultorin, his voice almost purring. “Lay down your arms, and depart the city, and I shall slay you quickly and without pain. Your lives are at an end, either way. The only choice left to you is whether you shall die quickly, or whether you shall linger to hear your children scream for mercy.”

“He cannot possibly be serious,” said Rhodemar.

“He's not,” said Mazael. “Ultorin may be human, but he has a Malrag's heart. He's only toying with us. Go outside those walls and he'll torture and butcher you – you'll only have saved him the trouble of breaking through the walls first. But two can play at this game. Lucan! Can you use a spell to magnify our voices?”

“Certainly,” said Lucan, and he gestured and muttered. The air rippled before Athaelin, and Lucan nodded.

Athaelin sprang upon the battlements, sword in hand. “Hear me!” His voice rumbled over the hills and the sides of the mountain like thunder. “I am Athaelin, the Greenshield, Champion of Deepforest Keep and Defender of the Mountain! I see you for what you are, Ultorin of the Dominiar Knights. You are a craven and a weakling, hiding behind your Malrags, relying upon stolen sorcery in lieu of true valor.”

Silence answered his pronouncement.

“You want our lives?” said Athaelin. “Then come, craven! Come and face us! Come and face men with hearts of valor, with spear and sword and bow in hand! The Malrags may be reborn, Ultorin of the Dominiar Knights, but you will not! Come, and we shall send you screaming down to the hell you so richly deserve! Come and face the men of Deepforest Keep!”

A roar answered his pronouncement as the men and Elderborn upon the walls shouted their defiance, shaking their weapons in the air. On and on the cry went, the side of the mountain ringing with it.

It must have enraged Ultorin. And their one hope of victory lay in enraging Ultorin beyond all reason.

“Lucan,” said Mazael.

Lucan nodded, gestured, and the air in front of Mazael rippled.

He sprang up onto the battlements besides Athaelin. “Ultorin!”

His voice thundered over the armies, enhanced by Lucan's magic.

“Do you remember me, Ultorin?” said Mazael. “Do you remember how you brought fire and sword into my lands? Do you remember how you swore vengeance upon me for the destruction of the Dominiar Order?” He drew Lion, and the Malrags were close enough that the sword burst into snarling azure flame. “I am still here, Ultorin! What are you waiting for? I am Mazael, Lord of Castle Cravenlock, and I defy you! Come and die, you coward, you murderer of children, you...”

Ultorin's howl of fury screamed over them like a dark wind.

###

Sykhana backed away as Ultorin raged, lashing about with his bloodsword. The ashes of a half-dozen Malrags lay upon the ground, and even as she watched, Ultorin killed another, the bloody light of his blade burning ever brighter.

“Grand Master,” said Malavost. How did he remain so calm? “We...”

“Kill them!” screamed Ultorin. “Kill them all! Attack!”

And around Sykhana, the Malrag host moved.

###

The Malrags bellowed their war cries, and the combined noise was louder than Mazael’s voice, louder than Ultorin’s, louder than the thunder itself.

“I think,” said Lucan, “you made him angry.”

Mazael nodded.

The Malrag horde surged forward like a black tide, covering the foothills below the city, and still more and more surged out of the Forest. Yet there was organization in the chaos, and Mazael saw the Malrag attack splitting into two groups. One veered to the west, moving towards the road the climbed below the city's walls and led to the gate. The second surged towards the base of the bluff and the southern wall. Mazael wondered what they intended to accomplish, but then he saw the enormous ladders carried by the Ogrags, a hundred feet long, topped by spiked grapnels. They would only need to scramble halfway up the bluff, and let the ladders cover the rest of the way.

The Malrags would take horrendous losses...but Ultorin could afford to spend Malrag blood like water.

“Gerald,” said Mazael, keeping his voice calm. “Go take command of the reserve. If the gates are breached, or if the Malrags make the walls, I'll need you to fill in the gaps. Rhodemar. Take command of the archers on the western wall. Make sure the Malrags don't reach the gates. Also, focus your fire on any Ogrags. They might be strong enough to batter through the gates by themselves.”

Rhodemar nodded and ran off.

“Lucan, Athaelin, stay with me,” said Mazael. “We shall go where we are needed. Lucan. If you see Ultorin, if he's within range of your spells, do not hold back. Hit him with everything you have.”

For some reason, Lucan cast a nervous look at the black staff in his hand, but gave a sharp nod.

Around them, arrows hissed through the air as the Elderborn on the walls began to fire at the Malrags.

###

Sykhana watched the assaults surge towards Deepforest Keep, watched arrows fall from the walls. The Malrags heading up the road changed formation, raising their shields over their heads like overlapping scales. A tortoise formation, she had heard it called. The Elderborn arrows fell upon the tortoise in a storm, and some got through, but most did not.

Bit by bit the tortoise crawled its way up the road, towards the gates.

Ultorin paced back and forth before Sykhana, still snarling and cursing. He had killed his horse in his fury, the beast's withered carcass lying beneath an oak. Now Ultorin stalked through the ranks of the Malrags, gesturing with his bloodsword.

Sykhana held Aldane close...and kept her hand near her poisoned dagger.

“Ah,” said Malavost.

The Ogrags at the base of the bluff moved. Their huge ladders, assembled from the trees of the Great Southern Forest, rose up. Each ladder weighed over a ton, yet the Ogrags' strength lifted them like delicate branches. A dozen ladders crashed against the city's walls, their spiked grapnels digging into the stones.

Hundreds of Malrags surged up the wide ladders, shields raised over their heads to ward off arrows.

###

Mazael cursed as the spiked grapnels dug into the battlements. The huge ladders were hundreds of feet tall, and a dozen wide. The things were enormous, and too heavy to simply push away from the wall.

And hundreds of Malrags scrambled up the ladders, shields raised. From time to time an Elderborn arrow hissed through, sent a Malrag tumbling down the bluff to its death. But there were too many Malrags scrambling up too many ladders.

He risked a glance to the west. The Elderborn fared better there, pouring volleys of murderous arrow fire into the Malrag tortoise. The front ranks disintegrated, and soon dead Malrags paved the road, the survivors trying to protect themselves with their shields.

Another ladder crashed against the battlements, the spiked grapnels digging into the gray stone. Athaelin shouted orders, and the spearmen rushed forward and set themselves, shields raised, spears at the ready.

“Lucan!” said Mazael.

###

Lucan swept a glance over the ladders.

Too many of them. Far too many. If enough Malrags reached the battlements, they could establish a beachhead and pour into the city. If he did not act quickly, Deepforest Keep would find itself overrun.

Fortunately, Lucan had come prepared.

He reached into his coat and withdrew one of the copper tubes that Timothy had made. He removed the cork, tossed it over the wall, and whispered the spell. Magic stirred in response to his summons, and the end of the tube began to glow.

Lucan did not point the tube down, of course. The flames would only erupt upwards, into his face, and he had no wish to burn to death. Instead he tossed the tube over the battlements, watching it bounce of the rungs and Malrag armor.

And then it erupted.

Orange-yellow flames exploded from the copper tube, cloaking a dozen Malrags in snarling flames. The tube spun as it fell, spraying flame in all directions, and soon scores more Malrags and two of the ladders burned. The burning Malrags lost their grips and fell, sending dozens of other tumbling to the ground, while the two burning ladders collapsed in a pile of debris.

Hundreds of Malrags fell with the wreckage.

But ten ladders still leaned against the walls.

He needed more power.

Lucan sent his will in the bloodstaff. He yearned to open himself to it, to let the power fill him with strength and vitality. But he dared not. The druid's blood already marked his hands, and he might spill more innocent blood, if he drew too deeply upon the staff’s Demonsouled might.

Instead he summoned a surge of power, enough to enhance a single spell, even as his body and heart screamed for more, more. Lucan leveled the bloodstaff, pointing at the ladders, and shouted the final phrase of his spell. Invisible force ripped from his staff, crashing into two of the ladders like giant fists. One fell backwards, the Malrags clinging to the ladder roaring as they plummeted to their doom. The second wobbled to the side, falling into another ladder. For a moment both tottered, the Ogrags fighting to keep the ladders upright, but too many Malrags had climbed upon them.

The ladders fell, shedding Malrags as they did so.

A wave of nausea surged through Lucan as the spell’s power drained from him, but he gripped the battlements and stayed upright, preparing another attack.

And even as he did, the roots of trees erupted from the base of the bluff like writing brown serpents, wrapping around the bases of the ladders and tearing them to splinters.

###

Ultorin cursed in fury when the seventh ladder fell to the ground in a rain of splinters.

Sykhana shied away from him.

“How are they doing that?” he said, pointing with the bloodsword. A thin line of drool slithered down his chin. He had begun growing fangs, misshapen spikes of twisted yellow bone.

“Magic, of course,” said Malavost. “The druids are summoning the roots, and…ah. Yes. The Dragon’s Shadow is using his little staff to rip down the ladders.” He grinned, pale eyes flashing. “The little fool. He’s going to regret that. Do you not agree, Grand Master?”

For some reason Malavost smiled, as if at a private joke.

“I don’t care how they’re doing it!” said Ultorin, yellow eyes narrowed. “Stop them! Mazael Cravenlock is in there, and I want his head.”

“As you wish, Grand Master,” said Malavost, unruffled. “If you will but order the shamans to follow my direction.”

Ultorin growled and jerked his head, and a dozen Malrag shamans moved to Malavost’s side, their tattered leather robes rustling. Malavost lifted his hands and began to chant, a cold breezing stirring around him, and the shamans did the same, their growling voices echoing inside Sykhana’s head.

Then Malavost’s fingers blazed with green light, and he thrust out his hands.

###

Lucan staggered.

A pulse of green light washed over Deepforest Keep. For a moment the warding sigils upon the walls crackled in blue-white radiance, and then faded. But the animated roots at the base of the bluff went still, their magic dispelled by the power of the shamans.

No. Not just the shamans. The Malrag shamans had the raw power, but it had been Malavost’s subtle skill that guided the spell.

And still three ladders leaned against the wall.

“Lucan,” said Mazael, Lion a bar of sky-colored flame in his fist.

Lucan gave a shake of his head. “That is the best we can do for now. Malavost will counter anything else we cast at him. And the spell to animate the roots took a great deal of power. It will take the druids a few moments to recover themselves.”

Mazael cursed, looked at the courtyard below the Great Traig, where Ardanna and the druids stood, chanting as they cast spells.

“Then three ladders it is,” said Mazael. “We shall have to fight.”

Athaelin nodded. “Men of Deepforest Keep! Brace yourselves!”

The men shouted and raced to the remaining three ladders, shields raised, spears extended.

“And I,” said Lucan, “will see if I can distract Malavost.”

Mazael nodded and ran to join the spearmen, Athaelin at his right hand.

Lucan opened his mind to the bloodstaff, and the raging power flooded through him. He wanted to lash out around him with his magic, butchering human and Elderborn and Malrag alike. But some part of his mind held control, and instead he loosed the staff's full might at Malavost.

Vaguely, he realized that Aldane Roland might be with Malavost, but he did not care. The death of one infant was a small price to pay to keep Sepharivaim from rising once more.

###

The green light faded, and Sykhana saw the living roots at the base of the bluff go still. Three of the massive ladders remained against the wall, and a steady torrent of Malrags poured up them.

“Well enough for now,” said Malavost, flexing his fingers. “I suggest, Grand Master, that you order more ladders constructed, and…”

His eyes widened.

A flare of blood-colored light blazed atop the walls of Deepforest Keep, and a ribbon of crimson flame leap out, weaving back and forth like a drunken bird.

It was heading right for them.

Malavost moved faster than she had ever seen him move. One moment he stood among the Malrag shamans. The next he stood by the side of her horse, left hand closing about her ankle, his right coming up in a magical gesture.

"What..." began Sykhana.

Malavost barked a spell, and a shimmering globe of blue light surrounded them.

An instant later the ribbon of crimson flame slammed into the globe. There was a deafening roar, and a flash of fiery light. A blast of hot wind washed over them, almost throwing Sykhana from the saddle, sending Malavost's long coat flapping behind him like black wings. She closed her eyes and clung to Aldane, trying to keep from falling to the ground.

Then the light cleared, and Malavost's blue glow vanished.

Sykhana blinked the afterimage from her eyes. Around them, a half-dozen trees burned, reduced to smoldering ruin. A score of Malrags lay scattered on the ground, their armor half-melted, the air heavy with the stench of their scorched flesh. Ultorin stood some distance away, still bellowing at the Malrags. Sykhana doubted that he had even noticed the magical attack.

"Ah," said Malavost at last. "It seems that the Dragon's Shadow can hit harder than I expected." He smiled. "I underestimated him. Though not by very much."

"He almost killed Aldane!" said Sykhana. Some part of her mind realized that Lucan Mandragon had almost killed her as well, but she hardly cared. Aldane was all that mattered. "You promised, wizard! You said Aldane would live forever in power and splendor. He can't do that if the Dragon's Shadow kills him!"

"I told you that Aldane would reach the summit of Mount Tynagis," said Malavost, "and I keep my word. I have not brought Aldane Roland all this way only to see him die within sight of his destiny." His pale blue eyes fixed on her, his white hair stirring in the hot breeze rising from the burned ground. "But do not fear, Sykhana. When the time comes, I shall break Lucan Mandragon as easily a child breaking a twig."

###

The druids' magic and Lucan's spells had destroyed seven of the massive ladders, but three remained, scores of Malrags swarming up each one.

"This is the hour, men of Deepforest Keep!" bellowed Athaelin, bastard sword in his right hand, the ancient Greenshield upon his left arm. "Stand fast and fight! Your wives and children rely upon your arms, your sons and daughters look to you to keep the safe! Fight, and make the Malrags curse the day they ever dared to turn their filthy eyes towards Deepforest Keep!"

Mazael saw terror in the spearmen's eyes, saw the sweat dripping down their faces, but they lifted their spears and cheered the Champion of Deepforest Keep nonetheless. Mazael raised his own shield on his left arm, Lion burning in his fist.

No sooner had he done so then the Malrags leapt over the ladders, howling their dreadful war cries, black axes ready in their hands.

Mazael sprang to meet them, Lion trailing azure fire, and behind him the men of Deepforest Keep shouted and charged into the fray.

###

Rachel gripped the railing in white-knuckled hands, watching the melee rage along the walls. She saw Mazael in the midst of the bloody chaos. No Malrag could stand before his wrath, or against his sword's burning fires. Yet the battle swayed back and forth, and she saw the endless tide of Malrags pushing the spearmen back towards the Champion's Tower.

Towards her refuge.

Rachel grimaced. She was the wife of Sir Gerald Roland, the youngest in a long line of Roland kings, lords, and knights. She would not flee like a frightened peasant girl! And yet, she knew, if the Malrags overran the Champion's Tower, they would kill her. Gerald might have to watch her die.

And if she perished, she would never see Aldane again.

The druids in the circle of oaks below the Great Traig, she decided. She could take refuge there, watch the battle upon the walls.

And she had heard some of the Elderborn. A well in the Garden of the Temple led to the caves, the caverns that climbed to the temple atop Mount Tynagis.

The temple where the San-keth wanted to turn her son into a monster.

If the battle went badly and the Malrags forced their way into the city, Sykhana would take Aldane to the caverns. To the well.

And Rachel would have her chance at last.

She snatched her dagger from the table and ran from the room.

###

Mazael tore his way through the fight, striking down Malrags right and left. His blood thundered through his temples, his heart beating like a war drum. This was a worthy fight, a struggle to defend the people of Deepforest Keep against Ultorin's Malrags, and Mazael let the battle fury rise without fear. As he fought to defend Deepforest Keep, his Demonsouled rage rose under the command of his disciplined mind.

And with it he cut through the Malrags like a scythe.

A Malrag lunged at him with a spear. He caught the point on his shield, shoved the creature back, and lashed out with Lion. The sword ripped open the Malrag’s throat, thick black blood sizzling across Lion’s blade. Two more Malrags came at Mazael, attacking with axes. Mazael sidestepped the first blow and swung his shield, catching the first Malrag across the face, broken fangs and black blood flying from its mouth.

Before the creature could catch its balance, Athaelin was there, his bastard sword a blur. The Malrag fell, slumping against the battlements. The second Malrag slashed its axe at Athaelin, and he interposed his ancient bronze shield. The shield, Mazael realized, must truly be magical – the axe’s black steel did not leave even a scratch on the tarnished bronze.

The Malrag stumbled, giving Mazael the opening he needed to take off its head.

All around him the spearmen of Deepforest Keep struggled against the Malrags, the battlements slick with blood, both crimson and black. Men screamed and killed and died, and the Malrags bellowed their horrible war cries, flinging themselves into the chaos with abandon. A spearman fell, his helm and head cloven by a Malrag axe, only for two other spearmen to run the victorious Malrag through.

The men of Deepforest Keep fought well, as well as Mazael had ever seen men fight. But there were just too many Malrags. If they did not get those damned ladders off the wall, the Malrags would overwhelm the defenders.

“The ladders!” shouted Mazael, killing another Malrag as he did so. Athaelin was at his side, sword whirling. “Drive them to the ladders!”

The spearmen shouted and pressed the attack, fighting over the top of dying and wounded Malrags and men.

Then Lucan appeared next to Mazael, lifting his staff, the runes cut in the black metal burning with sullen light. He made a throwing gesture, and the Malrags nearest the ladder staggered, as if struck by an invisible fist. Again Lucan gestured, and this time a dozen Malrags went flying backwards, tumbling over the walls to fall to their doom.

“Now, my lords!” shouted Lucan, his eyes wide with something like glee. “The ladders!”

###

Lucan saw Mazael and Athaelin race forward, leading the men towards the ladders. Mazael snatched up an axe and began hammering at one side of the ladder. The ladder had been built out of tree trunks, but Mazael dug the axe deeper and deeper into the wood. Besides him two of the spearmen seized Malrag axes and joined in the effort.

Lucan grinned. If he tried to simply destroy the ladders, Malavost could counter his efforts. But here, on the battlements, he was safely behind the ward spells woven into the stones of the walls. Malavost could not touch him here.

For a moment Lucan wanted to lash out with his spells, to destroy every Malrag and human within sight. It would be so very easy to send Mazael tumbling over the wall, screaming to his death…

No. Discipline.

Lucan drew on the bloodstaff’s power, just a little bit of it, and flung a psychokinetic blast into the Malrags. Two of them tumbled over the battlements, falling to their deaths, while the other tumbled back, staggered.

And Mazael and the spearmen cut through the first ladder, breaking it free from the spiked grapnels. For a moment the ladder wobbled, the broken ends scraping against the stone walls. Then it tottered and fell to the side, pulling down hundreds of Malrags with it.

Lucan turned to face the Malrags swarming up the other two ladders, summoning more power for a spell.

###

Sykhana watched another ladder tumble down the bluff, killing hundreds of Malrags in its fall, killing dozens more as jagged wooden debris crashed into the Malrag lines.

She looked at the attack below the western wall, making its way up the road to the gates of the city. It, too, had not gone well. The Elderborn archers manned the western wall in force, and sent an unending rain of arrows into the Malrags. The tortoise formation had first frayed and then disintegrated into chaos. Dead Malrags carpeted the road with torn gray flesh and thick black blood.

“Patience, Grand Master,” said Malavost. He had insisted that Sykhana dismount, and stood besides her, as if to guard her and Aldane from any stray Elderborn arrows.

Or from Ultorin’s rage.

“They are holding!” screamed Ultorin. Between his rage and the strange tumors growing from his jaw, his face looked like an inhuman thing, like some Demonsouled from a jongleur’s song. “They are holding, wizard! Mazael Cravenlock is in there, and my vengeance will not be denied!”

“They have slain, perhaps, a thousand of your Malrags,” said Malavost with his unflappable calm. “Tens of thousands more await your command. For every Malrag the defenders kill, ten more can take its place. Bit by bit, we will wear them down. Then the city, and the Door of Souls, shall be ours.”

Ultorin growled, but did not answer.

The final ladder crashed in ruin at the base of the bluff.

###

Mazael pulled off his helm, wiped the sweat from his brow. All around him the spearmen milled with activity. Some cheered and shouted taunts at the Malrags. Others tended to wounded comrades, or sharpened their weapons. Athaelin strode among them, offering encouragements and praising their valor.

But the battle was far from over.

Mazael looked over the battlements, at the black sea of Malrags filling the foothills.

An Elderborn messenger ran up, breathing hard.

“What news?” said Mazael.

“Rhodemar the Greenshield’s son sends news. The western wall holds,” said the Elderborn. “For now. Some Malrags have reached the gates, but not many, and the tribes shoot them with ease.”

Mazael nodded. “Any sign of Ultorin?”

“None.”

Mazael frowned. “What about any Ogrags?”

“None, either.”

Why was Ultorin holding them back? Each Ograg was worth a score of Malrags in a fight. Mazael doubted that the Elderborn arrows could penetrate the Ogrags’ thick armor, and if enough Ogrags made it past the western wall, they could simply smash the gates and pour into the city.

And Ultorin. They needed to lure Ultorin into the open. Deepforest Keep could not stand against the Malrag storm, not for long. Their only hope of victory was to find Ultorin and kill him.

He had to draw Ultorin out.

“Lucan,” said Mazael.

Lucan stepped forward, leaning on the black staff. He looked terrible, his face pale and waxy, sweat dripping down his forehead. Yet his black eyes glittered, and he looked at the Malrags with something like mad glee.

“Let Ultorin hear me,” said Mazael.

Lucan grinned, nodded, and waved his hand. The air in front of Mazael rippled, and he sprang onto the battlement, holding Lion over his head.

“Ultorin!” he roared, and his voice thundered over the Malrag host. “I’m still here, Ultorin! Is that the best you can do? Fling your wretched creatures against our walls? Are you too unmanned to face me yourself? Or will you hide behind the Malrags and their spells until I come for you?”

###

It took the deaths of a dozen Malrags to calm Ultorin down.

“Mere words, Grand Master,” said Malavost. Sykhana stood behind him, Aldane held against her chest.  “Will you let mere words override your control? Victory is yours, if you will but choose patience…”

“No more,” said Ultorin, his voice calm. Somehow, his calmness was even more terrifying than his rage. “I am going to take Deepforest Keep, wizard. I am going to butcher the men. I am going to rape the women, and then kill their children in front of them. And I will make Mazael Cravenlock scream for mercy, scream as I cut him apart inch by inch.”

“Once we reach the Door of Souls,” said Malavost, “you shall have all the vengeance you desire. And so much more, besides.”

“I care not!” said Ultorin. “I will have Mazael’s head. I will have it now!”

“But…” said Malavost.

“Ogrags!” roared Ultorin. “With me! All of you!” The massive plate-armored forms of the Ogrags gathered, towering over Ultorin and Malavost and Sykhana. “The rest of you, keep building ladders, and throwing them against the southern wall! I will have Deepforest Keep! I will raze it to the ground!”

Another bloodcurdling cheer went up from the Malrags.

“Ultorin!” shouted Malavost.

Ultorin turned, yellow eyes narrowed. “What did you say, wizard? Did you dare speak my name?”

“Forgive me, Grand Master,” said Malavost. “I ask only that you leave me command of a dozen shamans and a thousand Malrags. So I might contribute in your glorious vengeance against Mazael Cravenlock.”

Ultorin snorted. “As you will.” He barked one more command, and then Ogrags followed him.

The rest of the host surged towards Deepforest Keep, a half-dozen newly-built ladders carried forward.

“At last,” hissed Skaloban. “Victory shall be ours.”

“Sykhana,” said Malavost, voice urgent. “We need to act quickly.”

“What?” said Sykhana.

“Ultorin is going to get himself killed, the fool,” said Malavost, “and probably before he can break into Deepforest Keep. If he is slain before we can reach the Door of Souls, all of this will have been for nothing. Give me the Vessel.”

“What?” repeated Sykhana. “Why…”

Before she could react, Malavost plucked Aldane from her arms, cradling the baby in the crook of his elbow. Sykhana almost attacked him, almost plunged her fangs into his neck.

Only the sure and certain knowledge that Malavost’s magic would crush her like an insect kept her in check.

“This is what you shall do,” said Malavost. “Take command of the thousand Malrags and the dozen shamans. There is a secret tunnel that leads into Deepforest Keep, near the large tower in the southern wall. Unleash the Malrags and create as much havoc as you can. The shamans will be useful – once inside the walls, the wards will no longer hinder their spells. Between the chaos inside the walls, Ultorin’s assault upon the gate, and the attack on the southern wall, Deepforest Keep will fall.” His smile returned. “And the Vessel shall be immortal, as I promised you.”

“A secret tunnel?” said Sykhana. “How do you even know about this?”

“Through study." Malavost glanced at the walls. "Deepforest Keep was once a stronghold of the High Elderborn, built to guard their temple atop Mount Tynagis. And the High Elderborn always constructed a hidden tunnel in their strongholds, in case they needed to escape. Deepforest Keep is no exception. I performed a divination while Ultorin was busy posturing, and learned that the tunnel still remains.”

“Why didn’t you tell Ultorin?” said Sykhana.

Malavost’s smile sharpened. “Ultorin…has almost outlived his usefulness to us. We still need him alive, but only for a little while longer. And once we have reached the Door of Souls, we shall have no further use for him at all.” He looked at the battle. “Go, now. The timing for your attack could not be better. The entrance to the caverns is a well in the heart of the city. I will meet you there.”

“Your plan is sound, wizard,” said Skaloban. “Go forth and obey, calibah.”

Sykhana hesitated, staring at Aldane, asleep on Malavost’s arm.

“Do not fear for the Vessel,” said Malavost. “His destiny is almost upon him. And where could he be safer than with me?”

At last Sykhana tore herself away and marched in the direction of the waiting Malrag shamans. It hurt terribly to leave Aldane. But it was for his sake. For his future.

To make him immortal, she would kill every living thing in Deepforest Keep, if necessary.

“Come,” said Sykhana, and the Malrags obeyed.

###

She found the secret entrance in the foothills, just as Malavost promised, and led the Malrags inside. Built of ancient white stone, the tunnel twisted and turned, climbing ever higher, and Sykhana’s calibah eyes let her see in the darkness without trouble.

A pity the forgotten tunnel did not link with the mountain’s caverns - they could have bypassed Deepforest Keep entirely.

At last the tunnel ended in a doorway. Sykhana pushed it open, poisoned daggers in either hand. The door opened into a vaulted stone cellar, crates and barrels stacked against the wall. Dim sunlight filtered through narrow windows.

“Silence,” Sykhana ordered the Malrags. “Do not make any noise until we attack.”

She crossed the cellar, a half-dozen shamans and a score of Malrags following her, and ascended a stone staircase. The cellar’s door opened at the base of a house. From it she had a view of the high tower in the southern wall. Below the tower stood a grove of massive oak trees, surrounding one of those massive white statues of an Elderborn warrior. Elderborn women stood in the ring of statues, brandishing oak staffs.

The druids.

Behind her the cellar filled with Malrags.

“Attack,” said Sykhana.

No sooner had she spoken then green lightning came ripping down from the sky.

###

Rachel hurried down the steps of the Champion’s Tower, and froze.

She saw dark shapes pouring from a house across from the courtyard, black spears and axes in their hands.

###

"Brace yourselves!" said Athaelin lifting his sword. "By the gods of tree and stone, men, we've beat these devils away once before, and we can do so again!"

Eight more ladders moved closer to the base of the bluffs, carried by straining Ogrags. Mazael waited, Lion ready in his hand. If Lucan or the druids tried to knock down the ladders, Malavost and the shamans would counter the spells. But once the Malrags gained the walls, Lucan and the druids could unleash their magic, and Mazael, Athaelin, and the spearmen could destroy the grapnels anchoring the ladders to the walls.

And send the Malrags tumbling to their deaths again...

"Champion!"

An Elderborn messenger raced up to the rampart.

"What is it?" said Athaelin.

"Dozens of Ogrags," said the Elderborn. "Heading up the western road. Our arrows cannot penetrate their armor. And a warrior in black armor leads them, a sword of darkness and flame in his hand."

"Ultorin," said Mazael, hand tightening around Lion's grip. It had worked. They had drawn out Ultorin. Now Mazael only had to kill him...

Green lightning ripped down from the sky, driving into the earth near the Great Traig.

"What?" said Athaelin.

Mazael turned, saw black forms racing through the streets, heard women and children screaming.

The Malrags had gotten inside the city.

Chapter 25 - Ritual of Rulership

Romaria expected to find darkness within the caverns, but instead there was light.

Pale, faint light, but light nonetheless. Patches of moss dotted the walls and ceiling of the caverns, throwing off a pale white glow. It gave the caverns a surreal, ghostly air, as if Romaria had left the world of mortals behind and instead entered the realm of spirits.

Watching the Seer walk before her, the tip of his staff scraping against the floor, Romaria did not think that seemed far wrong.

“The moss,” said Romaria. “What is it?”

“Starglow, the High Elderborn called it,” answered the Seer, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “They bred it with their magic, to provide light in the galleries and vaults below their temples. The High Elderborn have passed from the world, but starglow lingers, here beneath the mountain.”

The tunnel widened into a large chamber, lit by patches of starglow on the ceiling and floor. At one end Romaria saw a broad staircase of white stone, rising out of sight. At the other end yawned another cave entrance, like the jagged mouth of a predator, the tunnel beyond vanishing into darkness.

“The stairs lead to the summit of Mount Tynagis,” said the Seer, “and the ruins of the sacred temple.” He pointed at the darkened entrance. “But you must go there. Through there, you will undergo the Ritual of Rulership, and you must face yourself.”

“What does that even mean?” said Romaria. “What must I do? Climb the mountain? Kill a dozen Malrags? What does that mean, to face myself?”

“You will face your past, your present, and your future,” said the Seer, leaning upon his staff. “It is not too late to turn back.”

Romaria hesitated. For a moment she almost agreed, almost turned and left the cavern. No doubt the Malrags were attacking Deepforest Keep even now, and she should be fighting alongside the others, not sulking through these ancient caves.

But Deepforest Keep would die, if she did not undergo the Ritual.

Mazael would die.

“Let’s get this over with,” said Romaria, and strode towards the entrance.

The tunnel beyond the jagged mouth sloped down, deeper into the mountain’s depths. At first Romaria could see with the faint white glow still coming from the entrance. But even that light faded, and she used her bow as a staff to feel for pits along the floor of the tunnel.

She cursed herself for neglecting to bring a torch or a lantern, and then she saw the faint blue glow coming ahead. She made her way towards it, still feeling the ground with her staff, until the eerie blue glow grew bright enough to illuminate the passageway.

Mist swirled along the floor, curling around her boots.

She felt magical power stirring in the air, like the tension before a storm.

Romaria stepped into another chamber, smaller than the first. A placid pool filled perhaps half of the floor, reflecting the stalactites of the ceiling. The strange blue glow illuminated the chamber, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. A hooded figured stood next to the pool, gazing down into it.

“Who are you?” said Romaria.

The hooded figure turned, and Romaria found herself looking into her mother’s golden eyes.

“Useless abomination,” said Ardanna. “You dare to defile this sacred place with your filth?”

Rage surged through Romaria, and her hands curled into fists.

But fear, as well. Perhaps her mother was right. Perhaps Romaria was indeed an abomination. She would lose control of herself, sooner or later, and become a ravening beast forever. The gods alone knew what she might do then, the innocents she might kill.

“I am ashamed that I ever bore you,” said Ardanna, stalking closer. “I am ashamed that I did not purge my womb of you, as I should have done. I am ashamed that I did not leave you in the Forest to die. And I am ashamed that I let your miserable father bring you back to Deepforest Keep!”

Still Romaria said nothing.

“It would have been better,” hissed Ardanna, “if you had never been born! If I had never laid eyes upon your…”

“Shut up!” said Romaria.

The High Druid flinched as if slapped.

“I’ve known hardship and pain in my life – a lot of it from you – but I would not give it up,” said Romaria. “And I am not an abomination, I have done good things, I have saved people! Those villagers in the Old Kingdom. Ultorin’s Dominiars would have killed them, if I had not stopped him.” Her anger grew, spilling out of her in a torrent. “And I’ve saved more people than that. I’ve fought the San-keth. I’ve fought Malrags! And I saved Mazael from himself!”

“Useless vermin,” said Ardanna, her eyes ablaze with rage. “Every breath you take pollutes the world further. Lie down and die. Lie down and die!”

“No!” said Romaria. “I will not! My life means more than you think, you arrogant and stupid woman.”

Ardanna shrieked in fury, and an obsidian-tipped hunting spear appeared in her hand. She leapt forward, still howling in rage, and thrust the spear at Romaria’s face. But Romaria jumped back, yanking her bastard sword from its shoulder scabbard, and parried. The obsidian spearhead shattered against her steel blade, and Romaria shoved, sent her mother sprawling to the ground.

And Ardanna dissolved into mist, her body blurring into nothingness.

Romaria turned in confusion. There was no sign of Ardanna. Had that really been her mother? No – as much as the High Druid hated her, Ardanna would not abandon the defense of Deepforest Keep. Had it been an illusion, then? A spirit conjured out of the netherworld?

Or an illusion in her own mind?

You will face yourself, the Seer had said.

What did that mean?

The mist swirled past her ankles, eerie in the blue light. Romaria looked up, saw it flowing into another tunnel on the far side of the chamber. She followed the mist, circling around the placid pool, and entered another tunnel.

This tunnel was far narrower, the walls cold and clammy. It grew colder as she walked, until her breath steamed in the air, and she pulled her cloak closer for warmth. She had been in caves before, and they had never been this cold.

She kept her bastard sword raised.

At last the tunnel opened into another chamber. This chamber looked like an amphitheater, with the stone floor sloping down to a sand-covered hollow. The light in here was the color of blood. The same color, Romaria realized with unease, that shone from the sigils upon Lucan Mandragon’s staff of black metal.

A man in black plate armor stood in the center of the chamber, his back to her. It was the same sort of ornate black plate armor worn by the commanders of the Dominiar Order.

“Ultorin!” shouted Romaria, both hands on her sword hilt. "You murderous dog! Turn around face me."

The black-armored man turned to look at her.

It was Mazael.

Not Mazael as she knew him, tall and strong and gray-eyed. This Mazael had eyes the color of burning blood, his face locked in a gleeful, cruel grin. He looked strong and powerful and terrible, a living god of war, a beautiful avatar of destruction.

This was what Mazael would have become, she realized, if he had succumbed to his Demonsouled nature. If he had embraced the darkness within him to become the Destroyer, the Demonsouled prophesied to destroy the kingdoms of men.

"Romaria," said Mazael, his voice deeper and colder than she had ever heard it. "Bow before me and worship me. You are mine, heart and soul."

She felt, for a moment, the overwhelming compulsion to kneel before him, to please him, to let him do whatever he wanted to her. She loved him, heart and soul, and she wanted him...

"No," said Romaria with an effort.

Mazael laughed. "You want this, as much as I do. I am a killer, Romaria. I am the Destroyer! I have embraced my strength, become what I was born to be! Now kneel before me, and give yourself to me. I will be the lord of the earth, and I shall trample empires beneath my feet. And you shall be my queen, and sit at my right hand in power and glory. Kneel!"

The visions flashed before her eyes, each more intense than the last. She had always been drawn to Mazael's strength, had she not? He was a warrior without peer, and a mighty captain of men. How his strength stirred her heart! What would it be like, she wondered, if he embraced his Demonsouled power? How strong he would become! He would become...

She frowned. He would become just like Amalric Galbraith, who had embraced his Demonsouled nature, and butchered innocents across the Old Kingdoms.

"No," repeated Romaria, louder this time.

Mazael's hellish eyes narrowed.

"I don't want the Destroyer," said Romaria. "I want Mazael Cravenlock. I want the man who saved the children from Mitor's thugs in the square of Cravenlock Town. I want the man who spared his sister's life, even if she deserved to die. I want the man who fought like a lion to defend his people and his lands from Ultorin and his Malrags."

For a moment pain flashed over Mazael's face, and the red glare dimmed in his eyes.

"Then die!" he roared, pulling his sword from its scabbard. It was not Lion he held. This sword was red gold, its pommel carved in the shape of a roaring demon.

The sword of the Destroyer.

Mazael leapt at her, snarling in fury, and the Destroyer's sword burst into blazing crimson flames.

Romaria had her bastard sword up to meet his blow, and their blades met and met again a dozen times in as many heartbeats. She circled around him, trying to stay out of his reach. He was stronger than she was, far stronger, but she was faster, and they were evenly matched. Yet his stamina was superhuman, fueled by his Demonsouled nature, and she would tire long before he did.

Still roaring, he brought the burning sword in an overhand chop for her head, and she only just deflected it. She remembered fighting with him in the garden atop Castle Cravenlock, when his Demonsouled rage almost consumed him...

And she remembered how she had defeated him then.

"You saw me die," said Romaria, and Mazael's face tightened in rage. "You saw the Old Demon strike me down." Pain flickered across his expression. "And you saw me lie dead upon the chapel floor, you saw them bury me in the crypt. And you will do the same to me now?"

She stepped back and lowered her sword, leaving herself open.

"Go ahead," she said. "Watch me die again. I won't stop you."

Mazael lifted the sword, his hand trembling. The sword's fires sputtered and dimmed. He stared at her for a long time. The hellish light drained him his eyes.

And at last he fell to his knees with a cry of anguish. The sword of the Destroyer shattered in his hand, crumbling into ash.

And then Mazael vanished, dissolving into the strange mist that swirled through the chamber.

Romaria looked around, but there was no sign of Mazael. Another trick of the caverns' magic, she supposed. Or another illusion in her own mind.

The mist flowed past her, pouring into another tunnel on the far side of the chamber. Romaria shrugged to herself, and followed the mist, bastard sword still in hand. It was obviously magical, and it even seemed like something alive. Was it the defensive magic laid over the walls of Deepforest Keep, she wondered? A spell cast over the caverns? Or something even older, something the High Elderborn had left behind?

For some reason she could see the mist more clearly now. In fact, everything around her looked clearer, as if her eyes could make better use of the cavern's dim light.

Then she entered the third and final chamber, and all such thoughts fled from her mind.

This chamber was huge and domed, the ceiling of rough rock vanishing into darkness high overhead. Halfway across, the floor ended in an enormous yawning chasm, its depths vanishing into darkness. A woman stood gazing into the chasm, a tall, lean woman in leather armor, black hair pulled into a braid, a bastard sword strapped to her back.

Then the woman turned, and Romaria found herself gazing into an exact copy of her face.

The Seer had been right. She would indeed face herself here.

"Who are you?" said Romaria.

The double grinned, white fangs curling over her lips. "I am you." Claws sprouted from her fingers, black fur rising to cover her hands and face. "I am what you will become."

"No," said Romaria. "No. I will fight you to the end."

"Fight as you will," said the double, her voice now a bestial growl. "It does not matter. I am you, and you are me. And I am what you will become in the end, whether you embrace it or not."

The double became a great black wolf with eyes like blue ice and fangs and teeth the color of fresh-fallen snow. The wolf sprang forward, fangs bared, and Romaria leapt to meet it.

She would not succumb. She would fight as long as she had the strength. She would not yield!

They fought through the chamber, one moment teetering near the edge of the chasm, the next against the hard rock walls. The wolf's jaws snapped like a steel trap, its claws slashing like swords. Yet Romaria wielded her bastard sword with skill and power, and blocked or dodged every one of the wolf's attacks, giving her opportunity to launch attacks of her own.

Yet, somehow, no matter what she did, the wolf always anticipated it. No matter what combination of moves she tried, no matter how well she feinted, the wolf always knew what she planned. And the strange understanding went both ways. She knew that the wolf would bite at her a few heartbeats before it happened, and she knew moments before the tried to rake her with its claws.

They whirled through the chamber in their mad dance, neither Romaria nor the wolf able to land a blow upon the other. This battle would go on forever, she realized, with neither of them able to win, two halves struggling against each other for eternity.

Two halves...

She realized the truth then, the truth she had fought against her entire life, a truth she had resisted ever since Ardanna had spat it at her in tones of the deepest contempt.

She stopped, lowering her sword, and the wolf came to a halt.

"I am you," said Romaria.

The Elderborn half of her soul would always be a part of her, no matter how hard she struggled against it.

"And I am you," growled the wolf. "I have always been you."

Romaria closed her eyes, dropped her sword. The clangs echoed off the stone walls.

"Let's get it over with," she whispered.

The wolf tensed, and then sprang upon her.

But it did not knock her over. The wolf flew into her, somehow, sinking into the flesh of her chest. Pain erupted through Romaria, pain beyond anything she had known, and she screamed, falling to her knees.

Blackness fell over her, and the world vanished.

###

After some time, Romaria awoke.

She lay on her side, her flanks heaving, her muzzle resting upon her paws. She blinked, and scrambled to her feet, all four of them. Even as dim as the cavern was, she saw everything clearly, and a amazing symphony of smells filled her wet nose. She felt her fangs resting in her mouth, her claws scrabbling against the cold stone floor, her fur bristling as her panic and fear rose.

She had become the wolf once more. The earth magic in the Elderborn half of her soul had overwhelmed her at last. She had become the beast, and...

Romaria blinked, tongue lolling over her teeth.

She had become the beast...yet she still had control of her own will. She could still think. Before, when the human half of her soul had been trapped inside Mazael, the beast had overwhelmed her entirely, her reason lost to its animal urges.

But not this time. Romaria's mind and will were still her own, even in the flesh of the great black wolf. She felt the instincts of the beast within her, its lust for meat and its fierce eagerness for the hunt. Yet she was still in control.

The beast was part of her...yet it did not dominate her.

Her ears pricked up as she heard the hard tap of wood against stone.

She waited, and the Seer hobbled into the chamber. Her eyes saw the power of the earth magic filling him, as strong and deep as the roots of the mountain. Her ears heard the slow, steady beast of his heart, the rush of the blood in his veins. And her nose smelled the power surrounding him, crackling like the charged air of a thunderstorm.

The Seer looked at her, and smiled.

"So you have faced yourself, and mastered yourself," he said. "Your soul is your own now, and even your flesh will obey you."

Romaria understood, and concentrated. Her flesh flowed and rippled, her muscles reshaping themselves, her bones shifting and moving. In a moment, the transformation was complete, and she stood in her own form, her own body, before the Seer.

Even her clothes and weapons were still with her, no doubt a function of the earth magic in her soul.

A wild urge seized her, and she reached for the power. Again her body changed, and she became the great wolf once more, and still her reason remained with her. She concentrated again, and took her own shape once more.

There were tears in her eyes. For so long, she had feared the day when her Elderborn soul would overwhelm her flesh, transforming her forever into a ravening beast. And now, to have control over the transformation, to move between the different forms at will...

"How?" she said at last.

"You have faced yourself," said the Seer. "Many half-bloods do not. They refuse to acknowledge the truth, or try to fight themselves until it is too late. You did not. You now know the truth. You are both human and Elderborn, and the power of both heritages is yours to command. Now, come. War rages against the walls of Deepforest Keep, and we are needed."

Romaria's elation vanished as she remembered the grim battle outside the city.

She nodded, picked up her sword, and followed the Seer from the caverns.

Chapter 26 - The Rally

Black-armored shapes raced across the courtyard below the Champion's Tower, killing and slaying as screams rose from the houses of Deepforest Keep. Another green lightning bolt ripped down from the sky and exploded somewhere over the city, the thunder rumbling against the walls.

Mazael stared at the chaos, his mind racing. How the devil had the Malrags gotten into the city? Some trick of Malavost's magic? Or had they scaled the walls, unnoticed by the defenders? Or had they come through some hidden tunnel, some secret entrance long-forgotten by both the Elderborn and the men of Deepforest Keep alike?

He could figure it out later. Right now there were bigger problems. Ultorin himself advanced up the road below the western wall, accompanied by a hundred Ogrags, while the Malrags had just launched another attack at the southern wall with their ladders.

Combined with the sudden chaos inside the walls, the city might very well fall.

Unless Mazael took immediate action.

"What do we do?" murmured Athaelin, his voice low so the spearmen would not hear him.

Mazael made up his mind.

"We attack," said Mazael. "Leave half the men here under some captain you trust. We'll take the other half and join with Gerald's reserve." Odds were that Gerald, seeing the danger, had already attacked the Malrags inside the city. "Then we'll find out how the Malrags got into the city and seal off that entrance, wherever it is."

"And then we can take the fight to Ultorin at the gates," said Athaelin.

"Aye," said Mazael. But it would be a very close thing. It would not take the Ogrags long to smash through the gates. If they did not sweep the Malrags from the streets in time, if Ultorin broke through the gates before they could reach him...

Either way, Mazael realized, the battle for the city would be decided in the next hour.

"Athaelin," said Mazael. "Send a runner to Rhodemar. Tell him to shift some of the Elderborn to the northern wall, to slow down the Ogrags until we get there. Lucan!"

Lucan approached, fiery light flickering in the carved sigils of his staff.

"Stay here," said Mazael, "and help the spearmen to throw down the ladders. If the Malrags gain a foothold on the wall we're..."

Lucan stepped forward and thrust out his hand. For a moment Mazael thought Lucan was going to attack him. But then another blast of green lightning tore out of the sky, thundering towards the battlements. Lucan made a twisting motion with his hand, the staff burning ever brighter, and the lightning bolt twisted aside to rip a crater in the street below the wall.

"Good timing," said Mazael.

Lucan nodded, face twitching in something between a grimace and a grin. "I will aid the spearmen on the battlements. No Malrags will gain the walls. You should hasten, my lord."

"Let's go," said Mazael, and he raced down the stairs, Athaelin at his side, the men following.

###

Rachel ran as fast as she could, panting. Three Malrags chased her, howling their terrible war cries, black axes in their hands. She was fit enough, for a noblewoman, but her legs burned and her chest heaved with her frantic breaths.

She had to get away. If the Malrags killed her, if they slew her, she would never see Aldane again...

A narrow alley between two houses of gray stone appeared on her left, and Rachel dodged into it. The alley led to the Garden of the Temple, if she remembered correctly. Gerald and the reserve would be there, and he could keep her safe.

The Malrags followed her into the alley, still howling.

An instant later a bolt of emerald lightning smashed into the roof of the house on her right. The thunder shook the ground, and the shock knocked Rachel onto her hands and knees. Cracks spread through the wall, and Rachel realized that it would collapse.

Onto her.

She threw herself forward, praying that she would see her son again.

The wall fell behind her, its thunder louder than the lightning bolt. Dust billowed through the alley, and Rachel scrambled forward on her hands and knees, coughing. Any moment she expected to feel the massive stones fall upon her, crushing her to pulp.

But the sounds of falling stone faded, and soon she heard nothing but the distant sounds of fighting men and roaring Malrags.

At last she rose to her feet and turned around. Rubble choked the alley, and she saw no sign of the Malrags. No doubt they had been buried in the collapse of the wall. Rachel turned to go, and heard snarls and roars and the tramp of steel-shod boots coming from the other end of the alley.

More Malrags.

She was trapped.

Frantic, Rachel looked at the damaged wall. The rubble formed a ramp to the upper floors of the house, to a place where she could hide. She scrambled up the rubble and ducked into the house's upper floor. Once the room had been a bedchamber, the walls hung with woven tapestries, the table adorned with wooden Elderborn statues. Now the tapestries burned, and heaps of broken stone lay upon the floor. Rachel hurried from the bedchamber, down a narrow hallway, and into another room. She ducked behind the bed, trying to keep quiet.

Noise streamed through the window, and she realized that she had a view of the Garden of the Temple and the stone well at the city's heart. Gerald and the reserve spearmen waited there, and she saw them moving to meet the Malrags.

Rachel swallowed, her heart hammering.

She and Gerald might get to see each other die after all.

###

"For Deepforest Keep!" bellowed Athaelin, racing to meet the Malrag charge.

Lion blazed in Mazael's fist, and he attacked the Malrags besides Athaelin. He dodged, caught a spear thrust on his shield, and twisted to the side, Lion blurring in a sideways slash. A Malrag fell dead, and then another, as Mazael cut his way through them.

Behind him the line of spearmen fought the Malrags, shields raised, spears extended. The Malrags fought viciously, without mercy, without scruple, but the men of Deepforest Keep fought to defend their homes and wives and children, and bit by bit they drove the Malrags back.

Green light snarled and snapped overhead.

###

Lucan stood upon the battlements, struggling with all his might.

The bloodstaff's power thundered through him, filling him with strength, but even it was not enough. There were at least a dozen Malrag shamans in the city, summoning their green lightning, and it took every scrap of the staff's power and Lucan's magic to block their attacks. Lucan yearned to give himself to the staff's rage, to start killing Malrags and humans alike with his wrath, but he dared not. He retained enough sanity to realize that if he stopped casting wards, the Malrag shamans would slaughter the city's defenders.

And if that happened, Lucan would die. Even with all his skill, even with the bloodstaff to augment him, he could not possibly defeat Ultorin, Malavost, the shamans, and a hundred thousand Malrags.

Another lightning bolt thundered down from the sky, and Lucan screamed in exertion as he cast the ward to deflect it.

And still the bloodstaff's power surged through him, seeming to turn his bones and blood to fire.

###

Sykhana cut down a fleeing man with a slash of her poisoned daggers, and then another.

She grimaced, fangs curling over her lips, and looked around for fresh victims. Once, she would have rejoiced in the slaughter. But now she did not care. She only wanted to be reunited with Aldane, with her son, and be his mother as he ascended to godhood. Killing these people was a chore, nothing more.

But if she had to kill everyone in Deepforest Keep with her own hands to make Aldane safe, she would do it.

A noise from a side street caught her attention, and she saw a dark shape duck into a doorway. Sykhana slid into the alley, blood and venom dripping from her daggers and she lifted them. One quick slash, one kiss from her daggers, and another life would end...

She looked into the doorway.

Or two lives.

A woman of no more than twenty huddled in the doorway, weeping, clutching a child in her arms. An infant. No more than six months old. No older than Aldane.

Again Sykhana remembered the dead woman lying in the ruined village's street, the hand of the infant reaching from beneath the corpse.

Sykhana shivered, and for a terrible instant it seemed as if Aldane lay in the terrified woman's arms. Her hands trembled, and she almost dropped the poisoned daggers.

The young woman stared at her, red-eyed, waiting for the blow.

Sykhana turned and fled.

###

Romaria marveled as she followed the Seer through the caverns.

Her senses had become so much sharper. She heard the rustle of the Seer's cloak, the faint drip of water in the caverns. She smelled the oil upon the blade of her sword, the leather of her boots, the acrid smell of the starglow moss. And her vision had changed, as well. Even in the dim glow of the moss, she saw clearly.

And she saw the magical power, as well.

She could see the concentration of magical force in the Seer, earth magic ancient and strong. She saw the spells laid over the caverns, the work of the High Elderborn. And she saw the faint whispers of magic echoing over the entire mountain, the outer edges of a great vortex of power that waited atop the mountain.

The ruined temple, and the Door of Souls that Malavost and the San-keth wanted so badly.

Romaria now shared the senses that belonged to the beast. But that did not trouble her. All of her life, she had regarded the beast as an enemy, something she to overcome and defeat. But the beast was part of her. She was the beast, and the beast was her.

And at last, she was at peace with herself.

Daylight shone ahead, and she followed the Seer up the stone stairs of the well.

And then the Seer stopped.

Romaria heard the sounds of battle, the cries of men and the howls of Malrags.

She shoved past the Seer.

The first thing she saw was the light of the traigs.

A half-dozen traigs stood around the stone well, images of ancient Elderborn warriors wrought in white stone. She saw magical power within them, far older and far stronger than even the Seer's power, akin to the spells laid over the caverns. All her life she had believed the traigs to be nothing more than statues, but somehow they were linked to the power of the caverns.

The second thing she saw was a troop of spearmen, led by Gerald Roland, charging to attack a band of Malrags.

###

Mazael struck left and right, killing more Malrags.

Dead and dying Malrags and men covered the street. Ardanna and the druids had entered the fray, unleashing their powers. Giant shards of ice appeared in the air, driven by freezing winds to pierce Malrag flesh. Great fists of stone, supple as living flesh, rose from the earth to crush Malrags, or flocks of ravens plunged from the sky, ripping and tearing. Step by bloody step, they drove the Malrags down the city's central street, towards the Garden of the Temple.

The shout of men rose over the clamor, and Mazael saw Gerald and the reserve rushing into the fray.

Yet more Malrags poured into the streets, more and more, and green lighting still snarled and crackled overhead.

And to the north he saw the Elderborn archers upon the wall, and heard the roar as the Ogrags attacked the gate.

###

Lucan dropped to one knee, exhausted, the bloodstaff a pillar of flame in his hand.

Its power surged through him like a storm of burning rain. Yet even that power was not enough to beat back the concerted attack of a dozen Malrag shamans. Lucan knew he needed to launch an attack of his own, to strike down the shamans before they killed him. Yet it took very scrap of his strength to stave off their lightning bolts, and he had no power left to counterattack.

He warded aside another lightning bolt, black spots swimming through his vision.

###

"No," said the Seer, lifting his staff.

Romaria saw the currents of magical power surrounding the Seer blaze with sudden strength, like a river exploding in a flash flood. A dozen Malrag shamans stood in the Garden of the Temple, and as one they turned to face the Seer, sparks of green light crackling and snarling around their fingers.

The Malrags began the spell to summon lighting, and she shouted a warning.

And as she did, the Seer unleashed his wrath.

Emerald lightning fell from the skies, and the Seer made a hooking motion with his free hand. White mist swirled, and a shield of ice five feet thick appeared over their heads. The lightning smashed into the ice, blasting it to a thousand glittering shards. The Seer thrust his staff, and the storm of razor-edged shards hurtled towards the Malrags. The shamans summoned wards, surrounding themselves in shields of shimmering green light, but the spray of jagged ice ripped two of the shamans to bloody shreds.

Again the shamans began to cast, and the Seer slammed the tip of his staff into the ground. The earth heaved and bucked, knocking the shamans over and disrupting their spells. The currents of magical power surrounding the Seer brightened even further, and giant hands of earth and stone rose from the ground, reaching for the Malrags. One of the hands closed about a shaman, and the creature exploded like an insect crushed beneath a boot. Another Malrag turned to run, and twisting roots erupted from the ground, curling around the creature, and ripped off its arms and head.

In the space of thirty heartbeats, the Seer slaughtered all twelve of the Malrag shamans. Romaria had never seen such a display of magical prowess. Not from her mother, not from any of the wizards she had met from her travels, not from the San-keth, not from Lucan Mandragon.

But from what Mazael had said, Malavost might have that kind of power.

The Seer grunted and limped forward, leaning on his staff, and looked around.

"Go," he bade her. "Our men are fighting valiantly, but Ultorin himself is coming to the gate. If we do not first secure the city, he will overwhelm us easily.

Romaria nodded, shifted into wolf form, and raced from the Garden.

###

Lucan blinked, sweat pouring off his face.

One moment the shamans had been pounding on his collapsing wards. Then he felt a vast surge of earth magic from the heart of the city, and the green lightning simply...stopped. Someone had destroyed the shamans. The druids? No, they hadn't commanded that level of power. The Seer, most likely.

Which meant that Lucan was now free to turn his powers against the rest of the Malrags.

He reduced the amount of power surging from the bloodstaff, and the fiery sigils dimmed. Nausea twisted his stomach, and his head swam, but his mind was clearer. He dared not release the power entirely. He had drawn too much Demonsouled power through the staff, and if he released it now, he would collapse.

Behind him one of the massive ladders thumped against the battlements. A dozen Malrags scrambled over, and Lucan blasted them from the ramparts with a burst of psychokinetic force.

The spearmen fell upon the ladder's grapnels, axes rising and falling.

###

Mazael killed another Malrag. Black blood caked his surcoat, and Lion's blade smoldered and sizzled with it. He had lost count of how many of the creatures had fallen to his sword.

Ardanna and the druids had found the tunnel, the secret entrance in the city, and used their powers to seal it, ripping down the house and burying its cellar. Now Mazael, Athaelin, and the spearmen drove the Malrags back, step by bloody step, until the battle raged in the Garden of the Temple at the city's heart.

Then a howl rang out, so fierce and terrible that even the Malrags froze for a moment.

A black wolf the size of a small horse, her eyes like blazing chunks of sapphire, raced from around one of the massive oak trees. The wolf moved fast, a gale of black fur and flashing white fangs and claws, hamstringing three Malrags as she ran past them.

Mazael stared at the beast, horrified.

Romaria. She had lost control of herself. Whatever test she had faced in the Ritual of Rulership, she had failed it. Now the beast had taken control of her, and she was lost to him...

Even as the pain ripped through his mind, the great black wolf blurred and changed, and became Romaria once more, bastard sword in hand. She cut down a Malrag from behind, took the hand from another, and gutted still a third in a vicious sideways cut.

A half-dozen Malrags turned to face her, and Romaria shimmered into the great black wolf once more. Her jaws ripped open a Malrag throat, black blood spraying into the ground. Her claws hamstrung another, and she tore her way free of them, snapping and snarling.

Then she blurred again, and returned to her own form.

Somehow, Romaria had gained control of herself, subdued the Elderborn half of her soul. No - she had merged with it, become one with it, and was now even more capable of a fighter than before.

"Fight!" roared Mazael, cutting down another Malrag. "Drive these monsters back!"

The men of Deepforest Keep bellowed in answer, and the druids called down shards of ice.

###

Sykhana ducked behind a tree, breathing hard, her hands still trembling.

Her emotions had become a snarled tangle of grief and fear. Why hadn't she killed that woman and her child? They were nothing to her, only obstacles to sweep from her path, only human...

Human was Aldane was human.

Again she thought of the dead child in the burned village.

She shoved her poisoned daggers into their sheaths and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to calm herself. She should have killed both the woman and her child. But the thought of losing Aldane, of seeing him die, was horrible beyond anything she could imagine.

Even thinking about it was like a dagger buried in her chest.

She stilled her shaking hands and took a deep breath. The battle still raged nearby. The druids might have collapsed the tunnel, but that didn't matter. Ultorin had tens of thousands of Malrags left. Sooner or later he would break through the walls and destroy Deepforest Keep.

She need only hide herself until that happened, until Malavost entered the city. Then they would take Aldane to the Door of Souls, and he would live in splendor forevermore.

Sykhana concealed herself in some bushes and settled down to wait.

###

Between the spearmen, the Seer's spells, and Romaria's fury, they cleared the Garden of the Temple of Malrags in short order.

Mazael stopped at the edge of the stone well, breathing hard, Lion burning in his fist. Dead Malrags lay everywhere, hundreds of them. He was sure that some had escaped, had concealed themselves in the lightning-damaged buildings and the cellars.

But right now they had to deal with Ultorin.

He heard the roaring from the northern wall and the gate.

Romaria approached him, followed by the Seer.

"Romaria," said Mazael, and he pulled her to him. "Gods...you're, you're..."

"Alive?" suggested Romaria.

"Yes," said Mazael. "And the beast. It's...you're in control of it?"

She smiled. "I am the beast. It is part of me. I never understood that before, but I do now."

Mazael did not understand, but he nodded. Right now, more urgent problems demanded their attention.

Athaelin hurried over, followed by Gerald, his silver armor splattered with Malrag blood, and Lucan, leaning hard upon his staff.

"We hold the city, for now," said Athaelin, cleaning Malrag blood from the blade of his bastard sword.

"The spearmen destroyed the ladders on the southern wall," said Lucan. He looked exhausted, and the sigils upon his staff sputtered and flickered with sullen light. Romaria gave him a hard look, her hand twitching towards her sword. "The Malrags are building more, but it will take at least another hour, I think."

"And the Ogrags are at the gate," said Gerald. "Rhodemar sent a messenger. They are holding, for now, but not for much longer. The Elderborn archers are skilled enough to hit the gaps in the Ogrags' armor, and they've managed to keep the Ogrags away from the gate." He shook his head. "But sooner or later the enemy will charge the gate in enough numbers to break through."

"Is Ultorin with them?" said Mazael.

"Aye," said Gerald. "The messenger said he's stayed out of arrow range, so far."

Mazael made a fist. "Then this is our chance to finish this. Gerald! Send one of your men to Rhodemar. Tell him to send every Elderborn from the Tribe of the Bear to the gate."

Romaria gave him a sharp look, and then she grinned. The Seer gave him a grave nod.

"Why the Tribe of the Bear?" said Gerald.

"Because," said Mazael. "We can't cut through a hundred Ogrags on our own. But the Elderborn have a secret that will help us."

"What's that?" said Gerald.

"They're in harmony with themselves," said Mazael.

"You have a plan?" said Athaelin.

"Aye," said Mazael. "We're going to open the gate, go out there, and kill Ultorin."

Gerald snorted. "Simplicity itself. What could go wrong?"

"I shall remain here," said the Seer, "and guard the entrance to the caverns. The San-keth may try to slip into the city with the child, while you are distracted with the battle. The death of Ultorin would mean nothing, if the San-keth can open the Door of Souls and return Sepharivaim to the flesh."

"If you see my son," said Gerald, "will you..."

"Fear not, Gerald son of Malden," said the Seer. "If it is in my power to save your son from the San-keth and Malavost, then I shall do so."

"Let's finish this," said Mazael.

He ran for the gates, Romaria, Athaelin, Gerald, and Lucan following after him. Lucan stumbled as he ran, sweat dripping from his face, his dark eyes feverish and bright. The staff in his hand flickered with blood-colored light.

"Perhaps you should rest," Mazael told him.

Lucan gave a sharp shake of his head. "No. I will see this through to the end. A little more, and I can rest, I can...I can be rid of some things."

Mazael started to ask what that meant, and then they reached the plaza below the gates. Hundreds of Elderborn archers stood upon the battlements, loosing endless volleys of arrows over the walls. The ear-splitting roars of the Ogrags rose over the twang of the bows. About a hundred and fifty Elderborn, all clad in cloaks fashioned from bearskins, waited before the gates.

The Tribe of the Bear.

Mazael stopped before them.

"I know," he said, "that you like to keep the truth of your natures secret from humans, to keep your people safe from those who would seek power at any cost. But there is a greater threat outside the walls now. Our only chance to save your people has come, if we can kill Ultorin. Will you aid me?"

The ardmorgan of the Tribe of the Bear, a tall Elderborn man with a gaunt face and bright golden eyes, stared at Mazael for a long moment.

Then he nodded, and the Tribe of the Bear changed.

One moment they were Elderborn men and women. In the next they were bears, huge bears thrice the size of oxen, with claws like swords and coats of brown fur thicker than armor.

Bears that might prove a match for the Ogrags in hand-to-hand combat.

"The gods have mercy," said Gerald, stunned.

Mazael looked at the battlements, saw Rhodemar staring down at him, bow in hand.

"Open the gates!" shouted Mazael.

Rhodemar nodded and gave the order.

Spearmen hurried forward, pulling on chains, and the massive gates swung open with a groan.

Mazael strode out to face Ultorin.

Chapter 27 - The Sortie

Deepforest Keep occupied most of its mountain spur, but perhaps fifty acres of level, open ground lay between the city's gates and the rising flank of the mountain, dotted with worn boulders. North of the gates the slopes of Mount Tynagis rose sharply, crowned with the white ruins of the High Elderborn temple.

Ogrags and Malrags filled the ground below the gates of Deepforest Keep.

Four Ogrags lay dead beneath the walls, the gaps in their black armor bristling with Elderborn arrows. The rest of the Ogrags stayed out of bowshot, snarling and howling.

Mazael saw no sign of Ultorin.

He lifted Lion, the sword’s azure flame blazing brighter, and walked to face the Ogrags.

The Ogrags stared at him for a moment, as if astonished that he would dare to approach them. Behind him walked Gerald and Athaelin, swords ready, and Romaria, her bow in hand.

Mazael stopped.

The Ogrags stared for a moment longer, and then sprang forward with a roar, the ground thundering beneath their feet.

###

Lucan dragged himself to the ramparts over the gate, leaning on his metal staff.

The Elderborn glanced at him, but made no comment. Rhodemar walked over, bow in hand, his eyes remaining on his father and sister.

“Will you aid us, wizard?” said Rhodemar.

“Not directly,” said Lucan. “I am almost exhausted. When I see Ultorin, I will strike him with everything I have left.”

Hopefully it would be enough.

The Ogrags roared and charged for the opened gate.

###

The Ogrags looked like an advancing wall of black steel, or perhaps an avalanche tumbling down the side of Mount Tynagis.

Romaria set an arrow to her bow and drew back the string. To her enhanced vision, Mazael’s burning sword looked like a weapon forged from light. And to her surprise, the ancient bronze shield upon her father’s arm and the diadem on his brow likewise glowed with magical power. The same kind of power she had seen in the caverns, and burning in the hearts of the traigs.

Then the Ogrags were within range, and she had no more time for contemplation.

Romaria released her arrow. The steel-pointed shaft sped forward and buried itself in an Ograg's eye. The Ograg stumbled with a bellow of rage, lifting a deformed hand to its hideous face.

The rest came on.

“Now!” shouted Mazael, and ran to meet them.

###

Mazael sprinted for the Ogrags, Romaria, Athaelin, and Gerald following. The Ogrags showed no fear, no hesitation. And why should they? The gates to the city were open, and only four humans stood between them and Deepforest Keep.

Then the Tribe of the Bear surged through the gates, their enraged roars even louder than the Ogrags’ terrible battle cries. The huge bears surged past Mazael and the others, moving with terrific speed, and leapt upon the Ogrags. The Ogrags were taller, but the bears were larger, with greater muscle mass, and flung the Ogrags to the ground, ripping into the knotted gray flesh with fang and claw.

Mazael raced into the chaos. He barely came to the Ogrags’s bellies, but the enraged Tribe of the Bear held the creatures’ undivided attention. An Ograg lifted its spiked mace in a two-handed blow, and Mazael thrust, arm extended over his head. Lion’s blazing blade plunged a foot into the Ograg’s unarmored armpit, and the creature bellowed in fury.

It turned to face Mazael, distracted…and one of the shapechanged Elderborn slammed into its side, ripping the Ograg to shreds. He risked a quick look around, and saw that the bears were winning. The Ogrags were strong, but the Tribe of the Bear was stronger. And the Elderborn archers upon the wall continued their accurate barrages, sending volleys of missiles into the gaps of Ograg armor whenever an opening presented itself.

Mazael scrambled atop the chest of a dead Ograg and lifted Lion over his head.

“Ultorin!” he bellowed. “Come and face me, you dog! Come and die!”

A roar of fury answered him, and bloody light flashed through the ranks of the Ogrags.

###

Lucan felt Ultorin’s approach, sensed the vortex of corrupted power surrounding the former Dominiar knight. No doubt Ultorin had used so much of the bloodsword's Demonsouled power, had stolen the life force so many Malrags, that it had…changed him. Made him into something less than human.

Something less than human, and much more dangerous.

The same fate might yet await Lucan. He felt the bloodstaff throb in his hand,  reacting to the power of Ultorin’s bloodsword. Lucan might resist for much, much longer, but in the end, the bloodstaff would transform him the way the bloodsword had transformed Ultorin.

It had already begun.

But it didn’t matter. Once Ultorin was dead and the Malrags defeated, Lucan would destroy the bloodstaff. Its great power carried too many risks, caused too much damage to his mind. He would lose control again, kill more innocents as he had killed that druid in the Great Southern Forest. And the staff would change him as it had changed Ultorin.

One last time.

Lucan lifted the staff, let the maddening power flood through him, and prepared to unleash destruction upon Ultorin.

Only to find his magic blocked.

He frowned, probing the barrier. The Malrag shamans’ spells could not pass the warded walls of Deepforest Keep. The shamans must have raised a similar ward around the battlefield north of the gates, a ward strong and potent. But to raise a ward like that, dozens of shamans would have to work together…

“Sir!”

A spearman ran up to Rhodemar. “Thousands of Malrags advance up the western road! The archers cannot kill them all! Every Malrag outside the walls is making for the western road and the gates!”

Ultorin had summoned aid.

###

The battle stopped. The Ogrags wrenched away, stepping back from the great bears. The Tribe of the Bear halted, still snarling. Between them lay the bodies of slain Ogrags and slain bears, their corpses slowly shrinking back into Elderborn form.

The sudden silence was shocking.

The Ogrags parted, and Ultorin came forward.

Or, rather, the thing that had once been Ultorin.

His features remained recognizable. But the Dominiar knight had grown, and now stood nine feet tall, the bloodsword wreathed in flame and darkness in his right hand. His skin had turned the cold, pallid gray of Malrag flesh, and a maze of pulsing black veins covered his face. His arms and legs and chest bugled with huge, misshapen muscles. His ornate black plate armor no longer fit him, so he had augmented it with Malrag chain mail and plate, making him look like a half-melted statue of black steel.

His eyes had turned yellow, like liquid sulfur.

“Mazael Cravenlock!” roared Ultorin, his voice distorted. His teeth had become yellowed fangs, jagged and broken.

In one smooth motion, Romaria raised her bow and fired.

Her arrow buried itself in Ultorin’s throat. Her second arrow landed next to the second, and the third plunged into his left eye. Ultorin showed no sign of pain, no sign of annoyance. He reached to his face with a clawed hand and ripped free the arrows one by one. Black blood, smoking and sizzling, splashed across his gray flesh, and the wounds vanished in short order.

It seemed Ultorin had absorbed enough stolen life force that he could heal wounds quickly.

Romaria lowered her bow.

“I remember you,” said Ultorin. “The little brigand from the hills of the Old Kingdoms.” He laughed, high and wild. “Today I shall have my vengeance upon you as well.”

“No,” said Romaria. “Today you shall pay for your crimes.”

“For the fire and sword you brought to Deepforest Keep,” said Athaelin.

“For turning my son over the San-keth,” said Gerald.

“For the murder and bloodshed you brought to the Grim Marches,” said Mazael.

“I shall pay?” said Ultorin, still laughing. “You shall pay, Lord Mazael!” He pointed the bloodsword at Mazael. “You slew Amalric Galbraith, the noblest man who ever lived! He would have remade the world, fashioned it into a paradise of order! Instead, you slew him. But he forged this sword in his own blood, and with it I shall kill you!”

“Amalric Galbraith was a monster and a murderer,” said Mazael, “and his blood has made you into something even worse. He was Demonsouled – it was his nature to kill, even if he was too weak to defy his own blood. But you…you are nothing, a leech gorged on stolen power. I slew Amalric Galbraith with my own hands, and I will kill you too.”

Ultorin's misshapen nostrils flared, and his eyes crackled with rage. "Aye? You shall? Is the brigand your woman, my lord Mazael? Maybe I'll kill her in front of you first. Or I'll slay you first, and cut your carcass to pieces and make her eat them, one by one." His eyes shifted to Gerald. "And the San-keth bitch's screaming brat is yours? Ha! I'll kill the brat in front of you, I'll bite off his head and lick up his blood."

"Like a rabid dog," said Gerald, voice colder than Mazael had ever heard it before. "And like a rabid dog, I will put you down."

Ultorin's yellow eyes widened, until they seemed like pits of yellow flame in his face. "Kill them! Kill them! All of you, kill them!"

The Ogrags howled and surged forward, and the great bears bellowed and charged to the battle. Ultorin came at Mazael in a run, bloodsword whirling over his head. And as he did, Mazael heard Malrag war cries coming from the road below the city's western wall.

Ultorin had summoned reinforcements.

###

Lucan cursed as he saw the black tide of Malrags swarm up the road. The Elderborn remaining on the western wall poured arrows in the horde, but there were simply too many Malrags. They reached the flat ground before the gate, racing to join the colossal melee between the Ogrags and the Tribe of the Bear. And the shape-changed Elderborn were struggling to hold their own against the Ogrags.

If Mazael did not kill Ultorin soon, they would lose. It was as simple as that.

Lucan ground his teeth in frustration, slamming his staff against the ramparts. If only he could unleash his powers to aid Mazael! If...

He heard footsteps, and saw the druids crowding onto the ramparts behind the Elderborn archers, who loosed a steady stream of arrows at any Ograg that came within range. Ardanna stood at the druids' head, her golden eyes fixed upon Lucan.

"Tainted one," said the High Druid, and Lucan felt a frisson of fear. How much did she know about him? About the bloodstaff? Even with the staff's power, he could not hope to fight off the combined power of the Keep's druids.

Especially if the Seer took a hand.

"The hour of victory or defeat is at hand," said Ardanna. "We must throw our efforts into the battle. Even your power, corrupted as it is, cannot be turned away. Lend us your aid to break the shamans' wards, and we shall loose our power at Ultorin himself."

Lucan nodded. The druids began to cast spells, blue-white light shining around their staffs, and Lucan joined with a spell of his own.

###

Chaos reigned below the walls of Deepforest Keep, as the Tribe of the Bear struggled against the Ogrags, and sheets of arrows fell from the walls, landing with uncanny accuracy among the gray-skinned giants.

But Mazael saw nothing but Ultorin's bloodsword.

They met in the midst of the chaos, Lion's azure flame straining against the bloodsword's dark glow. Ultorin had grown hideously strong and terribly fast, his sword a storm of darkness and flame. But Mazael met him blow for blow, meeting and blocking his attacks and launching one of his own. Ultorin twisted aside, but not before Lion’s cut a smoking line upon the gray flesh of his jaw. Mazael swept Lion sideways, hoping to reach Ultorin’s throat, and but his foe leapt out of reach, snarling all the while.

The smoking line upon Ultorin’s law faded…but not quickly, not nearly as quickly as the wounds from Romaria’s arrows. Lion’s power wounded things of dark magic, and Ultorin had abandoned his humanity to become a creature of Demonsouled power.

Lion could kill him.

Ultorin glared, eyes narrowed to yellow slits, and then raced forward with a roar, the bloodsword flying. The sheer fury of his attack drove Mazael back, Lion flashing up and down to beat aside Ultorin’s blows. Ultorin’s bloodsword ripped across his side, the magical blade parting plate mail like cloth. It did not reach his skin, but the blow still threw Mazael off balance.

Ultorin surged forward for the kill, and then an arrow plunged into his side, and then another, the force of the impacts knocking him to the side. Mazael recovered his balance, and saw Romaria standing twenty paces away, her bow in hand, Gerald keeping watch over her with his shield and sword. Even as Mazael saw her, she fired two more arrows into Ultorin’s side in quick succession. Both impacts staggered Ultorin, and Mazael attacked, all his strength and weight behind Lion’s blade. Ultorin twisted aside at the last moment, but Lion opened a vicious gash across his shoulder.

Ultorin snarled and stumbled out of reach, black blood smoking and sizzling against his armor.

But Romaria gave him no chance to recover, and sent another arrow plunging into his side. Her arrows could not kill him, could not even hurt him very much. But every hit from her powerful bow staggered him, gave Mazael a chance to carve another wound in Ultorin’s flank.

He stabbed, his sword slipping past Ultorin’s guard to open a smoking gash across his hip. Then Athaelin was at Mazael’s side, his bastard sword blurring. Ultorin chopped at Athaelin, bloodsword in both hands, but the ancient Greenshield absorbed the blow without even a scratch. Mazael seized the moment and opened another wound across Ultorin’s right forearm.

Ultorin staggered back, bloodsword raised in guard, a hint of fear on his misshapen face.

###

Romaria fired again, and again, shooting another arrow into Ultorin every time the opportunity presented itself.

To her enhanced vision, Ultorin has become a thing of nightmares, his misshapen limbs filled with the stolen lives of slain Malrags, his tattered soul burning in the stolen Demonsouled power of his bloodsword. He looked like a creature of darkness and filth.

Much the way Lucan Mandragon was beginning to look to her sight.

But the blazing light in Lion’s blade drove back the darkness, made the shadows within Ultorin shrivel and die. And Ultorin was weakening. He could heal the wounds from her arrows, but not the gashes Lion carved in his gray flesh. Already she saw the darkness within him starting to flickering, shattered by the magic of Mazael's sword.

They were winning.

Romaria felt a surge of exultation and sent another arrow into Ultorin.

Then she saw the black tide of Malrags storming up from the road, spears and axes in hand.

###

“Aid me!” screamed Ultorin, stumbling back another step. “Aid me, now, I command it!”

The nearest Ograg shuddered, its enormous white eyes blinking.

And then, as one, every Ograg upon the field turned to look at Mazael.

He raced forward, hoping to catch Ultorin, but the Ogrags were faster. Mazael twisted, ducking under the blow of a massive spiked mace, and stabbed with Lion. The blade bit into the towering creature's knees, and the Ograg fell with a bellow, snarling and roaring. Mazael ripped Lion across the Ograg's throat and wheeled, seeking for Ultorin.

Ultorin raised his bloodsword and stabbed into the back of the nearest Ograg, burying the weapon to its hilt. Fiery light devoured the Ograg, crumbling the massive creature into ash and bones. Ultorin screamed in ecstasy and agony, his wounds vanishing in a surge of stolen life energy. Then he stepped back, laughing wildly, another pair of Ogrags racing past him.

Mazael hamstrung one and dodged past another. He looked around for the Tribe of the Bear, hoping the shapechanged Elderborn could hold back the Ogrags. But the Tribe of the Bear was losing. Mazael saw a dozen of them lying slain across the rocky ground, while the survivors faced two or even three Ogrags at a time. And more and more Malrags appeared, swarming the great bears. One of the shapechanged Elderborn could face a dozen Malrags at once. But hundreds, thousands of Malrags streamed up the road, despite the unending arrow fire from the walls. The sheer press of Ogrags and Malrags would drive the Tribe of the Bear back, perhaps even force through the gates.

Ultorin, it seemed, had kept at least a part of his wits.

Time to fall back. With the druids' aid, they could hold the walls, and goad Ultorin into making another mistake. He had exposed himself to danger once - if he became angry enough, he would do so again...

Athaelin grabbed Mazael's arm. "After him!"

"We have to fall back," said Mazael, "before..."

"No!" said Athaelin. "This is our chance to end this, to save my people! Now, kill him, before it's too late!"

Before Mazael could answer, Athaelin sprinted forward. In the space of two heartbeats he had killed one Malrag and sent another one sprawling to the ground with a blow from the Greenshield.

Mazael cursed and ran after him, Lion blazing brighter as he drew closer to Ultorin.

###

Lucan shuddered, panting for breath.

The Malrag shamans were too strong. Ardanna and the druids, even with Lucan's aid, had only managed to open small holes in the shamans' wards, not even enough to...

"High Druid!" said one of the Elderborn druids. "The Greenshield!"

She pointed, and Lucan saw Athaelin Greenshield fling himself into the Malrag ranks, hacking left and right, in pursuit of Ultorin. Mazael followed, Lion burning like a brand, while Romaria and Sir Gerald followed.

Ardanna hissed through her teeth. "The fool man! If he falls, we are lost! Aid him, now! Cast whatever spells you can muster through the Malrag wards!"

Lucan drew on the bloodstaff’s power, letting the raging strength of Demonsouled magic flood through his veins. For a wild moment he wanted to blast Ardanna right over the wall, to butcher the druids and the Elderborn and the spearmen of Deepforest Keep where they stood.

But he mastered himself, and flung the most powerful spell he could manage.

###

“Father!” shouted Romaria.

For a moment Mazael thought they were finished. The Malrags closed tight around them, a half-dozen Ogrags following. Athaelin hacked and slashed through them in a whirl of masterful swordplay, the Greenshield turning aside their thrusts and swings, but more and more Malrags appeared to replace those he slew. Mazael tried to cut his way to Athaelin’s side, but there were simply too many Malrags.

Once the Ogrags closed, it was over.

Then green light flashed, and the ground erupted.

Giant hands of stone erupted from the earth, reaching up to crush both Malrags and Ogrags in their implacable grip. Swirls of white mist hardened into knives of glittering ice, ripping Malrag flesh into shredded pulp. A ribbon of blood-colored fire screamed from the walls of Deepforest Keep and scythed through the enemy, cutting a score of Malrags and a half-dozen of Ogrags in half. The barrage of spells killed hundreds of Malrags in the space of a few heartbeats.

And the path was open to Ultorin.

Athaelin charged Ultorin with a yell, his bastard sword flying. Ultorin growled, tried to attack, but found himself driven back. Even with Ultorin’s superior strength and speed, Athaelin’s skill with the sword drove him back. The steel of the bastard sword could not kill Ultorin, but it still had the power to cause him pain, and he flinched from its blows.

Mazael sprinted to Athaelin’s side, stabbing at Ultorin. The Dominiar knight stepped back, whipping the bloodsword back and forth in great arcs to keep his opponents at bay. Neither Mazael nor Athaelin could match the reach of the huge bloodsword, so they spread out, Mazael to Ultorin’s left, Athaelin to his right. Ultorin kept backing away, trying to keep both Mazael and Athaelin in front of him.

Then one of Romaria’s arrows slammed into Ultorin’s belly, doubling him over. Mazael raced into the opening, swinging Lion in an overhand slash, and tore a smoking gash down Ultorin’s back. The Dominiar screamed in pain, stumbling, his yellow eyes bulging and wide. Romaria put another arrow into Ultorin’s hip, and a second into his thigh. Athaelin’s bastard sword drew a line of black blood down Ultorin’s jaw and neck, the battered black armor falling aside. Ultorin screamed in rage, but fear filled his yellow eyes as he raised the bloodsword.

He was beaten, and he knew it. Mazael lined up Lion for a killing blow...

The Malrags crashed into them like a black wave, and Ultorin’s fear turned to glee.

Mazael ducked an axe blow, and a spear point struck his hip, crunching through the armor to dig into his flesh. He pivoted and killed the Malrag that had wounded him, trying to ignore the pain in his wounded leg. Still more Malrags came at him. Mazael killed two more, and Romaria three, as she turned her attention from Ultorin to the Malrags, her hands a blur as she fired again and again.

The Malrags ducked behind their shields, hoping to avoid the barrage, and Mazael had his chance. He raced past one of the great bears, locked in battle with an Ograg, and ripped Lion across the Ograg’s leg in passing. The creature stumbled, the great bear’s jaws locking about its throat, and Mazael kept running.

Athaelin dueled Ultorin, driving him back step by step, Ultorin panting as he tried to keep up with the older man’s attacks. Mazael ran faster. If he could just reach Ultorin now, Mazael could land a killing blow and end this fight.

A Malrag leapt into his path, and Mazael beheaded the creature and kept running.

Athaelin twisted, pushed past a two-handed block of the bloodsword, and shoved. Ultorin staggered, and Athaelin reversed his sword, locked both hands around the hilt, and plunged the blade into Ultorin’s belly. Ultorin’s eyes bulged, and he shrieked, spittle and black blood flying over his jagged fangs.

Athaelin twisted the sword.

Ultorin seized the crosspiece of Athaelin's sword and used it to pull himself closer, the blade sliding deeper into his guts. The wound, no doubt, caused him excruciating pain. But Athaelin's sword could not kill him.

And Ultorin, Mazael suddenly understood, realized that.

And even as the thought came to him, Ultorin brought the edge of his bloodsword crashing into Athaelin's shoulder. The Champion of Deepforest Keep staggered, his face going gray as the bloodsword's edge sank into his chest. The darkness-masked sigils upon the blade burned hotter, and Athaelin withered before Mazael's eyes.

"Father!" shouted Romaria.

Her next arrow hammered into Ultorin, but the wound vanished even as the arrowhead penetrated his flesh, healed by her father's stolen life force.

Mazael flung himself forward, both hands around Lion's hilt. Ultorin saw him coming at the last minute and kicked Athaelin off his sword, but too late. Mazael stabbed the sword into Ultorin's side, flames pulsing from the blade and into the wound Ultorin wailed and wrenched free from Lion, staggering, hand clutched to his side. Mazael stalked after him, raising his sword to finish the fight.

The Ograg came out of nowhere, its massive spike mace swinging for Mazael's chest. He ducked, but the edge of a spike clipped his armored shoulder, and the force of the blow sent him sprawling. He scrambled back to his feet, intent on following Ultorin, but it was too late. Ultorin retreated behind a wall of Malrags and Ogrags, bloodsword in hand.

"Mazael!" It was Gerald's voice. "We must go! Now! Before they overwhelm us."

Mazael looked around, saw the Tribe of the Bear in full retreat before the Ogrags and the Malrags, saw Gerald and Romaria backing towards the gate, Romaria shooting any Malrag that drew too near.

He cursed, slung Romaria's father over his shoulders, and ran for the gate.

The Malrag horde pursued him.

###

Lucan watched Ultorin retreat into the ranks of Malrags, a bitter taste in his mouth. They had come so close! Another few heartbeats and Mazael would have killed Ultorin. And now they would not have another chance. Ultorin could not be foolish enough to expose himself again, and the Malrags had gained a strong foothold below the gates.

Mazael sprinted through the gates, the last one through, Athaelin over his shoulders. The gates began to swing close, but too slowly, too ponderously. The advancing tide of Ogrags and Malrags would make it through before the gates shut.

"Quickly!" shouted Ardanna, lifting her staff. "Before it is too late!"

The druids followed her lead and cast their spells.

Great stone hands reached from the earth, wrapping around the gates and the stone archway above them. The hands clenched, and the gates of Deepforest Keep fell in ruin, rubble and broken stone collapsing with a mighty roar. For a moment Lucan thought that Ardanna had betrayed them, or that she had gone mad. But then the stone hands themselves disintegrated, even as more rock and stone rose from the earth. Within seconds the gates had been sealed beneath tons of broken rock.

But not for long, Lucan suspected. Thousands of Malrags and Ogrags had gained the ground before the gates, with thousands more streaming up the road below the walls, despite the Elderborn archers. Ultorin need only launch one massive assault to gain the walls, backed by the magic of the shamans and Malavost. He would lose thousands of Malrags, but he had tens of thousand to spare.

Deepforest Keep would fall. They had lost.

###

Mazael dropped to one knee, breathing hard, and lowered Athaelin to the ground.

Chaos filled the plaza below the ruined gate. Barely half of the Tribe of the Bear had returned from the attack on the Ogrags. Dust rose from the mountain of rubble choking the gates. The surviving members of the Tribe of the Bear shifted back into their Elderborn forms, tending to their wounds.

The triumphant roars of the Malrags outside the walls echoed over the plaza.

"Father," said Romaria, pushing to Mazael's side. "Father!"

Athaelin Greenshield, his shredded armor wet with blood, his face withered from Ultorin's bloodsword, did not answer.

A moment later his eyes closed, and did not open again.

Chapter 28 - Retreat

“Father,” repeated Romaria once more, bowing her head over Athaelin’s corpse.

Rhodemar hurried down from the ramparts, a stricken expression on his face. Behind came Lucan, breathing hard, leaning upon his staff with its glowing symbols. Ardanna followed them both, her face expressionless as she gazed upon the dead Champion of Deepforest Keep.

“What…what do we do now?” said Rhodemar.

For a moment no one answered.

Mazael grimaced, rose to his feet. With Athaelin dead, it seemed that he had indeed taken command of Deepforest Keep’s final defense.

“Get back to the walls,” said Mazael. Everyone turned to look at him. “All of you! Every Elderborn able to hold a bow, and every man of Deepforest Keep still able to hold a spear.”

They stared at him.

“Go!” said Mazael. “As soon as Ultorin can get the Malrags and Ogrags organized, he’s going to throw everything he has at us. If we don’t stop him, he’ll be over the walls and into the city before the hour is past.” Not to mention what Malavost and the Malrag shamans might do.

“Why bother?” said one of the spearmen, bleeding from a cut across his brow. “It’s over. The Greenshield is slain. We are lost. We…”

Mazael backhanded the spearman, sent him sprawling to the flagstones. “It’s not finished until we are dead, and we still live.”

“You heard him,” said Romaria, looking at the spearmen and the Elderborn. “My father gave his life to defend this city! Can we do any less?”

“Do,” said Ardanna, her voice quiet, “as the Greenshield says. To the walls!”

The spearmen and the Elderborn turned and ran to the ramparts.

“What did you call me?” said Romaria.

“Athaelin is dead,” said Ardanna, her face twisting with rage and loathing. “And you are the eldest of his blood. You passed the Ritual of Rulership, if only hours ago. So you are the new Greenshield, the Champion of Deepforest Keep and the Defender of the Mountain.” Her golden eyes blazed. “As loathsome as it is that a half-blood abomination should ever become the Defender of Mount Tynagis.”

Romaria gave a mirthless smile, her eyes red with unshed tears. “Oh, fear not. I will not be the Greenshield of Deepforest Keep for long. Nor will Deepforest Keep itself endure for much longer. So you will not have to endure this shame overlong, will you?”

Ardanna said nothing, her hands tight against the oak of her staff.

“Go to the walls,” said Romaria. “With the other druids. Perhaps your magic will hold off the Malrags for a little longer.”

“As the Greenshield wishes,” said Ardanna, her voice ice. She marched away, the other druids following.

“I will go to the walls, as well,” said Lucan. “Perhaps if Ultorin makes an error, I can strike him down.”

“And I, as well,” said Gerald, his face grim. “If we are to die here, then I will do so fighting. Maybe, if the gods are good, I…will have a chance to win my son free from the San-keth, before we fall.”

“Do you want to go back into the city?” said Mazael. “To find Rachel?” He didn’t know where she was. The Champion’s Tower, he hoped – the Malrags had not broken into that.

Gerald took a deep breath. “No. She is safe, for now. And if the city does fall…I would rather not see her die.”

“Go,” said Mazael. “I will join you shortly.”

He left, leaving Mazael alone with Romaria.

And with the corpse of her father.

“I’m sorry,” said Mazael. “I tried to reach him, but…”

“Shut up,” said Romaria, blinking. She wiped at her eyes. “You always blame yourself for things that are not your fault. Ultorin killed Father. Not you.” She shook her head, her hands clenching and unclenching. “The fool. The damned fool. If he hadn’t…he knew his sword couldn’t hurt Ultorin, the thing Ultorin had become. Why did he fight Ultorin alone? The fool. The damned fool.” Her voice broke on the last word, tears running down her cheeks.

Mazael heard the rumbling outside the walls, the voices of thousands of Malrags joined together as they prepared to charge. They needed him on the battlements. Rhodemar could hold things together, but demoralized by the death of their Champion, the men of Deepforest Keep needed Mazael. More, they needed Romaria, their new Champion.

But he stood over Athaelin’s body and put his hand on her shoulder.

“I should go to the walls,” said Romaria. “Do you think we can still win?”

“If Ultorin makes another mistake,” said Mazael. “If he’s foolish enough to expose himself. Then we can take him, and make him pay for everything he’s done.”

But deep down, he did not believe Ultorin would make that mistake again, despite his obvious madness.

Romaria closed her eyes. “You are a terrible liar.”

“You know me too well,” said Mazael. “But you are the Champion of Deepforest Keep, Romaria, their liege lady. They must look to you and see confidence, see determination, and they must know that you will never stop fighting for them. Otherwise they will break and flee even before the Malrags reach the walls.”

“You’re right.” Romaria took a deep breath. “We’re going to die, aren’t we?”

“Probably,” said Mazael. “But everyone dies. Better to face it with sword in hand than to hide in a cellar, waiting for the end.” His hand tightened about hers. “And I saw you die, once before. This time we shall die together, side by side.”

Romaria nodded. “Then let us meet our fates.” A faint shadow of her wicked grin flashed across her lips. “And perhaps take that murdering bastard Ultorin with us.”

“The Greenshield,” said Mazael. “And the diadem. You should take them with you. To show the men of Deepforest Keep that they still have a Champion.”

Romaria nodded and reached for the Greenshield.

Then she froze, her blue eyes going wide.

###

Malavost stood some distance from the gates, watching the Malrags and Ogrags prepare for the final attack.

Aldane Roland rested in the crook of his left arm, asleep. The little brat cried constantly, so Malavost silenced him with a spell that kept the child in a trance. Aldane didn’t need to be awake for what Malavost had in mind, after all.

Skaloban stood besides him, head swaying back and forth atop his undead carrier, tongue flicking at the air.

Gods and devils, but Malavost was tired of listening to the San-keth cleric's endless complaints.

But no matter. He'd be rid of Skaloban, soon enough.

“The Vessel is in danger here!” said Skaloban. “If the druids sense our presence, they will strike us down.”

“The danger is an acceptable one,” said Malavost. He had wrapped them both in a spell of cloaking and obscuring, one that made them invisible to the eye and difficult to detect via magical means. “The fighting men and Elderborn are focused upon the Malrags and Ogrags. And the full attention of the druids will be turned upon the shamans. We are safe enough here.”

“You are too accepting of risk!” said Skaloban.

Malavost favored the San-keth cleric with a bland look. “Life is risk, honored Skaloban. And if you dare the ultimate power, then you must dare the ultimate risks.”

Skaloban hissed. “It is risky for Ultorin to lead from the front like this.”

Malavost shrugged. “True. But an irrelevant risk. Once the Malrags get into the city, we have no further need of Ultorin. If he lives, no doubt he will lead the remaining Malrags to the Grim Marches and resume his war with Lord Richard. And if he dies, the Malrags will turn upon each other. Either way, it is of no importance. We shall have access to far greater power than Ultorin's Malrags.”

Far greater power. For long years Malavost had plotted and schemed and studied.

And now, within hours, his labors would bear fruit.

He felt the weight of Aldane in his arm, his smile widening.

“Look!” said Skaloban. “It begins!”

Thousands of Malrags and hundreds of Ogrags charged the walls. Many of the Malrags carried ropes with grappling hooks, while the Ogrags were tall enough to simply climb up the wall.

Very soon now, Deepforest Keep would fall.

And Malavost's long-sought goal would be in reach.

###

“Romaria?” said Mazael. “What is it?”

She only half-heard him.

The light coming from the diadem upon her father’s brow and the ancient shield on his arm held her attention. With her enhanced senses, she had seen the power worked into the ancient bronze, power somehow akin to the magical forces within the traigs.

But now the power had…changed, somehow. As if it had been awakened, perhaps.

“What is it?” repeated Mazael.

The sounds of battle washed over them as the Malrags charged the wall.

“You can’t see it,” murmured Romaria.

She knelt, took the diadem from Athaelin’s head, and lifted up the Greenshield.

The power within pulsed at her touch, its tendrils sinking into her arm. The magic recognized her, acknowledged her as its rightful master. More tendrils ran off from the diadem, hundreds of them, thousands of them spinning in all directions.

Each one touching a traig, the magic within the traigs.

Magic that, like the power in the diadem, seemed to be waiting.

Romaria placed the diadem on her head, and the bronze circlet rested upon her black hair as if it had been made for her.

As if it had been waiting for her.

Just as the power within the traigs had been waiting for someone like her. Someone who was human, and therefore able to serve as Champion of Deepforest Keep. And someone who was Elderborn, who had the enhanced senses of the beast, the sight to see the power stirring in the diadem and the Greenshield and the traigs.

The power that had been waiting for so long.

Until it was needed…

Romaria’s eyes opened wide as she understood at last.

###

Lucan braced himself upon his staff, watching the Malrags charge at the ruined gate.

He was utterly exhausted. Only a steady trickle of Demonsouled power from the bloodstaff kept him on his feet. Besides him the Elderborn archers, the druids, and the spearmen of Deepforest Keep looked just as weary. It would not take much effort to sweep them all aside.

“Release!” bellowed Rhodemar, lifting his bow.

As one the Elderborn archers released their obsidian-tipped arrows, firing with superhuman skill. The arrows screamed out, and hundreds of Malrags fell, pierced by the shafts. But the dead Malrags disappeared into the black mass of the charge.

The Malrags flung their grapnels.

Hundreds of black steel claws lodged in the stone battlements. The spearmen scrambled forward, trying to dislodge the claws, even as the Elderborn continued the rain of arrows. But scores of Malrags scrambled up the ropes dangling from the grapnels and dozens of them made it to the battlements, slaying with axe and spear.

The Ogrags shoved past the Malrags and jumped, grabbing the battlements in misshapen hands, and pulled themselves up. The spearmen swarmed the Ogrags, stabbing with their spears, while the Elderborn fired arrows at every Malrag in sight. Ardanna lifted her staff, white mist swirling around her fingers, and a barrage of ice shards stabbed into the nearest Ograg’s face. The creature bellowed, losing its grip on the battlements, and fell to crush the Malrags beneath it.

But more Malrags swarmed up the ropes, and the horde filling the field before the gates and the steep road seemed without number. Lucan attacked with a psychokinetic blast, knocking a dozen Malrags from their ropes.

A dozen more scrambled to take their place.

###

“I understand,” said Romaria.

Her eyes darted back and forth, looking at the bronze shield upon her arm, as if following threads that only she could see.

“Understand what?” said Mazael.

“The traigs,” said Romaria, her eyelids fluttering. “The Elderborn and the humans built this city together. The Greenshield was meant to be a half-blood, not just a human or a full-blooded Elderborn. But…the tradition must have been forgotten. Only humans have been the Greenshield. Which means they don’t know about the traigs. They don’t know!”

“What are you talking about?” said Mazael, taking her shoulders.

She looked at him, at the wall, and back at him.

“The Great Traig!” she said. “We have to hurry! Come with me!”

She slipped from his grasp. Mazael opened his mouth to protest. Ultorin had thrown the full weight of his Malrag horde against the ruined gates. They had to go the walls, at once. And if the spearmen saw their Champion running into the city, they might break and run themselves.

But he trusted her, as he trusted no one else.

Mazael took a deep breath and ran after her.

Chapter 29 - Call of the Wolf

Malavost stood hidden in his cloaking spell, Aldane resting his arm, watching the battle.

It was almost over. Wave after wave of Malrags rushed at the wall, driven by Ultorin's wrath, only to perish beneath the arrows of the Elderborn archers and the spells of the Elderborn druids. The Malrags that gained the wall fell to the spears of Deepforest Keep's militia. For every man or Elderborn slain, seven Malrags fell - but Ultorin could pay that price twice over and still have enough Malrags left to destroy the city.

"We are losing!" hissed Skaloban. "You must speak with Ultorin at once, wizard! If the Malrags are destroyed, we are lost!"

Malavost paused long enough to make certain his voice was calm when he answered.

"It does not matter, honored Skaloban," said Malavost. "The defenders could kill a hundred thousandMalrags, and it would not change the outcome. Deepforest Keep shall be destroyed. If we lose every last Malrag and still take the city, then our goals have been accomplished."

He was looking forward to ridding himself of Skaloban. He only needed one thing, just one more thing from the San-keth cleric, and then Malavost could dispose of Skaloban.

He smiled at the thought.

An Ograg gained the battlements, laying about with its spiked club.

Very soon now.

###

Romaria stopped in the circle of oak trees below the Champion's Tower, gazing at the white stone bulk of the Great Traig.

"Here," she said, touching the giant statue. "Right here. All the lines lead here."

"I don't understand," said Mazael, again.

But Romaria didn't hear him. It was almost as if she had fallen into a trance. For an uneasy moment Mazael wondered if she had gone mad, if the pain of her father's death and the Ritual of Rulership had unseated her reason.

No. She had saved him. He trusted her, even if he didn't understand was happening.

Romaria put her hand on the Great Traig's side.

###

The stone felt warm beneath Romaria's fingers, as if it had awakened to her touch.

As if it were alive.

She saw power stirring beneath her fingers, great power. The traigs had been waiting for someone like her, someone with mixed Elderborn and human blood in her veins.

Someone to call them forth.

"I am of the blood of mortal man," said Romaria, sliding her dagger from its belt sheath and pricking her finger. She heard Mazael's questions, but kept speaking. "I am of the blood of the Elderborn." She let her blood fall upon the Great Traig, crimson spots spattering on the ancient white stone. "I am the Greenshield, the Champion of Deepforest Keep, the Defender of the Mountain, and by that right, I call you forth."

For a moment nothing happened.

And then the Great Traig's eyes opened, blazing with white light.

###

Mazael took a step back in alarm, raising Lion.

But the blade did not erupt into blazing azure flame, as it did when confronting the Malrags. Whatever the Great Traig was, it was not a creature of dark magic.

The Great Traig shifted, stone moving like living flesh, its glowing eyes focusing upon Romaria.

"Who calls me forth?" said the traig, its voice like thunder booming in the mountains. "By what right to you awaken me?"

"I call you forth," said Romaria, lifting her chin, the bronze diadem glinting. "For I am Romaria, daughter of Athaelin, and I have faced myself in the Ritual of Rulership, and by that right I am the Greenshield, the Champion of Deepforest Keep and the Defender of the Mountain. My father was a mortal man and my mother was a woman of the Elderborn. By right of my title, by right of my blood, I call you forth."

"You have that right," said the Great Traig. "We have slept, my brothers and I, for many long centuries, in observance of the pact."

"What pact?" said Mazael.

"The pact of ancient days, laid down when humans fled here and settled in the ancient ruins," said the Great Traig. "Once my brothers and I were servants of the High Elderborn, but the High Elderborn passed from the earth, and we lingered to guard the mountain. Then the humans came, and the druids and the humans formed a covenant, to defend the holy mountain forevermore. The druids awakened us, and we agreed to continue our duty, to defend the mountain and Deepforest Keep, and to come forth when summoned, when the Keep was threatened."

"And Deepforest Keep is now threatened," said Romaria. "The Malrags assail the walls, led by a man wielding a sword forged in Demonsouled blood. If we do not receive aid, the city will fall, and the pact shall be broken."

The Great Traig's glowing eyes narrowed.

"This cannot be allowed!" said the Great Traig. "The pact must not be broken. We shall go to war."

The Great Traig lifted a stone horn to its lips and blew, and that blast was louder than thunder, louder than the bellows of the Ogrags and the crash of steel and steel and the cries of dying men.

For a moment silence answered that horn call.

And then, across the city, the traigs began to move.

###

"There," murmured Malavost, craning his neck for a better view.

Three Ogrags had gained the walls, butchering the nearby spearmen and Elderborn, providing a safe beachhead for the Malrags to swarm up the ropes. Soon the Malrags would slaughter the defenders, and swarm into the city.

"You see?" said Malavost to Skaloban. "There was no cause for alarm. We only..."

A thunderous horn blast rang out, so loud that Malavost took a step back in astonishment, his free hand coming up in the beginning of a warding spell. For a moment a pause fell over the battle, as man and Malrag alike looked for the source of the horn.

The echoes died away, ringing off the sides of Mount Tynagis.

"What in the name of Sepharivaim was that?" said Skaloban.

A dozen paces away, one of the traigs straightened up and ripped the heads from two Malrags.

###

Lucan staggered, surprised by the horn blast.

The bloodstaff blazed in his white-knuckled hands. He suspected, most strongly, that he was beginning to go insane. He wanted to lose himself to the staff's rage, to lash out in all directions with killing spells, to butcher every last man, woman, child, and Malrag in Deepforest Keep, and then to march north and repay his father and brother for all the pain they had inflicted upon him.

Only sheer exhaustion, perhaps, kept some shred of his sanity preserved. He was going to die here, Lucan knew. So perhaps his impending madness did not matter at all.

He looked into the city, and saw the traigs, the statues of the Elderborn warriors, rising from the earth and marching to battle.

Ah! So he was going mad. Hallucinations.

No sooner had the thought passed his mind than the traigs leapt upon the wall, and began slaying Malrags right and left.

###

"We go to war, my brothers," said the Great Traig.

Mazael stared in astonishment. There were hundreds of traigs scattered throughout Deepforest Keep, and every last one of them had come alive, marching to the northern walls and the ruined gates. And how many thousands more dotted the hills around Deepforest Keep? If the stone warriors awakened all at once, if they attacked the Malrag host...

Mazael's wits returned.

"Ultorin," said Mazael, "we have to find Ultorin."

Romaria gave a sharp nod, her bastard sword in hand, her blue eyes blazing.

"We go to war," she said, and they followed the Great Traig to the gate.

Chapter 30 - Bloodsword

"Fall back!" yelled Rhodemar, his face bloody. "Fall back! The wall cannot hold! Fall back to the Champion's Tower!"

He was right. Five Ogrags had gained the wall, killing all the spearmen and Elderborn within reach, providing safe beachheads for the Malrags to scramble up the ropes and gain the battlements. Neither spell nor spear nor arrow had been enough to stem the tide.

"Rhodemar!" said Lucan, leaning upon his staff. Rhodemar ducked, slashed his sword, and killed one of the Malrags driving him back. Lucan worked a spell and threw the nearest Malrags back with a psychokinetic burst. "Rhodemar!"

Rhodemar gave him a quick nod and turned back to the battle.

"Damn it, Rhodemar!" said Lucan. "Look!"

He pointed, and Rhodemar's eyes widened.

A dozen traigs leapt upon the battlements, and even more ran up the stairs, moving with a grace and power that belied their solid bulk. The traigs ignored the Elderborn and the humans, but attacked the Malrags with terrifying force. The living statues wielded stone maces and swords, their enormous weapons crushing Malrag flesh. One of the Ogrags picked up a traig in both hands, bellowing, but two traigs stepped behind the Ograg and buried their swords in its legs. The creature shrieked and dropped the traig, crushing a pair of Malrags beneath it.

As Lucan watched, the entire Malrag attack collapsed, the traigs mowing through the Malrags and Ogrags like scythes through wheat. The Malrags were fierce foes, but their axes and spears of black steel were useless against creatures made of living stone.

"The traigs?" said Rhodemar, astonished. "But...they're only stone. How..."

"The ancient tongue of the High Elderborn," said Ardanna, and even she looked shocked. "The word 'traig' means guardian, and legends spoke of them rising up to slay the enemies of the High Elderborn. But I never dreamed the legends were true." She shook her head. "How is this possible? Who could have awakened..."

She fell silent, eyes narrowed.

Lucan saw Mazael and Romaria running towards the gates, the Great Traig following them, along with a hundred smaller traigs. Even from a distance, Lucan fell the power rolling off Romaria in waves, the tremendous magical force concentrated in her diadem and ancient bronze shield.

"It seems, High Druid," said Lucan, "that your daughter is not quite so useless as you imagined."

Ardanna gave him a venomous look.

And the traigs plowed into the Malrags like a storm of falling boulders.

###

"What is happening?" said Skaloban, his sibilant voice reedy with terror.

Malavost watched the carnage with interest. He'd felt the magical power in the traigs, of course, during the long march south to Deepforest Keep. But he had assumed the power was nothing more than an echo, some long-forgotten relic of the High Elderborn.

Apparently, Malavost had been wrong.

A few yards away, a pair of traigs ripped the arm from an Ograg.

Quite wrong.

"They will attack us!" said Skaloban. "We must flee!"

"Don't be absurd," said Malavost. "We are perfectly safe. The traigs will kill any Malrag they can find, but they will not harm a human or an Elderborn." He hesitated for a moment, considering. "Though they might kill a San-keth. The High Elderborn were mortal foes of the San-keth."

Skaloban's tongue flicked over his fangs in near panic.

"Do stay close, honored Skaloban," said Malavost. "Remain within my cloaking spell, and you should be safe. Step outside of it, however, and the traigs will sense your presence. The results of that would be...unpleasant."

Skaloban shied closer, the bones of his undead carrier clacking.

"Now, come," said Malavost. "Our goal is within reach."

He strode through the melee, Skaloban hurrying after.

They passed Ultorin. The Grand Master of the Dominiar Order raved and screamed, shaking his bloodsword in one misshapen fist, bellowing for the Malrags to attack, to destroy the traigs, to kill everyone in Deepforest Keep.

Fool.

But, then Malavost had no further need of him. Whether Ultorin lived or died in the next hour was of no consequence whatsoever.

Smiling, he walked towards the walls.

###

"Open the way," said Romaria, pointing her sword.

Dead men and Malrags littered the ramparts, and even as Mazael watched, more traigs leapt from the battlements, wading into the Malrag horde below.

"By the ancient pact," said the Great Traig, raising an enormous stone sword, "we shall open the way, and slay until Deepforest Keep is safe from its foes."

The Great Traig surged forward, slamming into the ruined gate. The mound of rubble exploded outwards, raining into the Malrags. When the dust thinned, the gate had been cleared, the Great Traig tearing into the Malrags, the lesser traigs pouring through the gate.

The men and Elderborn upon the walls gazed down in shock.

"Men of Deepforest Keep!" yelled Romaria, lifting her sword. "Now is the hour! Attack! Drive the Malrags from our home!"

She raced through the gates, Mazael at her side, his hand tight about Lion's hilt. Ultorin would not get away, he vowed. Not this time. Behind him he heard the shouts as the Elderborn and the men of Deepforest Keep poured from the gates, the flash and crackle as Lucan and the druids unleashed their spells upon the Malrags.

Then Mazael plunged into the Malrags, and he had no more time for thought.

A Malrag came at him, axe raised, and Mazael caught the blow on his shield. He shoved, knocking the Malrag off-balance, and ripped open its throat with a single slash from Lion's burning blade. Two more Malrags charged, and then two more, and Mazael dispatched them all, black Malrag blood sizzling upon his sword.

But most of the Malrags attacked the traigs, and without fail they died. Their weapons could not harm the stone of the traigs, and the guardians' stone maces and swords slew a Malrag with every blow. The animated statues strode through the horde, striking left and right.

"Ultorin!" roared Mazael. He leapt upon a boulder, raising Lion to let its glow fall over the battlefield. "Ultorin, you murderous dog! Ultorin, come and face me! Face me now, or let all men know that you are a craven! Ultorin!"

A roar of fury answered him, and Mazael saw the flare of blood-colored light through the teeming ranks of the Malrags.

And Ultorin came for him. The Dominiar knight raced through the Malrags, yellow eyes bulging with rage, cutting down any Malrag that got in his way. A traig reached for him, and Ultorin slashed his bloodsword, the Demonsouled-infused steel cutting through the traig like butter. The statue collapsed into rubble, and Ultorin ran to attack Mazael.

Mazael raced to meet him.

Lion met the bloodsword with a tremendous crash, blue fire straining against darkness and blood-colored flame. Again the swords met, and again, a dozen times in half as many heartbeats. One of Ultorin's blows ripped through the top third of Mazael's shield. He slipped the ruined thing from his arm and flung it, the jagged wood striking Ultorin's face. Ultorin flinched away, but Mazael still landed a smoking cut on his forehead.

Ultorin backed away with a snarl, the black veins in his face and neck pulsing and throbbing.

"This is it," said Mazael, Lion ready in both hands. "For all the blood upon your hands. Today, you will pay for it."

Ultorin laughed, wild and deep. "Fool! You cannot stop me!" He lifted his sword, the crimson light flickering within its halo of darkness. "This was forged in the blood of Amalric Galbraith! He was unconquerable, and his power belongs to me now!"

"I slew Amalric Galbraith, upon this very blade," said Mazael, "just as I will slay you."

Ultorin screamed in fury. "I will slay you and feast upon your heart! I will raze the walls of Deepforest Keep and bathe in the blood of the city's women! And then I will march, I will march until all the world is a charnel house!"

"Only if you kill me first," said Mazael.

Ultorin attacked, roaring.

Mazael twisted around the blow, giving himself into his battle rage, to the speed and strength it offered him. He dared not go too far, dared not give himself to the Demonsouled madness within his heart. But in this...in a struggle against a monster like Ultorin, a fight against a man who had butchered thousands of innocents, Mazael could put his Demonsouled nature to good use.

Ultorin swung, and Mazael parried, Lion straining against the bloodsword.

Ultorin brought the bloodsword around in a high two-handed sweep, and Mazael ducked, Lion digging a groove in Ultorin's hip.

The pain drove Ultorin into a rage, and he went into a frenzy, hacking and slashing as Mazael danced back. The bloodsword's tip scraped at Mazael's armor, digging grooves in the steel plate. But with every blow, Ultorin left himself open, and Lion lashed out, carving smoking cuts in gray flesh. Ultorin's momentum played out, and Mazael went on the offensive, Lion flying through a barrage of swings and thrusts. The bloodsword's carvings blazed, and Ultorin stumbled back, yellow eyes widening with panic.

Then he broke away, and Mazael knew what he intended. Ultorin planned to kill the nearest Malrag, use its tainted life force to restore his wounds.

Lion shivered in Mazael's hands.

But what if Ultorin drank something other than Malrag life force through the bloodsword?

Ultorin wheeled and buried his sword to the hilt in the belly of an Ograg. The bloodsword blazed, and the Ograg shriveled and shrank as the bloodsword drank its life.

Mazael raced forward and plunged Lion into the Ograg's thigh, the sword's azure flame pouring into the creature's flesh.

And the bloodsword drank Lion's blue fire, pulling it into Ultorin.

Ultorin wailed, screamed as Mazael had never heard anyone scream, his eyes wide with shocked agony. Cracks of blue light spread along the bloodsword's blade, and sapphire flames glowed within Ultorin's black veins. He stumbled back, shrieking, arms and legs jerking, both hands clenched around the bloodsword's hilt.

Mazael hammered Lion down with all his strength behind it. The blade sheared through Ultorin's wrists, and both Ultorin's hands fell to the earth, the bloodsword clanging to land a dozen feet away.

"No!" wailed Ultorin, falling to his knees, smoke rising from the charred stumps of his wrists. "No! Give it back! Give it back!" He looked up at Mazael, terror in his yellow eyes. "Mercy. Mercy!"

"I will give you," said Mazael, voice quiet, "the same mercy you promised the people of my lands."

Ultorin screamed.

Lion swung in a flash of blue flame, and Ultorin's head rolled to join his severed hands.

Mazael stepped over the black-armored corpse and stood over the bloodsword. Blue flame struggled against blood-colored light in the sword's sigils, the veil of darkness swirling and twisting.

He raised Lion and brought the point down onto the bloodsword. The black sword trembled, and shattered with a scream and a flash of crimson light. For a moment a towering black shadow reared over the broken sword, seeming to take the shape of Amalric Galbraith.

Then the shadow dissipated like smoke, and nothing but ash and twisted steel remained of the bloodsword.

At that moment a quiver went through the gathered Malrags. Even as Mazael watched, an Ograg turned, striking down two Malrags, howling with glee. The Malrags turned on each other, hacking and slashing with abandon, ignoring even the traigs in their midst. The power of Ultorin's bloodsword had kept them in line, but with Ultorin dead and the bloodsword shattered, the Malrags had returned to their usual impulses, and now preyed upon each other.

A hundred thousand Malrags, packed below the walls of Deepforest Keep, more concerned with killing each other than the humans and the Elderborn...

Mazael grinned at the thought.

His smile faded. It was not over, he knew, until they found Malavost and the San-keth, and he hurried to find Romaria.

Chapter 31 - The Betrayal

Rachel huddled behind the window, watching the Garden of the Temple in terror.

She watched Gerald and his men fight the Malrags. The air filled with screams and roars, and the earth shook and heaved as the Malrag shamans called down their bolts of emerald lightning. Then Mazael arrived, and Romaria and the Seer emerged from the well in the center of the Garden. The Seer's magical wrath ripped apart the shamans, and Romaria became a great black wolf, killing every Malrag in sight.

Then they left, racing away to the north. To the gates, Rachel guessed. They might have stopped the Malrag infiltrators, but the Malrags outside the walls continued their assault. For a moment she considered joining Gerald at the walls, or returning to the Champion's Tower, but rejected the idea. Mazael had killed most of the Malrags in the streets, but more might lurk in the alleys and the cellars. One lone woman, armed with only a dagger, would make for easy prey.

So she huddled behind the window, watching the Garden of the Temple, weeping as she listened to the distant sounds of the battle. How could Mazael and Gerald possibly prevail? Rachel knew that if Mazael killed Ultorin, the Malrag host would turn on itself. But Ultorin had to know that as well, and surely he would not be so foolish to expose himself to risk.

And Aldane. Her son was with Sykhana, somewhere in that Malrag horde. What would happen to Aldane if Mazael killed Ultorin and the Malrags went berserk? She had heard the stories, back at Castle Cravenlock, how the Malrags enjoyed torturing children.

How could this day end in anything but despair and death?

The traigs in the Garden of the Temple started to move.

At first Rachel thought her eyes had failed her, or that the horrors of the day had driven her mad. But the traigs kept moving. Dozens of them, then hundreds, all moving north towards the gate. A moment later Mazael and Romaria raced through the Garden of the Temple, following the Great Traig, which moved faster than Rachel could have imagined.

They vanished from sight, and the sounds of the battle changed. She heard men cheering, heard the Malrag war cries dwindle. More traigs moved through the street, chasing down Malrags, crushing them with stone maces, or simply ripping them apart.

Rachel blinked, her heart hammering with sudden hope. She had seen hundreds of the traig statues scattered through Deepforest Keep, and hundreds more standing in the hills. If Romaria and Mazael had somehow found a way to awaken them, to bring them to life...then perhaps they might yet defeat Ultorin and the Malrags.

And perhaps Rachel might see her son again.

She got to her feet. If the traigs were tearing apart the Malrags, she would go in search of Aldane. Of course, she had to first find a way out of this house. The building had been damaged by the Malrag lightning blasts, and she might have to climb down a pile of rubble or a ruined wall first.

A flicker in the Garden caught her eye, and Rachel took one last look out the window.

She froze in terror.

A San-keth cleric stood in the garden, looking back and forth. The creature rode on an undead human skeleton, like the other San-keth clerics Rachel had seen. Besides the cleric stood a tall man in the long black coat of a wizard, with pale blue eyes and a ragged shock of white hair. This must be Malavost, Rachel realized, the wizard who had aided Ultorin.

Malavost turned towards the well in the center of the Garden, and Rachel's hands flew to her throat.

Her son rested in the crook of the wizard's arm.

###

Sykhana crouched in the bushes, trying to focus through the terror.

She had every right to terror. She had seen hundreds the things, all moving with tremendous speed, killing any Malrags they could catch. No doubt they were some ancient magical defense of the Elderborn, awakened to fight off the Malrags.

Malavost had erred. Badly.

Sykhana had to get out of the city. The Malrags were terrifying fighters, and each Ograg was strong as a dozen normal men, but black axes were no use against living statues. Malavost's plan would fall apart when the traigs ripped off his head. Sykhana had to find Aldane and get away, get far away. True, Aldane would not live forever in power and glory. But she would raise him as a normal child, as her son, somewhere far from Deepforest Keep and Knightcastle.

That would not be so bad.

That thought alone gave her the courage to move forward, creeping from bush to bush.

Malavost's voice reached her ears.

Malavost? Here? How had he eluded the traigs?

Sykhana risked a glance around the trunk of a massive oak tree. A shaman's lightning had sundered the tree, and several of its heavy branches lay broken and smoking upon the ground. She saw Malavost standing at the edge of the wide stone well, Skaloban at his side, and her heart soared to see Aldane resting safe in the wizard's arm.

Sykhana almost called out to them, almost rose to join them.

But something in Malavost's icy eyes made her wait.

“As I promised,” said Malavost, pointing to the well. “The entrance to the caverns, and the path to the temple. And the Door of Souls.”

“You have done well, wizard,” said Skaloban. The cleric stepped past Malavost, gazing into the well. “You shall be well-rewarded, when Sepharivaim is reborn and the new order arises.”

“Of course,” said Malavost, reaching for his belt. “Honored Skaloban, I promised to bring you here, did I not? You should have had more faith in my judgment.”

“Perhaps I should have,” said Skaloban. “You are wise and clever, for a human. Truly you have proven a worthy servant of Sepharivaim...”

In one smooth motion, Malavost drew a dagger from his belt and rammed it into the base of Skaloban's skull.

“You should have had more faith in my judgment,” agreed Malavost, “but putting faith me personally...why, that was a dreadful mistake, honored Skaloban.”

The San-keth writhed, smashing the undead skeleton to pieces, flopped upon the grass, and went motionless. Malavost stooped, filled a vial with the San-keth's blood, and straightened up.

He gazed at Skaloban's corpse for a moment, and then laughed.

“That's all I ever needed from you, Skaloban,” said Malavost. “Just a vial of your blood. And enduring your whining was certainly a heavy price.” He glanced at Aldane. “And that's all I ever needed from you, young lord. Just a vial of blood.” His pleased smile got wider. “Or, rather, all of your blood.”

The words struck Sykhana like a thunderbolt.

Malavost wasn't going to transform Aldane into Sepharivaim reborn. He wasn't going to make Aldane into a living god.

He was going to kill Aldane.

Sykhana gripped her poisoned daggers and straightened up.

###

The battle was all but over.

Lucan leaned against the battlements, the bloodstaff flickering in his hand. The traigs continued their slaughter, killing every Malrag in sight. Not that there were many Malrags left to slaughter any longer. Like the traigs, the Malrags were efficient killers. They had torn each other apart with enthusiasm, even as the traigs slew them. And if Lucan walked to the southern walls, he knew, he could watch the Malrag host upon the foothills tear itself apart.

The battle was all but over.

But what had happened to Malavost?

Lucan had expected the renegade wizard to throw his considerable strength into the fray, to intervene in the fight between Mazael and Ultorin. Yet Malavost had not appeared, had allowed Mazael to strike down Ultorin. Perhaps Malavost was already dead, killed when the traigs attack. Or maybe the wizard had seen no further use for Ultorin, and slipped into the city.

Impossible. Potent wards layered Deepforest Keep's walls. Malavost would not have been able to enter, not without the druids knowing, unless...

Lucan looked at the ruined gate.

Unless the wards had been damaged.

Unless Malavost was already in the city, abandoning Ultorin and the Malrags to distract the defenders.

Lucan cursed, looked around, but all the druids had left, joining the slaughter below the gates.

He ran for the Garden of the Temple as fast as his legs would carry him.

###

Rachel saw Sykhana step out from behind a damaged tree.

Anger exploded through her. If she had a bow, she would have shot the changeling dead. If she had been a wizard like Lucan and Timothy, she would have thrown a blast of power to burn Sykhana to ashes, to make the changeling pay for having dared to touch Aldane...

Yet through her rage, something strange caught her expression.

Sykhana looked furious, her poisoned daggers in her hand.

###

“Malavost!” called Sykhana.

The wizard turned to face her, white eyebrows lifted in an expression of polite surprise.

“Ah,” he said. “You survived.”

Sykhana paused. The rational part of her mind, the cold part of her mind, knew that she should dissemble. That she should feign ignorance, and steal Aldane away from Malavost at the first opportunity.

But the thought of Malavost harming Aldane filled her with such fury that she did not care.

“You killed Skaloban,” said Sykhana.

Malavost's smile faded, his face settling into a cool mask.

“You saw that, did you?”

“I did,” said Sykhana. “What are you going to do to Aldane?”

“You know the answer to that,” said Malavost. “As I promised. Aldane will become a god, will...”

“Don't lie to me!” said Sykhana. “I heard what you said to Skaloban. What are you going to do to Aldane?”

Malavost sighed.

“Well, why not?” he said. “Why should you now know the truth, in the end? When I put this plan into Skaloban's head, years ago, I told him the spell would only work with a special child. The child of an apostate, the flesh and blood of one who had abandoned Sepharivaim. But that was only half true. Sepharivaim is dead, and the San-keth worship an empty memory that cannot save them. Sepharivaim is dead...but his power remains, imprisoned in the spirit world. His power remains, and can be claimed by anyone with the boldness to take it.”

“You,” said Sykhana.

“Me,” agreed Malavost. “I needed only three things. Someone to destroy Deepforest Keep, so I could reach the Door of Souls of safety. The blood of a San-keth, to open the Door and draw Sepharivaim's power to me.” His smile took on a cruel edge. “And the blood of a child of a human apostate, under a year old, to draw the power into the world and into me. All of the blood, as it happens.”

“You'll kill Aldane!” shouted Sykhana.

Malavost shrugged. “A small price to pay to become a living god, no?”

“I will not allow it!” said Sykhana.

Malavost laughed at her. “You will not allow it? How will you stop me, foolish child? I will give you one chance. Walk away, and you shall live. Or stay and serve me, and receive rich rewards once I come into my power. Decide now.”

“You will never touch Aldane again!” said Sykhana.

She raced at Malavost, one arm drawn back to throw a poisoned dagger.

Malavost flicked a finger, just one.

And a wall of invisible force slammed into Sykhana with the force of an avalanche. She heard a dozen loud snaps, and realized that she was hearing her bones break. The spell threw her into the damaged oak tree with crushing force, and a fresh explosion of pain erupted through her. All the strength drained from her legs, yet she remained upright, somehow.

She looked down, saw three feet of jagged oak jutting from her stomach, thick as her arm.

“Aldane!” she cried, reaching for the baby, her precious one. “Aldane!”

Malavost turned away, Aldane still in his arm.

“Aldane,” whispered Sykhana, and blackness swallowed her.

###

Rachel watched Malavost and Sykhana speak, saw Malavost strike down the changeling with a single spell.

Her hands clenched. Malavost was taking Aldane to the caves, and then to Mount Tynagis and the Door of Souls. And there he would kill her son and loose a horror upon the world.

She had to stop him. No one else was here. But what could she do against Malavost? Rachel knew nothing of fighting. Sykhana was a trained assassin, and Malavost had killed her without the slightest effort.

Malavost paused.

Rachel followed his gaze, saw the Elderborn in the fur cloak at the edge of the Garden, a staff in his hand.

The Seer.

###

Lucan stopped at the edge of the Garden, breathing hard.

Malavost stood at the edge of the well, a baby in his arm. Aldane Roland, no doubt. The Seer walked towards Malavost, leaning on his staff, his cloak fluttering behind him.

“So,” said Malavost, smiling. “The Dragon's Shadow and the Seer. What a lively combination. Come to kill me, I believe?”

Lucan let the bloodstaff's power flood through him, ready to cast a spell.

“Were you a Malrag, I would kill you without hesitation,” said the Seer. “They are only slaves to their madness and bloodlust. But you are a mortal man, and you may choose freely. I therefore give you this choice. Lay down the child, unharmed, and leave Deepforest Keep, and I will let you go. Resist, and I will crush you.”

Lucan readied himself to strike.

Malavost laughed. “A bold show of confidence. You assume, of course, that you can crush me.”

“I can,” said the Seer. “I am the stronger, and you cannot face me alone. And with Lucan Mandragon's assistance, you cannot overcome me. I wish no further blood spilled upon the earth. Surrender, and leave, while you still can.”

“No,” said Malavost, glancing at Lucan, and then returning his attention to the Seer.

But Malavost’s voice echoed inside Lucan’s head.

-Still using the bloodstaff? I warned you against it. You are a bigger fool than Ultorin-

Lucan began to cast a warding spell over himself, a defense against mental intrusion.

-Stop-

To Lucan’s astonishment, he stopped the spell.

“Perhaps I will give you one final chance,” said Malavost. “You do not know how close you are to death, druid. Leave, and I will let you live for a little longer.”

Lucan tried to cast another ward.

-Remain still and do not speak-

And to his horror, he obeyed.

-You didn’t realize it, did you? Demonsouled power corrodes sanity. The mind itself has natural defenses against magical intrusion, defenses that your use of the bloodstaff has destroyed. Which means I can invade your mind with ease-

“I will defend Deepforest Keep and slay you, if I must,” said the Seer, silver-white light glimmering around his staff. “This is your last warning.”

"No," said Malavost, still grinning.

Lucan fought against the mental intrusion, fought with every ounce of strength he could muster, but to no avail. Malavost’s power was too strong, too overwhelming, and the bloodstaff had indeed destroyed the defenses of Lucan’s mind. He could gain no traction to fight against Malavost.

“So be it!” said the Seer, lifting his staff.

-Kill him-

Lucan leveled the bloodstaff. The sigils burned with bloody light, and twisting ribbon of crimson flame erupted forth. The Seer had no time to raise a defense. The snarling flame sheared through his head and chest like a burning knife, and the Seer collapsed, dead before he even hit the ground.

Lucan screamed inside his head.

Malavost lifted a single white eyebrow.

“The Seer never saw his death coming,” said Malavost. “Now, there’s a rich irony.”

His pale eyes focused on Lucan.

-As for you, troublesome child. You wanted to wield the power of the Demonsouled so badly? Then wield it! Draw on the staff’s power, as much as you can-

Lucan had no choice to obey, and he opened himself to the bloodstaff’s magic.

And the power flooded through him a blazing torrent, more than he had ever dared to draw, even when in the grip of madness. It filled him, making him stronger, augmenting his magic.

Changing him.

His hands turned gray, the veins beneath the skin growing black and rotten. He remembered the horrifying thing Ultorin had become and screamed inside his head, even as his hands began to shake, smoldering as the staff grew hotter.

-And now turn the power back upon yourself-

Lucan had no choice but to obey.

The bloodstaff exploded in his hands, the molten shards driving into his arms and chest. Crimson flames devoured Lucan’s clothes, melting into his skin and flesh, and he shrieked through the pain, even as he felt his body deforming in the grip of the Demonsouled power.

His legs collapsed beneath him, and everything went black.

###

Malavost looked at the smoking husk that had been Lucan Mandragon, at the Seer’s vivisected corpse, at Sykhana impaled upon the branch of oak.

His lip curled in a sneer of contempt.

No doubt Lucan had viewed himself as some sort of tragic hero, nobly sacrificing himself upon the altar of dark magic to save the Grim Marches. The boy had been nothing more than a gnat. The Seer, though…the Seer had been formidable.

But the problem of the Seer and the problem of Lucan Mandragon had solved each other quite nicely.

Malavost walked to the stone well, ignoring the corpses of Skaloban and Sykhana. He had told them that he regarded Ultorin as a tool, and that had been true. What he had failed to mentioned was that he regarded Skaloban and Sykhana as nothing more than tools, as well. And when a tool outlived its usefulness, you simply discarded it.

He wondered vaguely if Ultorin was still alive, and decided that he did not care.

Malavost took the worn steps spiraling down the interior of the well. He entered the caves, making his way by the dim light of the starglow, until he came to a vast chamber. At the far end of the chamber, he saw white stairs rising, ascending into the mountain.

The way to the ruined temple and the Door of Souls, at long last.

Malavost put his foot upon the first step and stopped.

He felt the presence of the ward, like a warm breeze upon his face. Not powerful enough to do him harm, he judged. But it was too large for him to effectively dispel. Another step, he thought, and the ward would activate, warning Deepforest Keep’s surviving druids of his intrusion.

He sneered. Not that any of the druids had the power to stop him. But the druids might bring Mazael Cravenlock with them, if he survived the fight with Ultorin. Which was a very real possibility. Ultorin, for all his madness and idiocy, had been a dangerous opponent, and yet had failed to kill Lord Mazael again and again. Certainly Malavost wanted no interference when he cast the spell to open the Door of Souls.

The answer came to him, and his sneer became a smile.

He turned, facing the cavern, and cast a spell of summoning magic. A pool of gray mist swirled at his feet for a moment, perhaps thirty feet across, and a huge shape rose out of the mist, higher and higher, until it blotted out the pale gleam coming from the starglow on the ceiling.

Malavost gazed at the huge dark form. He felt its hatred washing over him, but it did not attack him. It could not go against the power of his spell.

“Defend me,” he commanded. “Stay here and guard these steps. If anyone enters this cavern, kill him. If anyone follows me, kill him. Am I understood?”

A growling, metallic buzz answered his question, a sound of pure hatred, but the dark shape did not move to attack him. It would obey.

Anyone who tried to follow Malavost would sorely regret it.

He turned and began climbing the stairs.

Chapter 32 - The Opening

Mazael climbed up the ruined wall, Lion in his hand.

The battle was over. Dead Malrags and Ogrags filled the ground and choked the road. The traigs had torn through Ultorin's host, ripping apart the Malrags, and neither axe nor spear nor shaman's lightning bolt had stopped them. And once Ultorin fell, the Malrags turned on each other, butchering themselves with the same glee they had shown while butchering humans.

Some of the warbands had escaped, Mazael knew. The ones at the outer edges of the host, the ones that defeated their neighbors and vanished into the trees. Malrag raiders would haunt the Great Southern Forest for years. But he guessed that a hundred and twenty thousand Malrags lay dead outside the walls of Deepforest Keep.

They had won. Against all odds, they had won.

But there were no signs of the San-keth or Gerald's son. He had sent parties of men to search the dead Malrags for Aldane Roland, but he doubted they would find anything. He hoped they found nothing.

Mazael did not relish the prospective of presenting Gerald and Rachel with the corpse of their son.

He heard the scrape of leather against stone, saw Romaria climbing up.

"The Seer was right," said Mazael. "You saved Deepforest Keep."

"You killed Ultorin," said Romaria.

"And you awakened the traigs," said Mazael. "How did you know to do that?"

"I don't know," said Romaria. "It...the Ritual of Rulership changed me, Mazael. I had always fought against the Elderborn half of my soul, the way you fought against your Demonsouled half. But the Elderborn are not tainted the way the Demonsouled are. The beast...the Elderborn half of my soul...wasn't some dark thing within me. It was me. I am the beast, and the beast is me. And when I accepted that, I gained control over it...and my senses changed. I can see magical force, now." She shook her head in wonder. "And I could see the power in the traigs, the diadem and the Greenshield, how they were all linked. I always wondered why the Greenshield had to lie with the High Druid. I thought it some foolish ancient ritual. But it was more than that. The Champion of Deepforest Keep was always meant to be half-human, half-Elderborn. Someone who could see what the traigs were, and awaken them."

"And the Seer was right and you saved Deepforest Keep," said Mazael. "Your mother must be furious."

Romaria barked a short laugh. "She is. If the druids allowed themselves to touch iron, she would be chewing nails." She closed her eyes. "I only wish...I only wish my father had been here to see this."

"I wish I had been able to save him," said Mazael.

"I know," said Romaria. "His death was not your fault. But I know."

They stood in silence for a moment.

"What will you do now?" said Mazael.

Romaria let out a long breath. " We have to tend to the wounded, and then to the dead. The walls need to be repaired. We'll have to rebuild from the lightning damage inside the city..."

She was planning to stay, Mazael realized. And why not? She was the new Greenshield, the Champion of Deepforest Keep and the Defender of the Mountain. This was her city, her home. Mazael's home was at Castle Cravenlock, hundreds of miles north, and he would have to return to it.

He realized that Romaria was lost to him, again.

"What is it?" said Romaria, frowning.

"Rachel and Gerald," said Mazael. He saw Gerald, looking through the heaps of dead Malrags for any trace of his son. "My nephew is almost certainly dead. " He shook his head. "I don't..."

"Champion!"

Ardanna stood at the foot of the wall, staring at Romaria. Mazael saw the usual loathing and contempt in the High Druid's golden eyes, along with fresh hatred and rage. Ardanna did not approve of a half-breed as the Champion, not at all. But there was something else on the High Druid's face, something new.

Fear.

"What is it?" said Romaria.

"Someone has entered the caverns!" said Ardanna.

"What?" said Mazael.

"The druids have laid wards over the caverns of Mount Tynagis," said Ardanna. "We can sense when someone enters. And someone has entered the caverns. A wizard of overwhelming might."

"Malavost," spat Mazael. But how the devil had Malavost gotten into the city? No doubt he had crept in, during the mad chaos of the battle. And that explained why Malavost had not intervened in the battle, not used his spells to save Ultorin.

Ultorin and the Malrags had been distractions, nothing more.

“Gerald!” he called over the wall. Gerald looked up, his surcoat tattered and stained with Malrag blood. “I know where to find Aldane!”

###

Rachel stood frozen before the window, hating herself.

Malavost had her son. She had to stop him. She had to get Aldane back.

Yet she could not.

She had seen the Seer wield mighty magic, the very earth itself rising at his command to crush the Malrag shamans. She had seen Lucan unleash his spells in battle, mowing down both Malrags and humans alike. Both men had possessed power beyond anything Rachel would ever know.

And Malavost had crushed them both in a matter of seconds. Or he had tricked or lured Lucan into killing the Seer, and then disposed of the Dragon’s Shadow afterward. And if Rachel tried to pursue him, Malavost would kill her as easily as he had killed Sykhana. Even more easily – Sykhana had been a skilled assassin, one who had escaped from Knightcastle itself. There was nothing, nothing at all, Rachel could do to stop Malavost.

But he had her son.

She took a shuddering breath. It didn’t matter that Malavost was a wizard of great power. It didn’t matter that he could kill her in the space between two breaths. Malavost had her son, and she would get him back.

Or die trying.

That seemed more likely.

She wondered if this was how men felt, when they went into battle, knowing that they would almost certainly die. Was this how Gerald had felt? He had gone into some hopeless battles, yet had come through victorious. Would that happen to her?

Doubtful.

But after so long, her son was within reach. And if she died trying to get Aldane back, so be it.

Rachel began searching for a way out of the damaged house.

###

The first thing Mazael saw was the Seer’s corpse.

The Seer, the mightiest druid of the Elderborn tribes, lay sprawled at the edge of the Garden of the Temple. It looked as if his chest and his face had been opened by the tip of a burning sword, the edges of the wound charred black.

“What is that smell?” muttered Romaria, frowning. Gerald stood behind her, sword drawn. Ardanna gazed at the Seer, her face a mask. Mazael had never expected to see that woman shocked into silence.

And Mazael was stunned, as well. He had seen firsthand the strength of the Seer’s magical power. For Malavost to have simply killed the most powerful druid of the Elderborn…

Gerald looked at the Seer and frowned. “Burnt flesh, perhaps?”

“No,” said Romaria, shaking her head. “Something worse. Like…corruption.”

“That San-keth?” said Mazael, pointing with Lion. A San-keth lay in loose coils near the edge of the well, its black-slit eyes staring into nothingness.

“This is worse,” said Romaria, nostrils flaring. “Like…something rotten was locked in a vault, for years, and then left out to putrefy in the sun. Or an infected wound, gushing pus. It’s like…there!”

A twisted corpse lay some distance from the Seer, its limbs black with char. Chunks of jagged metal lay on its chest and scattered around the nearby ground. At first Mazael thought the corpse was some strange sort of Malrag that he had never seen before. It had the grayish skin and deformed growths on its arms and legs as the Ogrags, though it was much smaller. Human-sized, in fact. And the creature’s face…

“Gods,” said Mazael. “That’s Lucan.”

“What the devil did Malavost do to him?” said Gerald.

“He reeks of corruption,” said Ardanna, her cold voice just a touch unsteady. “Of tainted power. I sensed it upon him, when he entered the city, It has consumed him.”

Mazael went to one knee besides Lucan, examining the wounds. His senses were not as potent as Romaria’s, but even so, the stench was terrible.

“I don’t think Malavost did this to him,” said Romaria, voice quiet. “I think he did it to himself. His magic was much stronger than I remembered. I think he found another source of power, and it devoured him. That black staff of his, probably. The thing reeked of dark magic.”

“He’s still alive,” said Mazael. There was the faintest pulse of the veins in Lucan’s neck, the hint of breath over his bloody lips.

“You should kill him,” said Romaria.

“What?” said Mazael, looking at her in astonishment. “He has saved my life time and time again. It was his spell that restored the human half of your soul. He has fought valiantly to defend this city. And you want me to kill him out of hand?”

“It might be a mercy,” said Romaria, voice quiet. “Look at Lion.”

“Why...”

“Just look at Lion.”

Mazael drew the blade a foot from its scabbard. Pale blue flames flickered around the sword's razor edges, flames that grew brighter when he moved closer to Lucan.

And Lion only responded that way to creatures of dark magic.

“Do you see what he has become?” said Romaria. “You should kill him, now. Before you regret it later. And he might thank you for it. If there’s anything left of his mind, he must know what he’s become.”

“No,” said Mazael.

“Lucan is beyond our help, one way or another,” said Gerald. “My son is not, but only if we act now.”

Mazael straightened up. “You’re right.” He hesitated. What the devil had Lucan done to himself? Mazael hated to leave him here like this. But if Malavost reached the Door of Souls, Gerald’s son, Mazael’s nephew, would die.

And Malavost would unleash a new horror upon the world.

Something Lucan had fought to stop.

He crossed the Garden, making for the well, and the others followed him. The stone stairs spiraled down, opening into a tunnel lit by patches of white-glowing moss. After a short distance the tunnel widened into a large chamber perhaps the size of Castle Cravenlock’s great hall, its ceiling lost in gloom. At the far end of the chamber of a broad set of white stone steps climbed up, rising into the mountain.

“The way to the sacred temple,” said Ardanna, pointing with her staff, “and to the Door of Souls. Malavost would have gone this way…”

Mazael nodded. “Then let’s…”

Lion jolted, the blade bursting into brilliant azure flames, enough light to illuminate the gloom of the cavern.

And enough light to reveal the misshapen thing hanging from the ceiling. It looked like a scorpion, but most scorpions didn’t have three trails like braided whips, barbs glistening with poison. Or carapaces like plates of black iron, or great leathery wings, or the head of a beautiful woman, albeit a woman with jutting fangs the size of Mazael’s arms.

And most scorpions were not the size of three warhorses put together.

The scorpion loosed a terrible screech and leapt from the ceiling, and Mazael threw himself to the side, only just avoiding the creature’s black-armored bulk. It landed with a thump and spun to face Mazael, the three barbed tails rising back for a strike.

But Mazael had anticipated the scorpion’s motion, and he whipped Lion around in a sideways cut. The blade sheared through one massive leg as if it were no more than a silken cord, carving a smoking gash into the spirit-creature’s carapace. The scorpion’s screech doubled in volume, and it lashed out with one of its serrated pincers. The edge caught him across his armored chest, and the strength of the blow knocked him from his feet.

The scorpion-thing wheeled, preparing to spring upon Mazael, only to catch one steel-tipped arrow in its flank, and then two more, in rapid succession. Romaria had her bow in hand, and she loosed arrow after arrow in the spirit-creature's side. It shrieked again and raced for her, pincers yawning wide. Romaria threw aside her bow, her form blurring, and became the great black wolf. She slipped past the pincers, her white fangs snapping, and the scorpion stumbled, another of its legs lamed. The creature spun, its tails cracking like whips, its two wounded legs dragging as it tried to pursue Romaria.

Ardanna lifted her staff, silver light flashing along its length, and gestured. White mist swirled, and a barrage of ice chunks, frozen harder than granite and sharper than razors, ripped into the scorpion. One of its tails fell to the ground, leaking black ichor, and the scorpion screamed. Gerald darted in close, hacked off a second tail. The remaining tail hammered down, but Gerald caught its spike upon his shield, and sliced off the stinger before the scorpion could tear its tail free.

It gave Mazael an opening. He sprang to his feet, ran forward, and leapt upon the scorpion's back. The creature screamed, its remaining tail lashing at him, but Gerald had severed the stinger, and Mazael's armor protected him from the lash. He drove Lion into the creature's neck, between the human head and the black carapace, and the scorpion's constant screaming became a sudden agonized gurgle. The blade pulsed with azure flame, and the scorpion went still with one final spastic twitch.

Then the scorpion vanished in a swirl of gray mist. Mazael landed hard upon one knee and climbed back to his feet. Romaria blurred back into her true form, retrieving her bow.

"What the devil was that thing?" said Gerald, looking at Ardanna. "Do many such creatures dwell in these caverns?"

"No," said Romaria, before her mother could speak. "It was a spirit-creature, a thing summoned from the netherworld."

"Malavost conjured it," said Ardanna, glaring at her daughter, "and set it to wait here for any pursuers."

Mazael nodded. If Lucan had been here, he could have dispelled the summoned scorpion, or conjured creatures of his own. But Lucan lay dying in the Garden above, and Mazael and the others were on their own.

"We'd best hasten," he said, and led them towards the white stairs.

###

Rachel stumbled down a pile of rubble.

It had taken her a while to find a way free from the ruined house. At last she located a pile of debris heaped against the wall, the remnants of a neighboring house, and she went out the window and picked her way down the pile, terrified that she would fall and snap her neck, or that the rest of the stone wall would collapse, burying her alive to choke out her final breaths in darkness.

But the rubble held, and Rachel found her way down to the alley, breathing hard, covered in dust. Again she cursed herself. Yes, she could certainly find Malavost and defeat him, if the simple effort of escaping from a house winded her!

But her own life did not matter.

She clutched her tattered skirts in one hand and hastened to the Garden of the Temple. The Seer's corpse had not moved, and Lucan's misshapen body lay where it had fallen. Up close, he looked even more grotesquely deformed. Rachel wondered what sort of vile magic Malavost had used upon him. Or had Lucan's own magic rebounded upon him? The feared Dragon's Shadow, no doubt, had dabbled in forbidden things.

Rachel stopped, and looked at the woman who had taken her baby.

Sykhana slumped against the lightning-damaged oak, the jagged branch jutting from her belly. Blood stained her dark clothing, head slumped against her chest, poisoned daggers still in their sheaths. Rachel stared at the corpse. She had dreamed of this moment, played it over a thousand times in her mind, thinking of what she would do if Sykhana was ever in her power. How she would make Sykhana beg for mercy, make her regret ever laying her filthy hands upon Aldane.

But the changeling looked like a small, pathetic thing. A broken tool, cast aside by Malavost. Rachel remembered the look of horror upon Sykhana's face before Malavost had killed her. What had the wizard told her?

She turned away, and Sykhana's eyes fluttered open.

Malavost had not killed her so easily after all.

Rachel stepped back in alarm, fearing a poisoned dagger. But Sykhana only coughed, blood trickling down her chin. Her eyes were yellow with vertical black slits, a serpent's eyes, and they focused upon Rachel.

"You," whispered Sykhana. "I killed you. A fever dream. Or this is hell, and you are waiting for me." She laughed, her voice despairing. "Yes, hell. I deserve hell, for my folly."

"You took my son!" said Rachel, stepping closer in her rage.

"Yes," said Sykhana.

"Why? Why? To spill his blood in some vile San-keth rite? To turn him into a living monster? Why? You will tell me why!"

"Because I love him," said Sykhana.

Rachel had no answer for that.

"The calibah cannot bear children," said Sykhana. "I looked upon Aldane...and I loved him from the first moment I saw him. I hated you. You were not worthy of such a son. But I could do more for him. Malavost...Malavost could turn him into Sepharivaim reborn, infuse him with the very soul of serpents. He would be a god, and reign forever in power and bliss. I believed...I was a fool. Malavost. Malavost!"

Sykhana shuddered, and for a moment Rachel through the calibah would tear free from the branch in fury. But Sykhana slumped, fresh blood trickling down her chin and her legs.

"Malavost lied," said Sykhana. Rachel had seen people die from wounds, men and women both, and she knew that Sykhana was very near death. "Oh, my Aldane. I didn't know. Malavost lied to me. He never wanted to make Aldane into Sepharivaim reborn. He wanted to steal Sepharivaim's power for himself. To use Aldane as a blood sacrifice, to open the Door of Souls. He lied to me. Malavost!" Sykhana clawed at the air, eyes open wide. "Aldane! Aldane!"

"This is your fault!" said Rachel. "You took Aldane from me, and handed him over to this butcher!"

"Save him!" shrieked Sykhana. Rachel didn't know if the changeling had heard her or not. "Don't let Malavost kill him! Save him! Please, if you are listening, save him, save him..."

Sykhana's cries ended in a burst of coughing, more blood dripping from her mouth. She shuddered once more, eyes bulging, and went limp. Rachel watched her for a moment, but Sykhana remained motionless. At last Rachel summoned the courage to step forward and tap Sykhana's shoulder. The changeling did not respond.

Sykhana was indeed dead.

Rachel's eyes strayed to the sheathed daggers at Sykhana's belt. She tugged one of the daggers an inch or so from its scabbard, the blade gleaming with grease. Changeling poison, lethal to any living man.

And Malavost, despite all his magical prowess, was still a living man.

The notion was absurd. She could not get close enough to use a normal dagger on Malavost, let alone a poisoned one. But if she did get close enough to only scratch him with the poisoned dagger...

Just one scratch would be enough to kill Malavost.

And to save Aldane.

Rachel took the belt and the sheathed daggers, and hurried towards the well at the Garden's center.

###

The stairs ended, and Malavost stepped from the darkness of the caverns to the sunlight atop Mount Tynagis.

He stood in the vast courtyard of a half-ruined temple, soaring arches and mighty walls rising around him. The pillars has been carved in the shapes of High Elderborn warriors, like much larger versions of the traigs ripping apart the Malrag host - though these statues, thankfully, were free of defensive magic. Even in ruins, even with its roof and half the columns lying strewn across the courtyard, the temple stood in ancient splendor, and the view of the Great Southern Forest in all directions was magnificent.

Malavost felt the power in the air, the latent magic.

He walked through the temple's entrance. Once it would have opened into a vast, gloomy hall, its vaulted ceiling supported by a forest of white pillars. But the roof had collapsed long ago, and half of the pillars as well, their jagged crowns stark against the blue sky. At the far end of the ruined hall stood a large dais of white marble, built into the very side of the mountain itself, with a view of the foothills and the Great Southern Forest far below. A stone altar rested before the dais, carved with ancient reliefs.

And upon the dais stood the Door of Souls.

It looked like a delicate stone arch, ten feet wide and thirty high, its top coming to a point. Ornate sigils and carvings covered the arch's sides, and unlike the weathered stone of the rest of the temple, the arch looked as if it had been carved and built yesterday.

Which was not surprising. Even without using a spell, Malavost felt the potent magic waiting in the Door of Souls, more powerful that the wards upon the walls of Deepforest Keep, stronger than the magic within the traigs. Here was power enough to rip upon a passage to the spirit world, and pull the power of a dead god into this world.

Into Malavost.

At last, at long last, he had come to his goal.

Now to prepare. The Elderborn and Mazael, no doubt, would be too busy with the Malrags to pursue him. And even if anyone did pursue him, Malavost had no doubt that the spirit creature upon the stairs could handle any pursuers.

Still, he had not come this far by taking foolish chances, after all.

He set the unconscious child upon the altar and began to cast spells. First, a series of wards around his person, to protect him from physical attacks. Especially arrows, given the Elderborn penchant for archery.

Next, a series of summoning spells. Pools of gray mist swirled around the altar, and four huge shapes rose out of nothingness, creatures out of nightmare, covered in chitinous armor and barbed claws.

They snarled and snapped at him, but could not harm him, thanks to his spell.

"Guard me," commanded Malavost. "If anyone enters the temple, kill them without hesitation."

The spirit creatures moved away, settling among the piles of rubble to wait.

Malavost turned his back to them, faced the altar and the Door of Souls, took a deep breath, and began to cast a spell. Power thrummed and crackled in the air, and the sigils upon the Door of Souls burned with harsh silvery light. The air within the Door shimmered and flickered, sometimes showing the Great Southern Forest, and sometimes...elsewhere.

A dark place, a place of monsters and dark magic.

Where the power of Sepharivaim had laid unclaimed for long millennia.

Power that would soon belong to Malavost.

He continued the spell, and the Door of Souls began to open.

Chapter 33 - The Door of Souls

At last the stairs ended.

Mazael climbed into the courtyard of the temple, Romaria, Gerald, and Ardanna following him. Even ruined, the great walls and pillars of white stone were still impressive, still stern with splendor and ancient grandeur.

Through the temple's entrance Mazael saw a forest of columns, some half-crumbled, and piles of white stone, no doubt debris from the temple's long-collapsed roof.

And beyond the rubble, flickers of silver light, visible even in the daylight.

"There," said Ardanna. "The Door of Souls is there, in the old sanctuary."

"I can feel him," said Romaria, gazing through the archway. "Malavost. He's gathering power. He's preparing to open the Door of Souls."

"Then we have not come to late," said Ardanna.

Gerald drew his sword. "My son is in there."

"Then let's get him back," said Mazael, and he led them through the archway and into the ruined sanctuary.

###

Malavost chanted the spell, drawing more power into himself, more and more, until he felt as if he would burst from it.

The air within the Door of Souls continued its strange flicker, giving Malavost glimpses of the dark place, the netherworld where Sepharivaim's power awaited him.

Soon, now. A little more power, and the Door would be primed. Then Malavost could use Skaloban's blood to pry it open all the way.

And Aldane Roland's blood to draw Sepharivaim's power into this world.

He heard a rasping noise, the sound of leather scraping against stone. For a moment he wondered if one of his spirit creatures had made the noise - but, no, they would remain soundless.

Someone had followed him up here.

Though the spell, he smiled to himself. Whoever it was would soon regret it, once the creatures from the spirit world made their move.

Malavost kept chanting, and the space within the Door grew darker.

###

In its prime, the sanctuary must have been magnificent. For a moment Mazael wondered at the skill of the ancient High Elderborn. How had they built this place? Had they used magic to carve the stairs, to haul the white stones to the crown of Mount Tynagis? Or had their skill as builders simply surpassed the skill of any men living today?

Mazael pushed the thought aside. He could muse upon history later, once Aldane was safe and Malavost was dead.

Heaps of rubble stood between the pillars, but the central aisle was mostly clear. The silver light came from a dais at the far end of the great sanctuary.

Mazael walked around a pile of rubble, and saw the Door of Souls.

It stood upon the dais, a tall, pointed arch of white stone, the sigils carved into its sides flickering with silver-white light. Through the stone arch Mazael saw the endless green carpet of the Great Southern Forest. Or, at least, he should have. Instead darkness writhed within the Door, and through it Mazael caught glimpses of another place, a place of nightmares and horrors.

The source of the spirit creatures both Lucan and Malavost conjured up, no doubt.

A stone altar rested before the dais, and Malavost stood over the altar, gesturing, green light flaring around his fingertips, his long black coat dancing in the wind. And upon the altar lay an unconscious child no more than five or six months old.

For the first time, Mazael laid eyes upon his nephew.

Several things happened at once.

"My son!" said Gerald, stepping forward.

But Romaria was faster. Even before Gerald had begun to move, she had her bow in hand, her hands blurring. Before Mazael could blink she had an arrow in the air, and then another, and another, all streaking towards Malavost's back. The arrows slammed into Malavost, and shattered with flashes of green light, falling in harmless splinters to the ground.

Malavost turned, one eyebrow lifted, as if in amusement.

Then something black and misshapen moved atop one of the pillars.

###

Malavost paused his spell, the power thrumming and snarling as it awaited his attention.

There were four of them. An Elderborn woman he did not recognize, holding an oaken staff. One of those annoying druids, no doubt. A tall woman with black hair and icy blue eyes, a bronze diadem on her brow and a bow in her hand. Romaria Greenshield, and it been most amusing to listen to Ultorin's endless rants about her. A knight in polished armor - Sir Gerald Roland. And Mazael Cravenlock himself, his ancient longsword burning with azure flame in his right hand.

Only four of them. He had expected more. Still, Mazael was the only one that was truly dangerous.

"You have my son," said Gerald, pointing his longsword, "and I..."

Malavost snorted. He had no reason to talk to any of them.

"Kill them all," he said. His summoned servants leapt into motion, and Malavost began casting one of the spells he had learned from the Malrag shamans. The spell upon the Door of Souls would start to unravel soon, but Malavost had more than enough time to first butcher his enemies.

###

Romaria sent another arrow flying for Malavost's face, but she knew it was useless. The arrow shattered an inch from Malavost's eye, breaking apart against his wards. She saw the magical power gathered around the wizard - he was strong, stronger than Lucan Mandragon, far stronger than Ardanna, and at least as strong as the Seer had been.

And behind him she saw the immense vortex of magical power swirling around the Door of Souls. The Door would tear open the veil between the mortal world and the spirit world, allowing the power of the serpent god to enter.

And even as Malavost began casting a spell, emerald fire flickering around his hands, more of the giant human-headed scorpions appeared. One clung to a pillar near the dais. Another scrambled over a pile of rubble. Still a third perched atop another pillar, and a fourth raced around a fallen column, its legs clicking against the marble floor.

Four of them. One of the great scorpions had almost been enough to kill them upon the stairs, and now they faced four of the things, in addition to the might of Malavost's spells.

Romaria spun and loosed an arrow at the charging scorpion. The arrow caught the creature in its human face, and it reared back with a scream, black slime bubbling over the wound. But the remaining three scorpions charged forward, barbed tails waving.

She threw aside her bow and changed, her body blurring into the form of the great black wolf. Her senses, already sharp, became far keener, and she smelled the vile reek of the scorpions, the sweat upon Mazael's face, the sharp scent of Malavost's potent magic.

Gerald and Mazael ran to meet the scorpions, shields raised, but Romaria was faster. She darted past them, fangs snapping, her jaws closing about the base of the scorpion's first leg. The taste was unspeakably vile, but the scorpion lost its balance.

It was all the opening Mazael needed to bring Lion sweeping down, taking the scorpion's head from its neck, and the black-armored body went into a mad dance, tails lashing at the air.

###

Mazael spun from the dead scorpion, even as its body dissolved into gray mist, and turned to face the remaining three creatures.

The spirit beasts watched him warily, their tails twitching back and forth in preparation for a strike. Mazael kept his shield up, watching for an opportunity to land a telling blow. He had to act quickly. Malavost might kill Aldane at any moment, or loose his powers in the fight...

No sooner had the thought crossed Mazael's mind then Malavost raised his hand, ghostly fire crackling around his fingers.

A green lightning bolt screamed down from the sky. The blast slammed into the earth at Mazael's feet, shattering the marble flagstones, the shock knocking him from his feet. Gerald crashed hard into the base of a broken column, armor clattering, and toppled to the ground.

He did not get up again.

Mazael scrambled backwards as the scorpions pursued him, their long tails snapping like whips. He caught five of the barbed tails on his shield, but two more bounced off his armor, leaving scratches in the steel.

And two more barbs penetrated the joints of his armor over his knee and shoulder, pumping their poison into his flesh. Mazael stumbled, felt a cold numbness begin to spread into his left arm and leg.

And still the scorpions kept coming, and Malavost began another spell.

###

Romaria saw the blast of Malavost's spell drive Gerald to the ground, saw Mazael stumble back, the scorpions pursuing him.

She howled and leapt into the fray, attacking the scorpion on Mazael's left. She sprang upon its back, claws scrabbling uselessly against its armored carapace, but her fangs sank into the soft flesh below its human neck. The scorpion reared back with a scream, its pincers and barbed tails lashing at the air, and Mazael got his feet under him, shield raised.

But the scorpions' poison had slowed him, she saw. His Demonsouled essence would purge the poison from his blood, but not fast enough, and a claw or a barb through the heart or brain would kill him as surely as any other man.

The scorpion shrieked, its entire body heaving, and threw Romaria to the ground. She rolled back to her feet, paws gaining purchase upon the white stone, and stood at Mazael's side, fangs bared as the scorpions advanced.

###

Mazael tried to keep his balance, breathing hard.

A cold numbness spread through his left side, making it difficult to keep his grip on his shield. Or to keep his feet, for that matter. The world was beginning to spin around him, and from time to time his vision flickered. The scorpions' venom, no doubt, and soon his Demonsouled power would heal him.

But not before one of the scorpions ripped his head off.

The scorpions rushed him, tails cracking like whips. Mazael backed away, trying to catch the blows upon his shield. Romaria snapped and snarled, and the scorpions shied away in fear. But they were too fast and too strong, and they pushed forward, bit by bit. Sooner or later they would drive Mazael and Romaria against one of the pillars or piles of broken stone, and then the fight would be over.

Where the devil was Romaria's mother? Why had she not intervened in the fight?

No sooner had the thought crossed Mazael's mind than a barrage of razor-edged ice chunks slammed into the scorpion on his left, sending the creature crashing to the ground in a spray of black blood. Mazael risked a glance to the side, saw Ardanna standing atop one of the rubble heaps, staff thrust forth, fur cloak billowing in the wind rising from the Door of Souls. She cast a spell, launching another barrage of dagger-edged ice chunks at the scorpions.

On the dais, Malavost wheeled to face her, and green lightning fell from the sky.

Lucan had been able to deflect the lightning bolts with relative ease, despite the obvious cost in pain to him. Ardanna barely had the power to deflect one. She fell to her knees with a scream, staff clutched in both hands, and the lightning bolt rebounded to shatter one of the pillars. Ardanna remained on her knees, trembling, face white and drawn with exhaustion.

She was finished, Mazael realized. The battle at the walls of Deepforest Keep had taxed her, and deflecting the lightning bolt had taken the final scraps of her strength.

One of the scorpions surged forward, tails whipping. Mazael swept Lion in a blazing arc, managing to sever one of the barbs. But the second tail's spike bounced off his shield, and the third crunched deep into his side, the poison pumping into his blood.

###

Rachel stumbled up the final steps, breathing hard, Sykhana's sheathed daggers in her hands.

She stood in an ancient courtyard, a great temple, splendid even in its ruin, rising over her. Through the temple's doorway she saw flashes of light, heard the rumble of spells and the sounds of battle.

She hurried towards the arch, still clutching the poisoned daggers.

###

Malavost watched the Elderborn druid collapse, watched his summoned spirit creatures drive Mazael and Romaria back. Behind him he felt the strain as his spell upon the Door started to unravel.

He turned his back on the melee and resumed the spell. At once the darkness within the Door's arch congealed, becoming thicker and blacker. Tendrils of shadow, like long serpents, reached out from the Door, feeling the dais and the nearby pillars like the questing fingers of a blind man.

Malavost reached into his coat, drew out of the vial of Skaloban's blood and threw it towards the Door of Souls. The blood spilled out in a crimson arc, and even before it reached the floor, one of the tendrils wrapped around it, sucking the blood into the arch.

The darkness within the Door roiled, an ominous green light shining in its depths. The sense of power emanating from the Door redoubled, and then doubled again, until the mountain itself seemed to vibrate with it.

The power of Sepharivaim, waiting for him to claim it.

Malavost's fingers trembled with excitement. One more spell, the blood of Aldane Roland spilled, and the power of a god would be his.

He began casting the final spell.

Malavost leaned over the altar. The green light in the Door of Souls grew brighter, the tendrils of shadow more agitated in their thrashing. He forgot the scorpions, forgot Mazael Cravenlock, forgot everything except the spell.

And the great power that awaited him.

He drew his dagger, ready to spill Aldane Roland's blood and draw the power into this world.

###

Romaria ripped at the injured scorpion's flank, tearing at the wounds Ardanna's spell had left in its side. The scorpion reared back, screaming, eyes narrowed in rage and pain, but its pincer lashed out. It caught her across the flank and knocked her from her feet, sending her rolling across the flagstone.

She righted herself, saw Mazael sink to one knee, blood streaming down his side.

###

Rachel ran into the temple, uncaring of the danger.

Aldane, she had to find Aldane.

She saw Gerald, lying motionless against a pillar. But he was still breathing, and she had to find Aldane. Mazael and a great black wolf faced off against three creatures of nightmare, hideous hybrids of scorpion and human, but she did not see Aldane with them.

Then she saw the dais, and the darkness swirling atop of it, tendrils of shadow radiating from a pointed arch of white stone. The Door of Souls, no doubt. Before the door stood Malavost, a dagger in his hand, his arms and shoulders trembling with strain as he cast a mighty spell.

Aldane, her Aldane, lay motionless upon a stone altar, eyes closed.

Malavost's voice rose to a bellow, the dagger coming up.

Rachel screamed and ran for him.

###

Mazael dropped to his knees, breathing hard, the world spinning around him.

He could not regain his feet. The poison was too potent. He felt it healing, felt it passing from his blood, but not quickly enough. Every blow from the scorpions' stingers sent another dose of venom coursing through his veins, and even his Demonsouled healing could not fight it off fast enough.

And the scorpions...he and Romaria had hurt them, but not enough.

He had failed, and they were going to die.

The scorpions drew closer, pincers snapping.

And then Mazael saw Rachel.

She ran at Malavost, shrieking. Malavost noticed her, hand coming up in a spell, and the scorpions whirled to aid their master, but too late. Rachel had a black dagger in her hand, and she buried it in Malavost's chest, once, twice, three times. The wizard staggered under the blows, his eyes wide with shock and pain. Blood burst from his wounds, spraying Rachel, the altar, the child upon it.

And some of the drops fell upon the writhing ropes of shadow.

"No!" shouted Malavost, voice hoarse.

One of the dark tendrils wrapped around him, drawn by the blood, then another, and another. Malavost fought and screamed, clawing at the tendrils, magical flames bursting from his fingers. Some of the shadowy cords vanished beneath his attack, but more wrapped around him, more and more.

Serpents, Mazael realized. The twisting cords of shadow looked like serpents.

And the serpents dragged Malavost back, screaming, into the Door of Souls, into the dark place within the arch. Mazael had one last glimpse of Malavost, face frantic, and then the wizard vanished into the darkness. There was a dazzling flash of silver light, and the darkness within the arch vanished, along with Malavost himself.

The Door of Souls had closed.

The scorpions shivered, and vanished into gray mists.

And silence hung over the ruined temple.

###

For a moment Rachel stood frozen, watching as the writhing serpents of shadow pulled Malavost into the netherworld, as the Door of Souls closed.

Then she flung aside the bloodstained dagger and scooped up Aldane with a cry.

Larger, he was so much larger than the last time she had held him.

He was warm, he was breathing, but his eyes were closed. What had Malavost and Sykhana done to him? Had they hurt him? Put him into an enspelled sleep from which he would never awake?

Then Aldane opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and began to wail at the top of his lungs.

Rachel sobbed and hugged him close.

###

Mazael dragged himself back to his feet. His wounds throbbed, but already he felt the cuts closing, the numbness beginning to fade away. His Demonsouled nature would heal him in short order.

It had been a close thing, though.

Besides him Romaria blurred back into human form and picked up her bow. She had bruises on her face, and walked with a limp, but seemed otherwise unhurt.

“How are you?” she said.

“I've been better,” said Mazael, taking careful steps towards Gerald. “But I'll be well again, soon enough.” He knelt, helped Gerald to his feet.

Gerald groaned, pulled off his helm, rubbed at his head. “Did we win?”

“We did,” said Mazael.

Gerald nodded, then his eyes got wide. “My son...”

Romaria grinned. “Still alive.”

Gerald pulled free of Mazael's grip and half-ran, half-staggered to the dais. Rachel stood there, weeping, Aldane cradled in her arms. Gerald put his hand on her shoulder, and she beamed up at him.

“She killed him,” said Romaria, voice soft.

“She did,” said Mazael.

Romaria shook her head. “Malavost was a wizard of power, so strong he killed the Seer and defeated Lucan. And your sister...your sister is not the kind of woman to face such a man. Yet she killed him. I can scarce believe it.”

Rachel was laughing and crying at once, her face tight with joy and relief.

“She loves her son,” said Mazael, voice quiet. “She followed Aldane all the way from Knightcastle. She would have followed him into hell, if Malavost had gone there.”

Romaria looked at the rubble heap, where Ardanna climbed to her feet. She made no move to help her mother. “I wonder what that's like.”

Mazael remembered his own mother, who had lain with the Old Demon. “I wouldn't know.”

Ardanna hobbled down the pile of rubble, leaning on her staff. “You have done well, Lord Mazael. The temple is safe, and the power of Sepharivaim will not be loosed upon the world.”

She did not look at her daughter.

“Rachel killed Malavost, not I,” said Mazael. “And we could not have done it without Romaria's aid.”

Ardanna said nothing, still refusing to look at her daughter, and Romaria's eyes narrowed.

“Mazael!” Rachel walked closer, smiling, Aldane cradled in her arms.

“My lord Mazael,” said Gerald, his arm around Rachel's waist, “it is my honor and privilege to introduce you to your nephew, my firstborn son, Aldane of the House of Roland.”

“It is an honor,” said Mazael, taking Rachel's hand, “and a long overdue one, at that.”

“Thank you,” whispered Rachel.

Mazael smiled, and kissed her forehead.

Chapter 34 - The Lady of Castle Cravenlock

Deepforest Keep celebrated.

Six hundred men of the city had been slain, along with three hundred of the Elderborn, and many more wounded. But Deepforest Keep had survived. Ultorin had been slain at Mazael's hand, and Malavost devoured by the very power he had sought to conjure. At Romaria's command, the people of the city and the tribes of the Elderborn gathered in the Garden of the Temple for a great feast, to honor their dead, to praise the valiant, and to offer thanks for their victory.

And to the people gathered to eat and drink, to celebrate and weep. Singers from the Elderborn tribes wandered among the tables, singing both laments and songs of victory. Men and women wept, while others cheered and drank.

Mazael had seen such celebrations before, a mixture of joy and sorrow. So many had fallen...but they had survived.

“I have to stay,” said Romaria.

“I know,” said Mazael.

They stood at the edge of the Garden, watching the crowds. Rachel stood with Gerald, showing Aldane to Rhodemar and Sil Tarithyn and Sir Cavilion and Circan anyone else she could find. Ardanna and the druids were absent, gathering in secret rites to select a new Seer.

“There's been so much damage,” said Romaria. “So much needs to be rebuilt. There are still Malrags left to hunt down, and the Elderborn will not rest while a single Malrag lurks in the Great Southern Forest.” She took a deep breath. “And the people need me. I can step down later, once the damage has been repaired.”

“I know,” said Mazael. “I thought you were dead, Romaria. This time with you...it has been a gift. Even if we spent most of it fighting for our lives. I will wait for you, however long it takes.”

“Thank you,” said Romaria, and then, “I love you.”

“I love you,” said Mazael.

Her eyes glimmered in the torchlight. “Come with me.”

She took his hand, and led him to their rooms in the Champion's Tower.

###

The next day Mazael Cravenlock left Deepforest Keep, with Gerald, Rachel, and all his men.

Lucan Mandragon rested in a cot stretched between two horses. He remained alive, if barely, despite whatever Malavost had done to him. Sometimes Mazael looked at Lucan, at his twisted limbs, gray flesh, and black veins, and wondered if Romaria had been right, if it would have been kinder to simply kill him.

But, no. Lucan had stood by him through some dark times, and Mazael would not abandon him now.

Mazael took one last glance at Deepforest Keep, at the walls and towers, at the mighty oaks rising from within the city. Romaria was there, and his heart would remain with her as well.

Someday, she would return to him.

He returned his attention to his men. Ultorin was dead and his host shattered, but Malrag warbands still prowled the Forest, and he would be ready for them.

Mazael rode away from Deepforest Keep and did not look back.

###

Romaria stood atop the Champion's Tower, listening to the reports.

“Four months to rebuild the gate, I think,” said the chief of the builders. “And the druids will have to repair the warding spells, of course.”

Romaria nodded, the bronze diadem cool against her brow, and the builder left, leaving her alone with the High Druid.

“What about a new Seer?” said Romaria.

“A new Seer is born, not chosen by the druids,” said Ardanna, her golden eyes cold, her voice tight. “When we find him, we shall know him. Until then, we shall have to do without the guidance of a Seer. You should know this, child, if you are to serve as the Greenshield.”

“And how am I to know,” said Romaria, “if you will not tell me?”

“You are an abomination,” said Ardanna, anger flashing in her eyes, “and...”

“Still, mother?” said Romaria. She ought to feel hurt, she knew. Or angry. Instead, she only felt exasperation. “After all this? The founders of Deepforest Keep intended for the Greenshield to be a half-blood. Only a half-blood could awaken the traigs. And without the traigs, Ultorin would have razed the city to the ground.”

“Then the founders of the city were mistaken,” said Ardanna. “A half-blood is an abomination! It...”

And Romaria had heard enough. Deepforest Keep had been her home while Athaelin had lived, but her father had died defending it. And now home was wherever she made it. Wherever she wanted to go.

She looked north, towards Castle Cravenlock.

Towards home.

“You must let yourself be guided by me in all things,” said Ardanna, “and...”

“Shut up,” said Romaria, without rancor. “I am sick to death of your voice.”

Ardanna fell silent, stunned, and Romaria walked away without another word.

###

Romaria found her brother in his rooms, honing the edge of his sword.

“Romaria.” Rhodemar smiled, though his eyes remained sad. Then he grinned. “Or my lady Greenshield, I should say. What...”

Romaria removed the diadem, placed it upon his head, and handed him the ancient Greenshield.

“What?” said Rhodemar, stunned. “What is this?”

“You passed the Ritual of Rulership yourself, did you not?” said Romaria.

Rhodemar managed to nod. “But you are Father's eldest child...”

“I have visited Deepforest Keep perhaps five times in the last fifteen years,” said Romaria. “You lived here, Rhodemar. This is your home, your people. You would make a better Champion for them than I ever would.”

“But you defeated the Malrags,” said Rhodemar.

“And now the people need you to rebuild,” said Romaria.

For a long moment Rhodemar stared at her. “Are you sure?”

“I am,” said Romaria.

“Is there anything you would ask of me?” said Rhodemar. “Anything at all?”

“Yes,” said Romaria. “Just a horse.”

###

Three days from Deepforest Keep, Gerald looked at Rachel.

Rachel blinked. “What?”

“You're smiling,” said Gerald.

“And why should I not smile?” said Rachel, lifting the baby in her arms. She had to put Aldane down from time to time, but she tried to avoid it as often as possible. She had lost too much time with her son already. “Our son is restored to us.”

“This is different,” said Gerald. “Like...you have a secret.”

He knew her so well.

“I do,” said Rachel. “I found out before I left, when I spoke to Romaria. She...said I smelled different, and I asked why.”

“What's the secret?” said Gerald.

Rachel smiled. “I'm pregnant.”

She had the great satisfaction of watching the surprise on his face change to a delighted smile.

###

“My lord!”

Mazael reined up. One of the scouts hurried over.

“What is it?”

“A rider,” said the scout. “Just one, coming from the city.”

Mazael frowned. A messenger?

The rider came into sight, mounted on a mare, face hidden beneath the cowl of a worn green cloak. The rider reined up, and threw back the green hood, and Mazael found himself looking into Romaria's brilliant blue eyes.

“My lord Mazael!” she said. “Do you have room for one more in your party?”

He grinned. “I think so.”

###

The column rode north, weaving its way around the massive trees.

The two horses carrying Lucan's cot stayed to the rear. Lucan himself lay upon the cot, still breathing, his eyes closed.

Though from time to time a glimmer of blood-colored light leaked through his eyelids.

THE END

Turn the page for an exclusive bonus chapter from Soul of Dragons, the next book in the DEMONSOULED saga. For immediate notification of new releases, you can sign up for my email newsletter here, or watch for news on my Facebook page.

Soul of Dragons Bonus Chapter

Mazael Cravenlock turned his head just as green lightning exploded from the sky and tore into the earth.

An instant later the wave of hot air from the blast slammed into him, tugging at his cloak and the mane of his horse, an ill-tempered destrier named Hauberk. The horse whinnied in alarm, even as another blast screamed out of the sky, ripping a nearby tree to burning shreds. Behind Mazael, both his men and Sir Gerald Roland's men shouted in alarm. But there was no panic. The knights and armsmen dropped from their horses, while the archers strung their bows and seized quivers of arrows.

Every last man was a veteran of the war against the Malrags.

Every last one of them had seen men die at the hands of Malrags.

As they, too, might die, if one of those lightning bolts landed with any accuracy.

“Circan!” shouted Mazael.

A tall, thin man in a long black coat hurried to Mazael's side, his clothing a stark contrast against his pale face and blond hair. Even as he ran, Circan muttered a spell, his hands flying through arcane gestures. The wizard thrust his hand into the sky as another green lightning bolt screamed out of the cloudless sky. Blue light flashed around his hand, and the blast rebounded from Circan's spell to rip a tree in half.

Circan swayed on his feet. “My lord, you must find the Malrag shaman, and quickly. I do not know how many more of those blasts my spells can deflect.”

Mazael gave a sharp nod. Even Lucan Mandragon, one of the most powerful wizards Mazael had ever known, had difficulty deflecting the lightning spells of the Malrag shamans.

Though Lucan was in no shape to do anything, just now.

“Do you know where they are?” said Mazael.

Circan gave a sharp nod, rolling a wire-wrapped quartz crystal around his gloved fingers. Mazael had seen that spell before, knew that it let a wizard sense the presence of foes from a distance.

“Aye, my lord...a mile, perhaps a mile and a half, to the north.” Circan's face tightened in a frown. “At least two hundred of them. Approaching quickly.”

Mazael swore. He had one hundred and sixty men – one hundred and twenty of his, and forty of Gerald's, who had survived the great battle at Deepforest Keep. But they were veterans, and knew how to fight Malrags. If Mazael kept his wits about him, they could overcome the Malrags.

Even as the thought passed Mazael's mind, a man and a woman ran to his side. The man was tall and strong, with blue eyes and a blond mustache trimmed with razor precision. Sir Gerald Roland wore armor polished to a mirror sheen, even here in the heart of the Great Southern Forest, and carried a bared longsword in his right fist.

The woman was tall and lean, with long black hair and eyes the blue of mountain glaciers. She wore wool and leather armor, her jerkin studded with steel disks, and carried a composite bow in her right hand. The hilt of a bastard sword rose over her shoulder, and she moved with an easy, fluid grace. Mazael's men were hard fighters, accustomed to war, yet even they gave deference to Romaria Greenshield.

After all, they had seen her become a great wolf and tear the throats from her enemies, and wake an army of statues to smash the Malrags below the walls of Deepforest Keep.

“Why didn't our scouts see them coming?” said Gerald.

“I don't know,” said Romaria. “They just rode in five minutes past, and claimed to see nothing. Even a blind man couldn't miss two hundred Malrags.” She lifted her face, nostrils flaring as she sniffed at the air.

“What is it?” said Mazael. He knew to trust Romaria's instincts.

And her supernaturally keen senses.

“I didn't smell them,” said Romaria. “Malrags smell of decay. Like a tumor filled with poison. I can smell them five miles off. I didn't smell these Malrags until a few moments ago. As if they appeared out of nowhere.” For an instant her lips peeled back from her teeth, making her look almost wolfish. “And they don't smell like Malrags.”

“What do they smell like?” said Mazael.

“Dust,” said Romaria. “Old bones.”

“They don't...feel like Malrags,” said Circan, hand clenched around the quartz crystal. “I know what Malrags feel like by now. I can sense the Malrag shamans. What the others are...I'm not sure.”

Mazael shared a look with Gerald. He had known the younger man for years, ever since Gerald had been a squire. They had been in numerous battles together, some of them dire, and in war Mazael trusted Gerald's judgment as much as his own.

“A shield wall,” said Gerald. “Facing the foe. The archers behind. As soon as we see they enemy, the archers release. Then we can decide whether or not to charge, or to hold the shield wall and wait for their attack. We can keep the wounded and the baggage behind the shield wall, along with the...others.”

Others like Gerald's pregnant wife and infant son.

“Aye,” said Mazael, “do it.”

Gerald shouted orders, and the men hastened to obey. The knights and armsmen hurried forward, shields raised to form a solid wall of steel-banded oak. Behind them the archers formed up, arrows waiting at their bowstrings. After the archers waited the baggage animals and those too injured to fight. A woman sat in their midst, dark-haired and green-eyed, an infant of a few months cradled in her arms.

Rachel Roland looked frightened, but her face held no hint of panic or despair, only a steely determination. And why not? Mazael's sister had chased the San-keth to the ends of the earth to get her son back, had found the courage to attack Malavost as the wizard prepared to murder the child. After facing such horrors, why should a few Malrags intimidate her?

She gave Mazael a grim nod and held Aldane tighter.

Behind Rachel stood a pair of pack horses, a cot stretched between them. A misshapen figure wrapped in heavy blankets rested in the cot, lying motionless. Mazael could have used Lucan Mandragon's aid against the Malrags.

But Lucan was in no condition to help anyone.

Mazael walked before the shield wall, Romaria at his side. If he could have, he would have ordered her to remain with the archers. He had seen her struck down once before, and had no desire to repeat the experience. But he knew she would not listen.

Besides, she could take her of herself in battle. Better than most of his men.

“They're coming,” hissed Circan, gazing at the trees to the north.

Mazael braced himself and drew his sword. Three and a half feet of steel blade glimmered in his fist. The sword's crosspiece and hilt had been worked with gold, its pommel shaped into a golden lion's head, jaws open in a roar. He called the sword Lion, and it had been forged in ancient time, imbued with potent magic to fight the powers of darkness, burning with azure flame when confronted with dark magic.

As it began to burn now.

Mazael saw the lines of blue light shining within the steel, saw the flicker of pale flame at the edge of the blade. Creatures of dark magic were coming.

The Malrags.

To the north, the trees rustled, and Mazael heard the underbrush cracking and snapping. Romaria lifted her bow, and Mazael heard the creak as the archers drew.

“These wretched trees,” muttered Gerald, lifting his shield. “If we were on the plains, we could sweep aside the Malrags with one solid charge.”

“We're not in the Grim Marches yet,” said Mazael. A halo of crackling blue flame snarled around Lion's blade. “Brace yourselves!”

A moment later dark shapes leapt from the trees.

Mazael expected to see Malrags. Creatures with gray, leathery skin. Hands with six fingers and the fang-filled mouths. White, colorless eyes, and a third eye glowing in the foreheads of the shamans. Black armor, and the axes and spears of black steel.

He did not expect to see a line of animated corpses burst from the trees, moving with inhuman speed, empty eyes shining with green flame. The creatures looked as if they had been dead for some time, crumbling flesh stretched tight over yellowing bones. Yet they moved with supernatural speed and power, some racing on all fours as their clawed fingers raked at the earth. Mazael had seen such creatures before. They were corpses, raised by the dark magic of a skilled necromancer.

Zuvembies.

Lion shuddered in his grasp, its azure flame burning brighter.

“Release!” bellowed one of the archers.

“No!” shouted Mazael, “no, lower your bows, take your...”

But it was too late. His men knew how to fight Malrags, but most of them had never seen a zuvembie before. A storm of arrows slammed into the charging mob of zuvembies. The impact knocked the front row down, sent them sprawling into the others. But the arrowheads did not harm the undead flesh.

Normal steel could not wound a thing raised by necromancy.

And then the mob of zuvembies crashed into the shield wall, claws raking against the iron and wood. The knights and armsmen struck back, yet their blades rebounded from the zuvembies as if they had struck steel. In an instant Mazael saw one man go down, and then another, the zuvembies clawing at throats and faces.

He sprang into motion.

Lion blurred in his fist, and Mazael struck the head from the nearest zuvembie. His sword sheared through the undead flesh with ease, and blue fire extinguished the green glow in the zuvembie's empty sockets. The creature collapsed to the earth in a pile of yellowed bones and dusty flesh. Mazael wheeled, striking the arm from another zuvembie, Lion's blade splitting the skull of another.

Then he spun, and slapped Lion against the flat of Gerald's blade.

The blue flame spread to Gerald's sword, wreathing it in a halo of ghostly light. Gerald had fought zuvembies before, and knew what to do. He hastened into the fray, smashing a zuvembie attacking a pair of knights, chips of yellow bone flying from his blade. Romaria cast aside her bow and drew her bastard sword with a steely hiss, and Mazael slapped Lion against her sword. Again Lion's flames spread, and Romaria attacked, bastard sword gripped in both hands.

Mazael raced through the fray, slapping Lion against the swords and spears of his men. The ancient sword's fire spread, and soon the battlefield shone with blue light. The zuvembies were quick and strong, but wore no armor, and the burning swords and spears cut them down with ease. Mazael smashed down another zuvembie, the stench of decayed bone and long-desiccated flesh filling his nostrils, and risked a quick glance around the battlefield. They were winning. He had lost a half-dozen men to the charge of the zuvembies, but they were winning.

But who had created the zuvembies? It took a necromancer, and a powerful one, to raise zuvembies from the corpses of the slain. A Malrag shaman? That would explain the green lighting. But he had never seen a Malrag shaman powerful enough to raise the zuvembies...

A bloodcurdling roar rang out, and Malrags raced from the trees, armored in black steel, black axes and spears in their hands.

“Shield wall!” roared Mazael, cutting down another zuvembie. “Reform the shield wall! Now! Now!”

These Malrags looked...different.

They stood perhaps a foot taller than most Malrags, their arms and chests heavy with muscle beneath their black armor. Strange crimson veins crawled over their arms and six-fingered hands and faces, stark against their gray hides, and misshapen crimson tumors covered their faces.

An arrow shot past Mazael's shoulder, and then another, both burying themselves in the chests of the charging Malrags. He saw Romaria with her bow in hand, loosing arrow after arrow. More arrows whistled out, though the Malrags' armor deflected most.

Then the shield wall came together again, and the Malrags attacked.

Mazael swung at a Malrag, and the creature pivoted, catching the blow on its axe, and shoved against him. He stumbled, scrambling for balance, and deflected a blow from the axe on his shield. Gods, but the thing was strong! The Malrag roared and swung again, its colorless eyes wide with rage, and Mazael twisted, avoiding the blow. Lion lashed out and bit into the creature's leg, and the Malrag stumbled to one knee. Mazael brought Lion around in a backhand and beheaded the Malrag. Black blood spurted from the stump of the creature's neck, while a strange crimson slime leaked from the bulging veins.

But Mazael had no time to contemplate it. Another Malrag came at him with a roar, spear thrusting. He blocked the spear thrust on his shield, Lion carving a wound in the creature's thigh. The Malrag staggered, and then Romaria was behind it, her sword ripping open the side of its neck. Again black blood sprayed from the wound, along with that vile crimson slime.

The shield line bucked before the Malrag onslaught, but it held. These Malrags were stronger and faster, but they were still Malrags, and Mazael's men knew how to fight them. Mazael slew Malrag after Malrag. Gerald bashed one across the face with his shield, yellow fangs flying from the impact, and drove his gleaming longsword into the creature's heart. Romaria moved through the creatures in a blur, movements almost dancelike, her grip shifting from one-handed to two-handed and back again as she killed.

And it was over. The remaining Malrags fled into the trees, scattering in all directions. The zuvembies lay in broken heaps of shattered bone and leathery flesh, the green light in their skulls extinguished. Mazael's men started to break, moving in pursuit of the scattering Malrags.

“Hold!” shouted Mazael. “Hold, damn you! There might be more of them!”

“There weren't that many,” said Gerald, black blood dripping from his blade. Mazael saw him look through the lines to Rachel on her horse, heard him sigh in relief. “No more than two score, I think.”

“And no more than eighty zuvembies,” said Romaria.

“Did you ever see a Malrag shaman raise zuvembies?” said Mazael. She had fought against Malrags, years ago, before she had ever come to the Grim Marches. She knew more about them than anyone Mazael had met, save for Lucan Mandragon.

Who was in no condition to answer questions.

“No,” said Romaria. “And I never saw a Malrag shaman before Ultorin attacked the Grim Marches.”

Mazael nodded, hand tightening around Lion's hilt. The blade's flames dimmed as the surviving Malrags retreated. Someone was commanding the Malrags, that was plain. A skilled wizard could take control of a Malrag band. Or a powerful Demonsouled, with a soul tainted by demon magic, could command Malrags with ease.

Mazael himself could have commanded the Malrags, if he gave in to the dark power in his soul, let that seductive black strength consume him...

No.

But if a Demonsouled commanded the Malrags...that meant a Demonsouled with the ability to raise zuvembies. A Demonsouled wizard, then, able to use the dark power of his soul to fuel his spells. That gave Mazael pause. His father was the Old Demon, the eldest of the Demonsouled, a creature of terrible cunning and a wizard of crushing magical might. Mazael had defeated him once, but he knew his father had not forgotten him.

Had the Old Demon come for him at last?

“Circan,” said Mazael. The young wizard nodded, pale hair damp with sweat. He had taken no part in the battle, saving his spells in case the Malrag shamans attacked again. Lucan would have had the strength to unleash his spells in the battle, even as he deflected the shamans' lighting bolts.

Mazael missed Lucan, both his aid and his counsel.

“Aye, my lord?” said Circan.

“Any more of them out there?” said Mazael.

Circan rolled the wire-wrapped crystal through his fingers, eyelids fluttering. “There...yes. Perhaps a score of those deformed Malrags. And...” His eyes opened wide.

“What is it?” said Mazael.

“Four hundred of them,” said Circan. “Perhaps six miles away. Coming this way, quickly. My lord, they will be upon us within the hour.”

Mazael cursed. Mounted men could take on a large number of Malrags. Yet here, among the tangled roots and uneven ground of the Great Southern Forest, riding horses into battle was suicide. Four hundred Malrags would overwhelm Mazael's men, especially if the shamans unleashed their green lightning. Could Mazael break free, escape before the Malrags caught them? No, Malrags moved faster then men on foot.

“We'll need to fortify,” said Gerald. “Find a strong place where the terrain works to our advantage, and fight the Malrags from a position of strength.”

“We need more time than we have to fortify,” said Mazael, his mind racing. “We'll...”

“Mazael,” said Romaria. “There is a ruined castle near here, from the kingdom of Old Dracaryl. It's been abandoned for years, but the walls still stand. We can fortify the gate, and hold out until we can kill whatever balekhan or Demonsouled commands the Malrags.”

“Can we make it in time?” said Mazael.

“It's three miles southeast,” said Romaria. “Overlooking the stream we forded this morning. If we hasten, we can get there before the Malrags.”

Mazael stared into the trees. They had encountered a few Malrag warbands since leaving Deepforest Keep, but ragged groups of a few dozen, some still bearing wounds from Ultorin's crushing defeat. Four hundred Malrags aided by zuvembies and shamans was a far more dangerous foe. Mazael needed an edge.

“Go,” said Mazael, ramming Lion into its scabbard and turning towards Hauberk.

They rode to the southeast, taking the wounded with them, and leaving the dead behind.

Follow this link to continue reading Soul of Dragons.

About the Author

Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair 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.

Visit his website at:

http://www.jonathanmoeller.com

Visit his technology blog at:

http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/screed

Contact him at:

jmcontact@jonathanmoeller.com

You can sign up for his email newsletter here, or watch for news on his Facebook page.

Table of Contents

Description

Other books by the author

Epigraph

Chapter 1 - Warband

Chapter 2 - Balekhan

Chapter 3 - The Wolves Gather

Chapter 4 - The Lady and the Knight

Chapter 5 - Calibah

Chapter 6 - Pursuit

Chapter 7 - The Dragons

Chapter 8 - The Grand Master

Chapter 9 - The Cleric of Sepharivaim

Chapter 10 - Reunion

Chapter 11 - The Black Wolf

Chapter 12 - Cenotaph

Chapter 13 - The Lord of Deepforest Keep

Chapter 14 - The Duel

Chapter 15 - Rebirth

Chapter 16 - The March

Chapter 17 - The Battle of Castle Cravenlock

Chapter 18 - The Pursuit

Chapter 19 - The Great Southern Forest

Chapter 20 - Falling Leaves

Chapter 21 - Deepforest Keep

Chapter 22 - The High Druid

Chapter 23 - The Seer

Chapter 24 - The Siege

Chapter 25 - Ritual of Rulership

Chapter 26 - The Rally

Chapter 27 - The Sortie

Chapter 28 - Retreat

Chapter 29 - Call of the Wolf

Chapter 30 - Bloodsword

Chapter 31 - The Betrayal

Chapter 32 - The Opening

Chapter 33 - The Door of Souls

Chapter 34 - The Lady of Castle Cravenlock

Soul of Dragons Bonus Chapter

About the Author

Table of Contents

- Demonsouled

- Other books by the author
- Epigraph
- Chapter I
- Chapter II
- Chapter III
- Chapter IV
- Chapter V
- Chapter VI
- Chapter VII
- Chapter VIII
- Chapter IX
- Chapter X
- Chapter XI
- Chapter XII
- SOUL OF TYRANTS Bonus Chapter
- About the Author

- Soul of Tyrants

- Book Description
- Epigraph
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Soul of Serpents Bonus Chapter
- Other books by the author
- About the Author

- Soul of Serpents

- Description
- Other books by the author
- Epigraph
- Chapter 1 - Warband
- Chapter 2 - Balekhan
- Chapter 3 - The Wolves Gather
- Chapter 4 - The Lady and the Knight
- Chapter 5 - Calibah
- Chapter 6 - Pursuit
- Chapter 7 - The Dragons
- Chapter 8 - The Grand Master
- Chapter 9 - The Cleric of Sepharivaim
- Chapter 10 - Reunion
- Chapter 11 - The Black Wolf
- Chapter 12 - Cenotaph
- Chapter 13 - The Lord of Deepforest Keep
- Chapter 14 - The Duel
- Chapter 15 - Rebirth
- Chapter 16 - The March

- Chapter 17 - The Battle of Castle Cravenlock

- Chapter 18 - The Pursuit
- Chapter 19 - The Great Southern Forest
- Chapter 20 - Falling Leaves
- Chapter 21 - Deepforest Keep
- Chapter 22 - The High Druid
- Chapter 23 - The Seer
- Chapter 24 - The Siege
- Chapter 25 - Ritual of Rulership
- Chapter 26 - The Rally
- Chapter 27 - The Sortie
- Chapter 28 - Retreat
- Chapter 29 - Call of the Wolf
- Chapter 30 - Bloodsword
- Chapter 31 - The Betrayal
- Chapter 32 - The Opening
- Chapter 33 - The Door of Souls
- Chapter 34 - The Lady of Castle Cravenlock
- Soul of Dragons Bonus Chapter
- About the Author