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.

***