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.”

***