1
The Old Crow Roosts
Mazael awoke to pounding at his bedchamber door.
He had fallen asleep in one of the room’s great overstuffed chairs, Romaria curled besides him. She had sat up beside him until he slipped into exhausted stupor, and for some reason her presence kept the nightmares away.
Mazael wanted to kiss her. He dared not. Rage had unlocked the demon within his skull. What if passion did the same? He was afraid for her. He was afraid of himself.
How far he had fallen. A month ago he had feared nothing.
The pounding redoubled. “Sir Mazael!” came Adalar’s voice, faint through the thick wood. “Sir Mazael, you must come at once!”
Romaria’s eyes fluttered open. “We have company.”
“He wouldn’t come for nothing," said Mazael. Suppose the madness took him and he slew Adalar in his rage? How could he face Sir Nathan?
Mazael rose pushed the door open.
“Sir Mazael,” said Adalar. “Lord Mitor commands your presence in the courtyard at once.”
“Why?”
“We’d best go, Mazael.” Gerald waited behind Adalar with Wesson at his side, clad in his finest surcoat. “You’ll never believe who’s come to pay Lord Mitor a visit.”
Mazael strode into the stairwell and looked out the window. A band of armored lancers sat atop their horses within the barbican. One of the lancers held a tall standard, flying a banner with a black crow clutching a craggy rock in its talons.
The banner of Sir Tanam Crowley.
Mazael swore. “Crowley. Is he mad? Mitor’s liable to give him a swift axe to the back of the neck.”
“He only brought fifty men,” said Gerald. “There was some commotion. The guards nearly opened fire on sight. Sir Tanam said something, and they went to fetch Lord Mitor instead.” Gerald frowned. “Perhaps he went mad. Surely he knows Lord Mitor will exact vengeance for Lady Rachel’s abduction.”
“Oh, he’s here for a reason, all right,” said Mazael. “Lord Richard’s reasons. Lord Richard is up to something here, don’t doubt it. Adalar, get my armor and my sword belt. Gerald, send Wesson to get Timothy. Lord Richard’s younger son is supposedly a skilled wizard, and he could have sent other wizards as well. It’s possible there’s some trickery here.”
Adalar retrieved Mazael’s weapons and armor, Wesson returned with Timothy in tow, and they descended the stairs of the King's Tower. Lord Mitor and his court waited near the keep, surrounded by two hundred armsmen in Cravenlock colors. Sir Nathan stood with the armsmen, and Simonian waited in Mitor's shadow. Mazael wondered why Mitor had been foolish enough to allow Sir Tanam to inside the castle.
Sir Tanam sat atop his horse with his lancers. His face was still bruised.
“Sir Tanam!” called Mazael. “How unexpected to see you once again.”
Sir Tanam grinned a gap-toothed smile and rode over. “The same to you as well, Sir Mazael. I’d not expected to see you at all. My lord Richard was most displeased.”
“I can imagine,” said Mazael. “Two men and a boy making off with his prize.”
“Dreadfully embarrassing,” said Sir Tanam. He scratched at his nose. “Gods, that aches. You punch like a mule, you know.”
“Will you now take the opportunity for repayment?” said Mazael.
Sir Tanam laughed. “Gods above, no. War is war, after all. You could have killed me, and I certainly would have killed you had I the chance, so I’m grateful to have gotten off with a few bruises and a sore jaw.”
“My brother might be forgiving. I am not,” said Mitor. Sir Albron stepped to his side, Rachel waiting behind him. “Might I remind you, Old Crow, that you broke my good faith when last you visited my castle? You abducted my sister. It was only through good fortune that Lady Rachel was returned to me. Why should I not repay your betrayal with death?”
Sir Tanam shrugged. “For one, Lord Richard commanded me. He seems to think that your sister is consorting with dark powers.” Rachel tensed, and Albron's smiling gaze fixed on the Old Crow.
“Liar!” said Rachel.
Albron stepped forward, his hand resting on his sword hilt. “You besmirch the honor of my betrothed. That is most discourteous.”
Sir Tanam laughed. “Discourteous? You wrong me. I have never been discourteous to a lady.”
“You did kidnap her,” said Mazael.
“Well, true,” said Sir Tanam. “But we were very courteous about it.”
“Enough!” said Mitor. “I will not listen to you mince words with my armsmaster!”
Sir Tanam frowned at Albron. “Your armsmaster? Sir Nathan looks younger than I recall.”
Mitor ignored the jibe. “You did these crimes at the command of Richard Mandragon? Well, those accusations are a lie, a vicious slander. Lord Richard is my vassal, I am the liege lord of the Grim Marches!”
Sir Tanam scratched his nose. “Lord Richard disagrees, my lord.”
“Indeed?” said Simonian. “Men oft believe the strangest things, my lord knight.”
Sir Tanam looked at Mitor. “Oh, truly.”
Mitor sneered. “Let your precious Lord Richard slander. Let him lie until he runs out of breath. I’ll take him to task soon enough. I am the rightful liege lord of the Grim Marches. Richard Mandragon is a traitor and a usurper. I shall enforce my justice.”
“Really?” said Sir Tanam. “I am most curious, my lord. How do you plan to do that?”
Mitor laughed. “Did you not see the great army surrounding my castle, Old Crow? Are you blind? My armies shall crush Lord Richard’s and send him fleeing back to Swordgrim.”
“Indeed?” said Sir Tanam. “Truly, my lord, your army seems formidable. So formidable, in fact, that I rode right through them. No one noticed my presence until my men and I knocked at your gates. Indeed, my lord, I fear for Lord Richard if he must face men such as yours.”
“Wars are not always won through swords,” said Sir Albron.
“Truly,” said Sir Tanam. “Is that where the sorcery comes in, then?”
Albron smiled. “One more warning, sir. I’ll not have you insult my betrothed.”
“Bah!” said Mitor. “You came here for a reason, Crowley. Have done with it. I’ll not have all my day wasted with your squawking.”
Sir Tanam bowed. “As you say, my lord. Your army is clearly superior. You’ll soon have the chance to prove it. Lord Richard’s army is three days march from here.”
Mitor jerked. “What?”
“Impossible,” said Albron.
“Quite possible,” said Sir Tanam. “After Sir Mazael’s most splendid rescue of his sister, I made haste for Swordgrim. Once Lord Richard had heard my news, he marched. He had already gathered his armies. With him is all the power of Swordgrim, the armsmen of his loyal vassal Lord Jonaril Mandrake and a dozen other lords...including Lord Astor Hawking of Hawk’s Reach, Sir Commander.” Sir Tanam bowed to Sir Commander Galan. “Perhaps you’ll have the opportunity for a reunion.”
Sir Commander Galan made a fist. “You mock me?”
“Not at all,” said Sir Tanam. “I speak the truth. Lord Richard is three days from here with twenty-five thousand men. You really didn’t know? Your scouts must be formidable, my lord Mitor. Truly, I fear for my lord Richard.”
“Do not mock me!” snarled Mitor. “Has the Dragonslayer sent you to surrender, to submit himself to my rightful lordship?”
Amusement flickered across Crowley’s battered face. “Not at all. Lord Richard wishes for this to end without bloodshed. Consequently, he is giving you one final chance, Lord Mitor. Disband your armies and travel to Swordgrim with your court and family. You will face his judgment for your acts. He will be merciful. These are his terms.”
“What acts are those?” said Mazael.
Sir Tanam scratched at his nose again. “Ah...well, treason, to start, rebellion, murder, inciting banditry...oh, and sorcery and idolatry. Let’s not forget those. Lord Richard has no quarrel with you, Sir Mazael. You acted out of ignorance when you freed Lady Rachel. No doubt you’d have sided with Lord Richard had you known the truth.”
“I will not fight against my sister,” said Mazael. “These stories of a San-keth cult are the worst sort of slander.”
“Perhaps,” said Sir Tanam. “I’ve heard stranger things, but not many. You do know, Sir Mazael, that if you side with Lord Richard, you’ll become the new lord of Castle Cravenlock once he is victorious?”
“Treason!” bellowed Lord Marcus Trand. He shoved his way to Mitor’s side. “My liege lord, I knew he plotted against you from the start. Let me...”
“Silence!” said Mitor. “Speak not another word, Old Crow, or else you and my brother will die inch by inch.”
“It is folly, you know,” said Simonian. “Lord Mitor is the rightful liege lord of the Grim Marches. The gods will surely favor him and grant him victory. Stand with him now, while you still can, Sir Tanam.” He smiled. “It is not yet too late.”
Sir Tanam laughed. “Whatever gods you pray to favor Lord Mitor, I’ve no doubt. But I’m quite sure the gods of heaven favor Lord Richard.”
Mitor quivered with rage. “A moment, Old Crow. My advisors and I need to discuss my answer for Richard Mandragon’s follies.”
Sir Tanam bowed. “By all means. Do hurry, though. You only have a few days left.” Crowley crossed the courtyard and rejoined his lancers.
“Impudent old crow,” said Sir Albron. “So Lord Richard wished to send his rightful liege lord an emissary? Well, my lord, let us make an answer. Hack off the Old Crow’s head and send it back. Richard Mandragon will have his answer.”
“That is dishonorable in the extreme,” said Sir Nathan. “Will you advise Lord Mitor to murder a guest?”
Sir Albron’s malicious smile fixed on the old knight. “Honor, Sir Nathan? Where is the honor in abducting Lady Rachel?“
“Lady Rachel was neither harmed nor mistreated,” said Nathan. “There is a difference between that and slaughter.”
“Indeed,” said Albron. “Perhaps when I’m your age I’ll have gained the wisdom to understand it. Sir Tanam is a fool, my lord Mitor. He has marched with fifty men into the heart of your power. Kill him now. Let Richard Mandragon know the price of opposing you!”
Mazael scoffed. “Sir Tanam might be a fool. But if you listen to Albron, Mitor, you’re a bigger fool still.”
Albron’s glittered like cold gems. “Why is that?”
“You dare call me a fool?” said Mitor, spinning on Mazael.
Mazael waved a hand at Sir Tanam’s men. “Look at them, Mitor! Why were you so foolish as to invite them inside the castle? Look at the way those lancers are positioned! You give the order to attack and they’ll ride you down before your men can react.”
Mitor flushed. “They...no, they wouldn’t dare...I am the liege lord...they cannot...”
Lord Marcus blanched. “Perhaps it would be better to parley.”
“Bah!” said Sir Commander Galan. “Are we to fear this rabble? A Justiciar Knight could take them five-on-one.”
“Fine, then!” said Mazael. “It’s in your hands, Mitor. Command your armsmen to attack. Pray Sir Albron’s steel will protect you. Trust in Simonian’s arts to defend you. But you had best hope that you were wise in your choice of servants, or else you’ll taste the Old Crow’s lance.”
Mitor’s eyes flicked from Simonian, to Albron, and then to the Old Crow’s lancers. For a moment Mazael thought that Mitor would order his men to attack. Mazael’s hand clenched around Lion’s hilt. He would make certain Rachel survived, at least.
“No,” said Mitor. “I’ll not have men say I stooped to the level of Richard the Usurper. I’ll not murder men in the shadow of my castle. We shall parley with them. I intend to send Lord Richard a message.”
“What message shall we send, my lord?” said Sir Albron.
“We shall tell Sir Tanam that his thieving master must disband his army. Richard shall come before me and acknowledge my liege lordship. He may then return to his northern estates, for I intend to take Swordgrim as mine once more. But he must leave his son Toraine as my hostage, to ensure his obedience.”
“Lord Richard will never agree to such terms,” said Sir Nathan.
Mitor scoffed. “I expect he won’t! I am the liege lord of the Grim Marches! He will come to me and ask for peace, or else I shall sweep him from the face of the earth.”
“With what?” said Mazael. “With the ten thousand rabble you have crouching outside your gates?”
Mitor’s lips pulled back from his teeth. “You go too far!”
“I have not gone far enough!” said Mazael. “Think, my lord brother! This is your last chance. You can’t believe that this rebellion of yours will succeed. With what will you defeat Lord Richard? Your soldiers? He has fifteen thousand more than you. Simonian’s arts? Lord Richard will have brought his vassals’ court wizards. With Sir Albron’s leadership? Albron can’t even set a decent guard. Lord Richard isn’t threatening you. He’s giving you one last chance to turn back from the abyss.”
Mitor went deathly pale. His hands clenched into fists, the knuckles shining white through his skin, and for a moment, just a moment, despair covered Mitor's face. For the first time Mazael wondered what had driven his older brother to rebellion.
Then Mitor's face hardened. “You will regret those words, Mazael. I’ve tolerated you and your arrogance long enough. When I come into my liege lordship, there will be a reckoning, do not doubt it. With the Mandragons, with all the fools who supported them, and with you.”
“My lord speaks justice,” murmured Simonian.
“Your lord is a fool,” said Mazael, disgusted.
Mitor swept away from them.
“You’ve reached a decision, my lord?” said Sir Tanam.
“Old Crow!” said Mitor. “You may carry this message back to your murdering lord. Tell Richard Mandragon that he is to disband his armies and dismiss my vassal lords from his service. Then he and his sons, Toraine and Lucan Mandragon, must come with all haste to Castle Cravenlock where they shall submit to my judgment.” Mitor smiled. “I have not decided if I shall be merciful. Most likely not.”
“I see,” said Sir Tanam. “Lord Richard’s not like to welcome those terms.”
“I know that!” shouted Mitor. “If Richard wants peace, let him come to me and grovel for it!”
Sir Tanam sighed. “Then it looks as if I’m to wear out my poor horse riding back and forth between Lord Richard’s camp and here.”
“I should take your head and send it back to Mandragon,” said Mitor.
Sir Tanam shrugged. “That would solve my problems, at any rate, but that would bring you quite a few more.”
Lord Marcus huffed. “Who would miss an old crow?”
“I would,” said Sir Tanam.
“My lord, sir knight,” said Simonian. “There is no need for this squabbling. Lord Richard sent you here to parley? Then let my lord and Lord Richard parley. My lord Mitor, why not invite Lord Richard here to discuss your differences?”
“Very well,” said Mitor. “You speak wisdom, Simonian.” He turned to the Old Crow. “Let Lord Richard come, if he wishes to parley. Let him speak for himself!”
Sunlight glittered off Sir Tanam’s battered armor. “Actually, Lord Richard anticipated such a request. He invites you to come to his camp.”
Mitor laughed. “Bah! Does Mandragon think me such a fool! I will not walk into the arms of his treachery!” Mazael refrained from pointing out that Mitor had almost ordered Sir Tanam's death. “Why should I trust a lord whose vassal would abduct an innocent lady out from under my roof? I am Richard Mandragon’s greatest enemy!”
Sir Tanam’s smile was sardonic. “Of course.”
“I have no doubt that Mandragon has his armies waiting in ambush for me, should I prove foolish enough to come to his camp,” Mitor said. “Yes, yes, Mandragon knows he cannot take my host in a fair and honorable fight. He is reduced to conniving ambushes.”
Sir Tanam smiled. “Indeed, my lord. I could not have said it better myself. I can see your wisdom in fearing treachery. Why not send an emissary in your name?”
“Bah!” said Mitor.
Simonian shifted. “It is a prudent suggestion, my lord. Perhaps Lord Richard can yet be made to see reason. Why should this end in bloodshed?” His rough voice took on a note of irony. “Send an emissary, my lord, someone who can negotiate in your name.”
“Suppose Richard decides to commit an act of treachery anyhow?” said Mitor.
Simonian shrugged. “That is a risk the emissary shall simply have to take, I fear. But what better way to die than in the service of a wise and powerful lord?”
“Sir Nathan!” said Mitor. The old knight stepped forward.
“My lord?” said Nathan.
“You’ve been looking for a way to serve me,” said Mitor. “This is the sort of thing that would have suited fat Othar, but the fool chose to eat himself to death rather than to serve his rightful lord.” A single muscle tightened near Nathan’s eyes. “I am sending you as an emissary.”
Sir Tanam nodded. “A respectable choice, my lord. Sir Nathan Greatheart is famed wide and far. But Sir Nathan does not have a high title, nor vast holdings. The good Sir Nathan has not the authority to treat with Lord Richard.” Sir Tanam glanced at Mazael. “Best send someone with higher rank, my lord. Someone of your own blood, perhaps.”
“It is Nathan or no one,” said Mitor.
“Lord Mitor,” said Mazael.
Mitor turned. “What?”
“Send me,” said Mazael.
Mitor laughed. “You? Why should I send you?”
“Sir Mazael’s suggestion is prudent, my lord,” said Simonian. “After all, what shall you lose if he is captured or killed? Nothing. And yet, he is your brother, and since you and the Lady Marcelle are childless, the heir to Castle Cravenlock.” Marcelle bristled. “He has sufficient stature to satisfy Lord Richard’s pride.”
“I agree,” said Sir Tanam. “Sir Mazael is an excellent choice. Send him. I know my lord would be most honored to receive him.”
Mitor glanced at Simonian. The wizard gave a slight nod.
“Very well,” said Mitor. “You may go, Mazael. I shall send fifty armsmen with you as a suitable escort.” He smirked. “Sir Nathan shall go as well. Sir Tanam and Richard Mandragon seem to hold him in such high honor. Perhaps he’ll help convince the Mandragons that surrender is their only option.”
Sir Tanam seemed pleased. “Undoubtedly, my lord. And, I, of course, will escort Sir Mazael and company in all honor to Lord Richard’s camp.”
Mitor ignored this. “And take that monk!”
“Brother Silar?” said Mazael.
“Yes, him,” said Mitor. “The fool has made a great nuisance of himself! Take him with you, Mazael, I command it! Richard Mandragon is such a friend to the Cirstarcians, let him take the monk.”
“I would take Sir Gerald with me, as well,” said Mazael, “along with Lady Romaria.” He did not trust Mitor and would not leave his friend in his older brother’s reach. And Mazael wanted Romaria at his side.
He did not want to endure another nightmare.
“The wild woman can ride to hell for all I care,” said Mitor. “But I would much prefer Sir Gerald to remain here, as my guest, under my protection.”
“As his hostage,” muttered Romaria.
“Lord Malden sent Sir Gerald and myself as observers,” said Mazael. “Doubtless Lord Malden would want his son to observe Lord Richard’s troops?”
“Sir Gerald is my guest,” said Mitor. “How would Lord Malden view it if I allowed his son to perish from Richard Mandragon’s treachery?”
“Oh, poorly,” said Mazael. “And just how do you think Lord Malden would view the restriction of his son’s freedom?”
Mitor hesitated. Perhaps it was the hope of Lord Malden’s aid that kept him defiant against Lord Richard. “Very well. Lord Malden is my friend, yes, and I shall not offend him.”
Sir Tanam did a little bow from his saddle. “My lord of Cravenlock is most gracious.”
“Save your flattery,” said Mitor. “Mazael, prepare to depart at once. I will not have this Old Crow roosting in my castle longer that necessary.”
Mazael nodded. He knew this parley was a farce, that Mitor wanted nothing more than to rid himself of his troublesome brother. Perhaps it was indeed a trap by Lord Richard. But what choice did Mazael have? Romaria had said that his dreams of blood had been triggered by hidden powers within himself, but suppose they were visions of things to come? This might be his one chance to avert those visions.
He turned to Sir Tanam. “We shall ride before noon.”
Sir Tanam's grin widened. “I look forward to it.”
2
Lord Richard Marches
Armor glittered and flashed under the afternoon sun as they rode north. Crowley’s banner flapped in the wind, while Mazael had entrusted Adalar with the Cravenlock banner, and Wesson had unfurled the Rolands' greathelm standard.
“What is that?” said Mazael.
Romaria grinned. “This?” She hefted the canvas sack hanging from her saddle.
“Yes, that,” said Mazael. “It looks like a bag of rocks.”
Romaria laughed and reached into the sack. “They’re apples. Want one?”
“Of course,” said Mazael, and she tossed one at him.
“You know, I’d never had apples before,” said Romaria, taking one for herself.
“What?” said Mazael.
“They don’t grow in the Great Southern Forest,” said Romaria. “Not enough sun, perhaps. Are there are none south of the mountains. I’d never seen one before last month.” She took a bite, swallowed. “They’re quite good, really. I talked a sack out of Cramton.”
Mazael gave Chariot half of his apple. “He was charmed by your beauty, no doubt.”
Romaria’s smile was sly. “Oh, no doubt. It’s fairly common. But you're the one with the charm.”
Mazael snorted. “Gods, I hope not. I prefer women.”
“I had noticed. But that’s not what I meant and you know it. You inspire loyalty.”
Mazael snorted. “Hardly.”
“Really?” said Romaria. “What about Sir Gerald? He’s a son of the great Lord Malden! He needn’t follow you. And Timothy and Adalar. And Sir Nathan, your old teacher, follows your orders without question.”
“I don’t want Castle Cravenlock, Romaria,” said Mazael.
Romaria shrugged. “You might not have a choice.”
“Destiny?” said Mazael. “Fate? I...”
“Don’t believe in it?” said Romaria. “I thought I explained that to you. We were fated to meet.”
“That’s different,” said Mazael. “I need you. I would have gone mad but for you. And I still could.”
“And what is that? Fate, or destiny, or the will of the gods, whatever you want to call it?” said Romaria.
Mazael had no answer.
Romaria leaned towards him. “We’d best speak of this later. It looks as if Sir Tanam and Brother Silar want a word with you.” The Old Crow and the monk rode up together.
“We should make Lord Richard’s camp in about three and a half days,” said Sir Tanam. “Longer, if any Mandragon forces demand explanations.”
“You don’t seem worried about any men from Castle Cravenlock,” said Mazael.
Sir Tanam cackled. “Worried? Of course not! I didn’t see a single one from here to Castle Cravenlock. I rode right up to the gates before anyone even saw us.” He smiled. “Sir Mazael, I could march an army to Castle Cravenlock and Lord Mitor wouldn’t know until we knocked him over the head.”
“He’s right, of course,” said Silar. “Lord Mitor’s defenses are limited, to say the least.”
“And how would you know?” said Mazael.
Silar laughed. “Remember White Rock? Who do you think helped Sir Albert design that palisade? I know a few things about war.”
Sir Tanam’s eyes flicked to Lion. “That is a most fine sword, by the way.”
Mazael shrugged. “Sorry I had to hit you with it.”
Sir Tanam snorted. “I should be grateful you didn’t hit me with the blade. It looks rather sharp.”
“It has other properties, as well,” said Silar.
“We’d heard of that,” said Sir Tanam. “Effective against the walking dead things, right?”
Mazael stiffened. “How do you know about that?”
“One of our outrider bands slipped past Castle Cravenlock and stopped by White Rock a few days past,” said Sir Tanam. “The village was buzzing with stories of your battle.”
“You got a band of outriders south of Castle Cravenlock?” said Mazael.
“That surprises you? Sir Albron Eastwater is not an effective commander,” observed Sir Tanam. “Do you really think he can defeat Lord Richard? I wonder, why are you siding with Mitor? If I might ask, of course. He obviously cares nothing for you. And you have everything to gain by going to Lord Richard’s side. If Mitor falls, you’ll be the next Lord of Castle Cravenlock.”
Mazael glared at him.
“I see I’ve given you much to ponder,” said Sir Tanam. “Worry not, Sir Mazael. Many of your questions will be answered once we reached Lord Richard’s camp.”
“Questions?” said Mazael. “What sort of game is your lord playing? I’m tired of games. Mitor plays one, Albron has his own, and Simonian...”
“You’ll see,” said Sir Tanam. He rode off, Silar following.
They passed many small villages and hamlets. Nearly all were deserted. Crowley told them that the peasants had fled north for the safety of Lord Richard’s forces. The silence reminded Mazael of the stillness that would rise before storms swept down from the mountains.
They made camp near one of the abandoned river hamlets. Romaria curled up besides Mazael and went to sleep. This raised some eyebrows amongst Crowley’s men, but none dared say anything.
Mazael didn't care. His sleep was dreamless and peaceful.
The next day Crowley's men veered to the northeast, setting a direct route towards Lord Richard’s camp. The lands north of Castle Cravenlock’s hills had been depopulated since Lord Richard’s uprising, and the grass had grown thick and high. They were forced to take their horses at a walk to avoid stones and debris hidden in the grass.
Later that day, a snake in the grasses spooked Chariot. The big horse reared and threw Mazael, and he took a long gash down his forearm from a jagged rock. Mazael made a show of having Timothy tend his wound, but even as the wizard wrapped bandages about the arm, Mazael felt the itch as the skin healed itself. By the time Timothy had finished, the gash had faded to a pale pink scar, and it vanished entirely an hour later. Fortunately, no one noticed. They had accused Rachel of witchcraft and sorcery. How would the Old Crow react if he saw Mazael’s flesh knit itself back together?
It troubled Mazael for the rest of the day. How powerful was the healing? Could it heal a mortal wound? Would it regenerate a severed limb? A finger of ice brushed his spine. Could he even be killed? The thought was terrifying and exhilarating.
They made camp for the second night. Again Romaria slept touching him, and again his rest was free from his father's bloodshot green gaze.
The third day of their journey was uneventful. Breezes ruffled the grasses of the Grim Marches, and Mazael saw countless blood roses. They made camp and the night passed quietly, untroubled by bandit or zuvembie.
Halfway through the fourth day, they reached Lord Richard Mandragon’s camp.
Romaria smelled it first. “We’re almost there.”
Mazael looked at her. “How do you know?”
“I can smell it,” she said.
“I can’t smell anything,” he said.
Romaria smiled. “You can’t? I’m surprised. Twenty-five thousand men, their horses, and their pack animals smell after a while.”
Gerald laughed. “Remember my brother Mandor’s camp after three weeks, Mazael? He never bothered to order fresh privy trenches dug. An old woman in the village died of the stink, I heard.”
Mazael grimaced. “Don’t remind me.”
“The most splendid lady is quite correct,” said Sir Tanam. “We near Lord Richard’s camp. We should arrive within the hour.”
A few minutes later Lord Richard Mandragon's camp came into sight.
It was a city of tents and a sea of waving banners. Mazael saw the Mandragons’ standard, the sigil of Hawk’s Reach, the fiery dragon of Drake’s Hall, and two dozen others. The tents themselves were lined up in neat rows, and a stake-lined ditch encircled the entire encampment.
Sir Tanam greeted the guards and rode into the camp. A thousand sounds and smells surrounded Mazael. He heard the hammering of blacksmiths, the bellow of shouted orders, the laughter of off-duty men, and the measured tread of drilling soldiers. He smelled cooking food, heated metal, sweat, blood, and the undercutting reek of the privy trenches.
A man-at-arms in chain mail and a Mandragon tabard ran up to Sir Tanam. “My lord knight, Lord Richard has been informed of your arrival. He and his captains await you and his...ah, guests in the command tent.” It was less than a minute’s ride to the command tent, a pyramid of green canvas atop a wooden pavilion, the Mandragon banner fluttering from a pole overhead.
“Here we are!” said Sir Tanam, sliding from his saddle. Grooms ran forward to take their horses. “Right this way, my lord knights, my lady. Lord Richard is expecting us.”
A long wooden table ran the length of the tents, maps and papers covering its surface. A dozen men stood around the table. One was short and stout and wore a surcoat emblazoned with the burning dragon of the Mandrake family, undoubtedly Lord Jonaril Mandrake of Drakehall. The man standing next to him was a younger version of Sir Commander Galan Hawking, no doubt Lord Astor Hawking.
But despite the others, Mazael recognized Lord Richard the Dragonslayer and his sons at once.
Lord Richard was in his mid-forties. His red hair and beard were streaked with white, making it seem as if encircling flames crowned his head. His eyes were black and unreadable, and his crimson armor was magnificent. Mazael had never seen anything like it. The armor was a combination of hand-sized plates and gleaming chain mail. He realized the plates were scales, taken from the dragons Lord Richard had slain in his youth.
The young man besides Lord Richard wore similar armor, though his was night-black. He was fit and lean, his expression arrogant and amused without the slightest hint of fear. This must be Toraine Mandragon, the infamous Black Dragon.
Behind him stood a shorter man clad in black wizard's garb, his hooded cloak shadowing his face. This was Lord Richard’s younger son Lucan Mandragon, the wizard the jongleurs called the Dragon’s Shadow. Lucan’s face was gaunt, his eyes hard and cold, and a mocking smirk played on his lips.
“Sir Mazael Cravenlock,” said Lord Richard, his deep voice resonant. “I am pleased Sir Tanam brought you.”
“Lord Richard Mandragon,” said Mazael. “Now that we’re certain of each other’s identity, shall we begin?”
“You are refreshingly direct,” said Lord Richard. “Many of my lords and knights would rather talk than act.”
Mazael thought of Albron and Mitor. “I understand.”
“Then let us begin,” said Lord Richard. “This is my son and heir, Toraine.” Toraine did not acknowledge Mazael. “This is my second son, Lucan." Lucan gave Mazael a grave nod, his dark eyes unreadable. "These are my lord captains.” He introduced Lord Jonaril and Lord Astor and the others. “You’ve already made the acquaintance of my old crow, I understand.”
Sir Tanam grinned. “Twice, actually.”
“This is Sir Gerald Roland,” said Mazael.
“Well met, Sir Gerald,” said Lord Richard. “I did not think to see the day when I would speak peacefully to a son of Lord Malden.”
Gerald bowed. “I’ve seen many strange things over the last month, my lord. Why not another?” Lucan’s sardonic smile widened.
“This is Sir Nathan Greatheart,” said Mazael. “This is Timothy deBlanc, a wizard in my service. And this is Lady Romaria Greenshield, sent by her father Lord Athaelin to investigate these events.”
“My lady,” said Lord Richard. “I am pleased your father chose to involve himself. Perhaps together we can bring an end to the madness that threatens this land.”
“I hope so,” said Romaria.
“And this is Brother Silar of the Cirstarcians, a monk who has decided to involve himself,” said Mazael.
“Brother Silar and I have met,” said Lord Richard. “He advised me on the history of Castle Cravenlock before he went to assist Sir Albert Krondig against the zuvembies. Please, be seated.” Mazael and his companions sat, and Lord Richard and his captains followed suit. “I assume Lord Mitor has sent a message for me?”
Mazael’s mouth twisted. “Oh, yes. He commands you to disband your armies, surrender Swordgrim, travel to Castle Cravenlock, and acknowledge his liege lordship. He hasn't decided if he will show mercy.”
Toraine Mandragon laughed. “Then Mitor is a bigger fool than I believed. Let us see his pride once we mount his head above his castle gate.”
Lord Jonaril snorted. “A poor idea, I say. I’ve met the man. His head would make a terrible eyesore.” Mazael remembered his dreams and tried not to shudder.
“You realize, of course,” said Lord Richard, “that I have no intention of standing down. The Mandragons are the rightful liege lords of the Grim Marches. That makes Lord Mitor a rebel and a traitor.”
“I realize that,” said Mazael.
Lord Richard folded his hands and placed them on the table. “I also have considerable information on Lord Mitor’s army. He has ten thousand men. Only six thousand are loyal. The four thousand from his own house, and two thousand more from Lords Roget and Marcus. The remaining four thousand are mercenaries of dubious reliability.”
“The Justiciar Knights have gone to support Mitor’s cause,” said Mazael.
Lord Richard did not blink. “The Justiciar estates in the Grim Marches will only supply Lord Mitor with two thousand men. Neither Lord Alamis Castanagent of the High Plain nor Lord Malden Roland of Knightcastle can move fast enough to aid Lord Mitor. I am only three days' march from Castle Cravenlock. By the time the Justiciar Grand Master sends reinforcements, the issue will have been decided.”
Toraine smiled. “If they hurry, the Justiciars will come in time to see the end of the Cravenlocks.”
“I see why my sister didn’t want to marry you,” said Mazael. Toraine bristled, but Lord Richard stilled him with a glance.
“I also possess a great deal of information on the formation of Lord Mitor’s forces,” said Lord Richard.
“From the Old Crow, no doubt,” said Mazael.
“Sir Tanam’s scouting work has been of great benefit to me,” said Lord Richard. “But the vast bulk of my knowledge has come from my many spies within the mercenary encampments. This fool Albron Eastwater is a tenth of the battle commander you are, my good Sir Nathan. Mitor's army is a farce.”
“It is sloppy, my lord,” said Sir Nathan. “Sir Albron will learn some bitter lessons.”
"Should he survive them," said Toraine.
“Ten thousand men against twenty-five thousand are poor odds in any circumstance,” said Lord Richard. “And when those ten thousand are poorly led, ill-disciplined, and improperly arrayed, the outcome is all but certain.”
“I know all this,” said Mazael. “I came here for a parley, not for a recitation of facts I already know.”
“The parley has yet to begin,” said Lord Richard. “I merely state what I will do. Tomorrow, I will march. I will fall on Castle Cravenlock and I will smash Mitor’s armies to shreds. Once the castle has fallen, I will hang Sir Albron Eastwater, my traitorous vassals Marcus Trand and Roget Hunterson, this foreign necromancer Simonian of Briault, and Lord Mitor and Lady Marcelle. I offered Lord Adalon and his sons mercy fifteen years ago. I will not have it thrown back in my face. Lord Adalon was wise enough to know that. It seems Lord Mitor is not.”
Mazael shoved back from the table and stood. “And what of Lady Rachel Cravenlock?”
“Her fate has yet to be decided,” said Lord Richard. “I would prefer to spare her life.”
Mazael laughed at him. “You call this a parley? This is a bill of execution.”
“Lord Mitor’s fate and the fate of his allies has been sealed,” said Lord Richard. “I have no desire to parley with them. You, however, are a different matter.”
“What?” said Mazael.
“Have you not yet realized it?” said Lord Richard. “I sent my old crow to Castle Cravenlock in hopes that Lord Mitor would send you as his emissary. Sir Tanam was instructed to work towards that end.”
Mazael sat back down. “Is that it? You want me to join you, and in return for my undying loyalty, I’ll become the next lord of Castle Cravenlock once Mitor’s hangs?”
Lord Richard did not blink. “Yes.”
“No,” said Mazael. “I’ll not...”
“Not what?” said Lord Richard. “Betray your brother? Sir Mazael, did it not occur to you that Lord Mitor has already betrayed you? He did not send you here to parley a peace. He sent you here in hopes that I would capture you or kill you. He is afraid of you. Lord Mitor and Lady Marcelle have proven incapable of producing children. You are his lawful heir, whether he likes it or not. Most men in your position would have killed Lord Mitor and taken his place by now.”
Mazael remembered what Lord Adalon had said in the nightmares. “No. I’ll not do it. Do you think I’ll betray my brother and my sister for the damned castle? Mitor can keep it. I’ll have nothing to do with you.”
“I did not expect you to,” said Lord Richard. “And why not? Your brother has lied to you at every turn.”
“What do you mean?” said Mazael.
“Have you ever wondered why I sent Sir Tanam to abduct Lady Rachel?” said Lord Richard.
“A hostage,” said Mazael.
“Lord Mitor would not have cared what I did with Lady Rachel,” said Lord Richard. “I sent my old crow to seize Lady Rachel because of the sorcery she practiced. She could have provided me with valuable information on the San-keth cult at Castle Cravenlock.”
“No,” said Mazael, slamming his fist down onto the table. Lord Jonaril arched a bushy eyebrow. “I listened to this slander once at White Rock. I will not listen to it again. I have seen the zuvembies. I know they’re real. But I have not seen San-keth, nor fools worshipping snakes. I will not listen to this.”
“Then you shut your ears to the truth,” said Lord Richard.
“The San-keth cult has been in Castle Cravenlock for at least thirty years,” said Lucan. His voice resembled the rustling of dead leaves. “I’m fairly certain Lady Arissa was involved.”
Mazael snorted. “I lived at Castle Cravenlock for nine years! I would have noticed.”
“Most of the cult’s activity centered at Swordgrim in Lady Arissa’s time,” said Lord Richard. “We found some of their scrolls once I had defeated Lord Adalon’s host and retaken Swordgrim.” His dark gaze settled on Mazael. “How do you think I gathered the men to face Lord Adalon? To regain my family’s place, yes. But the lords of the Grim Marches liked the worship of the snake god no more than I.”
“This is nonsense,” said Mazael.
Lord Richard continued as if Mazael had not spoken. “I killed all the snake-worshippers I could find. Undoubtedly some survived and restarted the cult at Castle Cravenlock.”
“Slander,” said Sir Nathan.
“It is not,” said Lord Richard. “I considered offering Toraine in marriage to Lady Rachel for a number of years. When I decided to make the offer, the rumors of San-keth worship had already begun. At first I discounted them. But the peasants near Castle Cravenlock began disappearing. Then reports of the zuvembies filtered in. And then Lord Mitor showed signs of rebellion. I sent Sir Tanam to make the offer anyway, and to investigate. Sir Tanam?”
The Old Crow cleared his throat. “That was about six, seven months ago, as I recollect. I found the castle and town in sorry shape. I hadn’t yet heard that Sir Albron had replaced Nathan Greatheart as armsmaster.” He laughed. “Never seen a sorrier lot of troops, and I’ve seen quite a few sorry soldiers in my day. And the town was worse. Armsmen ran the place like it was their private kingdom. There was this one fellow, Brogan, had the temperament of a whelping bear and all the wits of a stone.”
“I met him,” said Mazael. "Briefly."
“Castle was worse,” said Sir Tanam. “The servants were scared to death, just the same as the peasants. It only took a bit to figure out why. They were scared of the cult. Seems a large number of the castle residents had taken up the worship of the snake god. Lord Mitor and Lady Marcelle had, as well as Sir Albron Eastwater. Perhaps Sir Commander Galan Hawking as well.” Lord Astor sighed. “And there was that Simonian villain as well. I’ve spent a few years on the other side of the mountains and visited Briault for a few weeks. The peasants there still whisper about this necromancer Simonian. Thoroughly unpleasant fellow. Tales have him down to the tee. So, with the zuvembies, the peasants’ stories, and Simonian of Briault as Lord Mitor’s guest, a blind man could have seen what was going on. I’d seen the San-keth cult during the war with Lord Adalon, and now I was seeing it again.”
Sir Nathan closed eyes.
“Sir Tanam returned to Swordgrim with his news,” said Lord Richard. “I was most displeased. I did not throw down one Cravenlock lord and the accompanying San-keth cult only to find myself confronted with another. I sent word to the Cirstarcian monastery west of Castle Cravenlock. They sent Brother Silar and other monks to assist my cause.”
Mazael raised an eyebrow. “That so?”
Silar grinned. “My order has been here for centuries. We remember the old tales. And we remember the dark magic and necromancy that a serpent-cult brings.”
“I had no other recourse but war,” said Lord Richard. “I called my vassals and gathered my armies. I also commanded my son to investigate using his skills.”
Lucan’s lips twisted. “It was fairly obvious. Dark magic hangs about Castle Cravenlock like a stink. Even a wizard of mediocre skills like Master Othar could have detected it.”
Mazael shifted in his seat. “You knew him?”
Lucan smiled, and for an instant the bitterness vanished from his face. “Of course! I apprenticed under him, once I had finished my training at Alborg. He was no magister, certainly. But a finer master I could not have found elsewhere.” Bit by bit the sardonic mask cast returned to his features. “I contacted Othar through the use of a magical sending. He already shared many of my lord father’s suspicions. We soon had a regular correspondence. He believed that there was a San-keth temple hidden within Castle Cravenlock. Master Othar planned to investigate that temple, if possible.” His empty eyes fixed on Mazael. “I have not heard from him since.”
Mazael remembered Othar’s last words to him. “Master Othar is dead.”
Lucan’s face could have been carved from stone. “How?”
“Necromancy of some sort,” said Mazael.
Lucan snorted. “And do you need any more proof to confirm this ‘slander’, my lord knight? Or shall I beat you over the head with it?”
“Lucan,” said Lord Richard, and the Dragon's Shadow fell silent.
“I sent Sir Tanam to capture Lady Rachel,” said Lord Richard. “I am almost certain she was involved in the San-keth cult.”
“No,” said Mazael. “No.”
“It does not matter. Were she innocent, she would have been safer at Swordgrim than at Castle Cravenlock. Were she guilty, as I believe she is, then she would have proven a valuable source of information. It was at this point, of course, that you intersected with events.” Lord Richard leaned back in his chair. “Now, do you see why you must join me? There is no other choice. You will get the castle and the lordship once Lord Mitor is dead. But what of that? The cult of the serpent people is an abomination. Their necromancy and dark worship pollute the land. The Cirstarcians and Deepforest Keep see this. So would the Justiciars, if they did not hate me for reclaiming the lands stolen from my family.” The Dragonslayer made a fist. “When I rose against your father, my goal was to exterminate the San-keth cult root and branch. That your father was inadvertently allied to the cult through Lady Arissa was an unfortunate circumstance. And I will do the same once more. I will destroy this new cult and wipe it from the memory of man. And you will either stand with me or against me.”
Mazael thought of his mother and her hateful spite. Mazael could imagine her in a serpent cult. But Rachel? He could not imagine Rachel in a San-keth cult...but he had not seen Rachel for fifteen years. And he thought of Simonian, the way the wizard's murky eyes stared.
“I don’t know,” said Mazael.
“There is no middle ground,” said Lord Richard. “Will you stand by and let the cult spread across the Grim Marches like a plague? It is a disease and I will stamp it out. If you stand with Lord Mitor, I shall crush you.”
“What proof is there?” said Mazael. “This is all supposition. What proof do you have?”
“What further proof do you need?” said Lord Richard. “If you wish to blind yourself to the truth, that is your folly. I am offering you a chance to escape your brother’s fate.”
Mazael’s palm smacked against the table. “You don’t have any proof.”
“The zuvembies.” Lord Richard ticked off the points on his fingers. “The disappearing peasants. Lord Mitor’s timely rebellion. I have all the proof I need, indeed, all the proof that any reasonable man would require.”
“Reasonable man?” said Toraine. “A reasonable man, Sir Mazael, you are not. You shall never see the truth. Father, I say have off with his head and have done with it.”
“Silence,” said Lord Richard. “And why, Sir Mazael, do you persist in blinding yourself?”
“I blind myself to nothing,” said Mazael. “My sister could never have been involved in this. Never. Not her.”
A dead quiet answered his pronouncement.
“Then you leave me no choice,” said Lord Richard. Mazael’s hand shot to Lion’s hilt. “I’ll not attack you here. Return to Castle Cravenlock and share in your brother’s...”
“Wait!” said Timothy. "My lord, please, wait." All eyes fell on the wizard, who swallowed and tugged his beard.
“What?” said Lord Richard.
“Sir Mazael, you trusted Master Othar’s judgment, correct?” said Timothy.
“Absolutely,” said Mazael.
“Do you remember the morning after Master Othar’s funeral?” said Timothy. “When I told you of Master Othar’s journal?” Mazael nodded. “It was warded and sealed. I could not read it.”
Lucan smiled. “Not surprising. The old man was clever enough to protect his investigations. I designed the ward for him myself.”
“Then you would know how to release it,” said Timothy. “My lord knight, you trusted Master Othar’s judgment in life. Trust it now that he is gone. I propose that we return to Castle Cravenlock and unseal Master Othar’s journal. You say there is no proof? Master Othar would have found proof, one way or the other.” The young wizard struggled for words. “The fate of so many lie in your decision. My lord knight, look at what Master Othar had to say before you make a choice.”
Lord Richard looked to his wizard son. “Can you teach Sir Mazael's wizard the spell to open the journal?”
Lucan clenched a hand. “Certainly, my father. He has the badge for dispelling. The spell to open the ward sealing the journal is no more than a specific variant.”
Lord Richard turned to Timothy. “And are you willing to learn the spell?”
Timothy bowed beneath the Dragonslayer’s black gaze. “Yes, my lord.”
“And you, Sir Mazael?” said Lord Richard. “What of you? You seem so certain of your brother’s innocence. If the words of Master Othar indicate otherwise, if they show that Lord Mitor has invited the necromancer Simonian and the San-keth cult to his court, will you stand with me?”
Mazael could believe Mitor would sell his soul to the San-keth. But he could never believe it of Rachel. “I will do it. I shall return to Castle Cravenlock and read Master Othar’s journal. And I will prove that you are wrong.”
“Perhaps you shall, sir knight,” said Lord Richard. “Perhaps you shall discover that Simonian of Briault has tricked and betrayed your simpleminded yet innocent brother and his misguided wife. Perhaps you shall then rid his court of the blight, saving myself and my vassals the trouble of killing him. We can all then go home.” He paused. “But I know better. You shall discover the truth. You are in for some very hard lessons.”
Mazael did not flinch from Lord Richard’s stare. “One of us is.”
Toraine was aghast. “You can’t be serious, father. You invite this Cravenlock into the heart of our camp, tell him all our plans, extend to him your mercy, and then let him go? This is madness! He shall tell his brother everything he has seen here. It shall be our undoing...”
“I have no intention of letting Sir Mazael undo us,” said Lord Richard, a hint of anger creeping into his iron tones. “Either way, he shall work to our advantage. Either he shall kill Simonian, or he shall discover the truth of his family and return to us. Our position shall be strengthened.” He waved his hand. “And Lord Mitor cannot stop us. Leave and do not return until you have composed yourself.”
Toraine stalked towards the tent flap. Lucan smirked at him, and for a moment Mazael thought Toraine would kill his younger brother. Then the elder Mandragon son stormed out into the camp.
“Please forgive my son,” said Lord Richard. “He is often passionate.”
“I know all about family troubles, my lord,” said Mazael.
“Indeed,” said Lord Richard. “The evening draws nigh, Sir Mazael. I invite you and your companions to dine with my family and lord captains tonight.”
Mazael was surprised. “I doubt they’ll approve.”
“Why not?” said Lord Astor, chuckling. “Lord Richard tells us what we are allowed to approve.”
“After all, we have established that you are not my enemy,” said Lord Richard. “Whatever choice you make, my hand shall be strengthened. Will you not eat?”
“Then I shall be honored,” said Mazael. They rose.
“Ah, not you,” said Lucan to Timothy. “I do believe you have a spell to learn.”
3
The Monk’s First Brother
“What do you think?” said Mazael.
“I do not know,” said Sir Nathan.
Mazael and Romaria sat with Sir Nathan amongst the supplies of Lord Richard's camp. Night had fallen, and it was quiet here. The light from a thousand bonfires lit the camp, and guards marched back and forth on their rounds.
“A serpent cult,” said Sir Nathan. “I would never have believed it. I heard the stories, of course, but I had always believed them to be nothing but stories. Dust and lies.”
“Three months ago, I believed zuvembies to be stories,” said Mazael.
“As did I,” said Nathan. “I do not know, Mazael. I simply do not. I did not know Lady Arissa well. I spent most my time in the field against Mandragon forces. But what little I saw was not favorable.”
Mazael smiled. “I saw more of her. None of it was favorable.”
“But could she have renounced all Amathavian gods, all that was right, and turned to the god of serpents?” said Nathan. “I do not know if I can believe it.”
Mazael could.
But Rachel...no, not Rachel.
“And a cult now,” said Sir Nathan, “my heart tells me that such a thing cannot be. But my head tells me that I cannot know for certain. I have not spent much time in Castle Cravenlock over the last fifteen years. After Leah died and Lord Mitor dismissed me, I spent most my time at my keep. I doubt I have spent more than one day in ten at Castle Cravenlock. Lord Mitor holds so many secrets. And with this business of the zuvembies and Othar’s death...”
“We’ll find out,” said Mazael. “We’ll know the truth, one way or another.”
“I hope so,” said Sir Nathan, standing. “I shall retire. I am not so young and it has been a long day.”
“Sleep well,” said Mazael.
Mazael listened to the sound of feasting rising from Lord Richard’s command tent. Mazael had little appetite and left early, but Lord Richard had taken no offense. Mazael suspected that the feast had been given for Gerald’s benefit anyway.
“A good man,” said Romaria, watching Sir Nathan leave.
“Aye,” said Mazael. “I only wish we had a hundred more of him.”
“Talk to Lucan Mandragon,” said Romaria. “He could conjure up a few.”
“Gods,” said Mazael. “Certainly not. I’ve seen enough magic to last me a dozen lifetimes. Master Othar was a good man, but I cannot see how he could devote his life to spells.”
“Spells and swords,” said Romaria. “Some are used for good, some for evil.” She looked at Mazael with calm blue eyes. “And how are you feeling?”
Mazael flexed the fingers of his sword hand. “Well enough, I suppose. There’s been times...I wanted to kill Lord Richard when we spoke. But beyond that, I suppose I’m fine.”
“And no nightmares, of course,” said Romaria.
“No nightmares,” said Mazael.
Romaria laughed. “I wonder what Lord Richard and his lord captains shall say when I go to your tent for the night.”
“They’ll say nothing,” said Mazael. “It’s not as if we actually do anything.”
“And does that disappoint you?” said Romaria.
Mazael snorted. “What do you think?” He cupped Romaria’s chin and kissed her. “But...I don’t...” He scowled. “I’m pulled to you. The damned dreams. The magic in the sword. I nearly went insane and killed you and my brother. And then the healing. What is happening to me?”
“Perhaps I can shed some light on the matter.”
Mazael shot to his feet, Lion lancing from its scabbard. Brother Silar approached, a lantern dangled from his grip.
The monk looked amused. “Do you greet all your visitors with a sword?”
“Do you surprise all those you would like to visit?” spat back Mazael, ramming his sword back into its scabbard.
Silar sighed and sat down atop a barrel. “You were having an interesting conversation.”
“What did you hear?” said Mazael, his hand inching toward Lion's hilt.
“Mazael,” said Romaria.
Silar chuckled. “I did not hear anything that I have not deduced for myself.”
“You speak dangerously,” said Mazael.
Silar set his lantern down and raised his hands. “I’m certain I do. But I do not want any fight. With Lady Romaria to help you, you’d certainly win.” He cocked his head. “And whatever wounds I managed to inflict would vanish quite shortly.”
“I’ve had enough games,” said Mazael. “Tell me what you want.”
“Very well,” said Silar. “I said before that you possess some sort of power. That was not entirely true. I am quite certain what sort of power you possess.”
“And what sort of power is that?” said Mazael.
“You’re Demonsouled,” said Silar.
Mazael had Lion out of its scabbard and against the monk’s neck so fast that he didn’t register the movement. Romaria came to her feet, her hand closing around Mazael's arm. A flicker of fear flashed across Silar’s face and vanished. For a burning moment Mazael wanted to slash open Silar’s throat, but Romaria’s touch quenched the dark fire.
“You must not get many visitors,” said Silar.
“What did you say?” said Mazael.
“Demonsouled,” said Silar.
“Are you saying Lord Adalon was not my father?” said Mazael.
Silar shrugged. “It’s entirely possible. Lady Arissa was a remarkable woman, and not in a complimentary sense. We suspect she worshipped Sepharivaim, the serpent-god, do we not? No doubt she would have flung herself at a demon.”
Mazael’s hand twitched on Lion’s hilt, but he could not disagree.
Silar shrugged. “Besides, a demon soul doesn’t require a Demonsouled parent. The taint can lie dormant for centuries, passing from generation to generation. It can appear for no reason at all. Would you mind putting that sword down? It’s terribly uncomfortable.”
Mazael lowered Lion. “And how do you know all this about me? More supposition?”
Silar rubbed his thick neck. “Hardly. It’s obvious, if you know where to look. Your speed, Sir Mazael, is nothing mortal. Nor are your reflexes. Are you even aware of how well you fight?” He glanced at Mazael’s arm. “And that cut...I’ve seen enough wounds to know a deep slash from a scratch. Timothy’s good at his tasks, no doubt. But I’ve yet to see the physician skilled enough to make a deep gash disappear in two days.”
“So?” said Mazael. “That doesn’t make me Demonsouled. Perhaps I’m fast. Perhaps I’m very good with a sword. And perhaps I had a simple scratch.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Silar. “But I know what to look for.”
“From what?” said Mazael, gesturing with Lion. “The books? Tomes penned by men a thousand years dead? I could write a book claiming that horses fly, but that doesn’t make it fact.”
“True,” said Silar. His smile was distant, his hawkish face lost in a memory. “But I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
“Oh?” said Mazael. “So, you’ve seen a Demonsouled with your own eyes, have you?”
“Yes,” said Silar.
Mazael laughed. “Were you drunk at the time?”
Silar shook his head. “No. I was eight years old at the time. My brother was eleven.”
“Your brother?” said Romaria.
Silar blinked. “I was born in a small village on the northern edge of the Grim Marches. We were very poor. It’s hard to grow anything in that soil. It didn’t matter, though. We were happy. At least, I think we were.” Silar flexed the fingers of one hand. “I was always in awe of my brother. He was the fastest and strongest boy in the village. No one could keep up with him. And he was an archer. The way he could use a bow and an arrow would amaze even you, Lady Romaria. I saw him take down a hunting cat at a hundred yards.”
Silar shook his head. “But he was always passionate. Volatile. He could go from smiling to raging in a heartbeat. And his temper was like a storm. One day he fell into a crevice hidden in the grasses. The men pulled him out. Both his legs had been broken and one arm. We expected that he would die.” Silar stared at Mazael. “Two days later he was up and about as if nothing had happened.”
Mazael’s hand clenched.
“After that, he began to change,” said Silar. “I was only a child, but even I could see it. He flew into a rage at the slightest provocations. He almost beat an old man to death over a piece of bread. We were all afraid of him. Then a wizard came to our village, a man named Strabus. He worked with the Cirstarcians, and hunted Demonsouled and San-keth across the kingdom. Across the world, for all I know. He warned my parents of the danger, but my father and the other men drove Strabus out of our village. That night my brother killed my parents.”
Mazael heard the blood rushing through his ears. He remembered how close he had come to killing Romaria.
“I’m sorry,” said Romaria.
“He wasn’t my brother, not anymore,” said Silar. “The demon soul within had warped him. He looked like a creature out of the pits. He would have killed me. But Strabus returned. He came too late to save my father and mother, but he used his magic to destroy what my brother had become.” Silar rubbed at his chin. “After that, no one in the village would take me in. Strabus took me to the Cirstarcian monastery near Castle Cravenlock. That has been my home ever since.”
“So, is that it, then?” said Mazael. He shoved Lion back into its scabbard. “Am I to become some sort of monster?”
“You might,” said Silar.
“You told me the Cirstarcian monks fight dark magic,” said Mazael. “Are you here to kill me?”
“No,” said Silar. “I became a monk of the Cirstarcine Order to combat the darkness. I have seen it firsthand. But I loved my brother. The demon power destroyed him, not Strabus. If you are Demonsouled, and I’m certain you are, I would rather see you resist the darkness.”
“What do you mean?” said Mazael. “Demonsouled are monsters.”
“Some become monsters,” said Silar. “Demonsouled are born with the darkness hidden in their souls. For some, it never manifests. They live, marry, have children, and die without ever knowing what they are. But for others, the darkness surfaces, usually as they reach young manhood or womanhood. They then must face themselves and try to conquer the dark halves of their souls. Men of evil mind usually embrace the power and the transformations it brings. Others find themselves overwhelmed and changed into monsters. But some can fight against the darkness and master it.”
“Have you ever seen it happen?” said Mazael. “A man conquer the demon half of his soul?”
“No,” said Silar.
Mazael grimaced. “And have you read about it in these books of yours?”
“Some,” said Silar, “so far back it seems like legend.”
Mazael laughed. “You offer me such reassurances.”
“I offer you help,” said Silar.
“Why?” said Mazael.
“For the memory of my brother,” said Silar. He paused. “And for the safety of the people of the Grim Marches. Perhaps even the kingdom.”
“What do you mean?” said Mazael.
“You are strong,” said Silar. “I think the fighting prowess is only the tip of what you can do. There are other stories in the histories I have read, of Demonsouled who became bloody conquerors and carved huge empires on a foundation of death and misery. If you succumb, I don’t think you’ll become some a ravening beast. I think you’ll become a tyrant king unlike any seen in history.”
Mazael did not want to believe him, but his words rang true. Even now, Mazael saw a half-dozen ways he could kill Silar. A half-dozen ways he could kill Romaria. Battle had always seemed a glorious, vibrant experience, the only time when he felt fully alive.
He was Demonsouled.
His hand trembled towards Lion. “Perhaps I should simply kill myself.”
“No!” said Romaria, clamping both her hands around his.
“The lady is right,” said Silar. “Despair will accomplish nothing.”
“Accomplish?” said Mazael. “How can I accomplish anything if my very soul is my enemy?”
“Much,” said Silar. “You might have darkness in your soul. But there are other evils already loose in the Grim Marches. The zuvembies. You may not believe there is a San-keth cult at Castle Cravenlock, but there have been other cults in the past. And Simonian of Briault. If the tales are even half-true, then that one is worse than most Demonsouled. You can overcome them all. The gods sent you back to the Grim Marches for a reason, I believe.”
“Silar is right,” said Romaria. “I told you about destiny. Perhaps it is your fate to end the plague that is Simonian and his zuvembies.”
“Fate?” said Mazael. “Fated to what? Kill my family and my friends in a bloodbath? Become some sort of grotesque monster? Or shall I become the tyrant that Silar fears?”
“You haven’t done any of those things,” said Romaria.
“Only with your help,” said Mazael. “You pulled me out of madness. But I almost killed you first. Suppose I had killed you? What would have happened then? I can’t. If I do have demon magic in my soul, I can’t overcome it by myself.”
“Whoever said you have to overcome it alone?” said Silar.
“What do you mean?” said Mazael.
“My brother tried to conquer his soul himself, I think,” said Silar. “My parents and the other villagers refused to see what was happening. Strabus didn’t come until it was too late. You cannot face the demon half of your soul alone. Lady Romaria will stand with you. She’s said so herself. I will help you, if I can.” His fingers wrapped about the holy symbol hanging from his belt. “And the gods will help you, if you’ll let them.”
“The gods?” said Mazael. “I’ve never cared much for the gods. Why would they help me now?”
Silar held up his holy symbol, the three interlocking rings of Amatheon gleaming in the camp’s torchlight. “Why would they not help you? We are all their children, after all.” He grinned at Romaria. “Even those of us who pray to different gods. And you, Sir Mazael, are special. You are a descendant of the Great Demon who came to earth and fathered the Demonsouled.”
“Hardly special, I would say,” said Mazael.
“The Great Demon was divine once,” said Silar. “Fallen, but still a god. Why would the gods turn away from helping you? You are both one of their own and one of their children.” He unhooked the holy symbol from his belt and pressed it into Mazael’s fingers. “Take this.”
“Why?” said Mazael, the steel symbol cool and heavy in his hand.
“Perhaps it will help you,” said Silar.
“How?” said Mazael. “It’s a piece of steel. If I want steel to help me, I’ll use a sword.”
“Keep it as a reminder, then,” said Silar, “that the gods will help you.”
Mazael didn’t believe him.
But he slipped the symbol’s chain around his neck anyway.
***