Mask of Spells (Mask of the Demonsouled #3) Read online

  The purple glow filled the cavern, coming from symbols of purple fire written upon the tower and the rock formations in strange, eldritch characters. Mazael didn’t know if the symbols were decorative, or if they were part of potent magical wards.

  “Gods and ancestors,” breathed Sigaldra. “It’s…it’s…”

  “Beautiful,” said Adalar, “in…an alien sort of way. I cannot think of a better way to describe it.”

  Mazael understood. The Glamdaigyr, the sword forged by the high lords of Old Dracaryl to destroy their foes, had been a thing of hideous evil, yet it had nonetheless possessed a dark beauty. Tchroth had the same kind of malevolent beauty.

  “I never dreamed,” said Sigaldra. “I thought the valgasts lived in caves like savages. Not in a place like this.”

  “The valgasts are more dangerous by far,” said Azurvaltoria, “now that they are not bound by the command of the Old Demon. Behold.” A quarter of the way around the circumference of the city, Mazael saw a massive stone bridge that stretched from the heart of Tchroth to the far side of the cavern. Plinths lined the bridge, supporting stone statues of valgast priests and soliphages. “The Great Gate of the Goddess. The Prophetess arrived by that route. If we attempted to enter through the Great Gate, the valgast guards would kill us on sight.”

  “Where is this Shadow Market?” said Mazael, looking over the city.

  “Here,” said Azurvaltoria, gesturing in a new direction.

  A few hundred yards away, a narrow stone bridge, much less ornate than the one leading to the Great Gate, stretched towards the city. Halfway between the cavern wall and Tchroth itself stood a large round island, its surface covered with stalls and tents and booths.

  “The Shadow Market,” said Azurvaltoria. “It is one of the only places in Tchroth where non-valgasts, save for slaves, are allowed to enter the city. We will need to speak with the overseer to gain permission to entry.” She paused for a moment. “The office of overseer of the Shadow Market is not a desirable one among the valgasts, and he may try to take his frustrations out upon us.”

  “He’ll regret that if he does,” said Mazael. “Before we proceed, check the Prophetess’s location.”

  “Of course,” said Azurvaltoria. She reached into her coat, produced the maethweisyr, and cast the location spell, her eyelids fluttering. “She is in the center of Tchroth. Probably in the Tower of the Spider, where the chief valgast priests reside.” She made a flipping gesture towards the giant stone spider and the gleaming black tower.

  “Good,” said Mazael. “Then let’s pay the valgasts a visit.”

  He led the way from the tunnel. A narrow beach of gravel encircled the edge of the lake, and they followed it along the circumference of the cavern. Here and there Mazael saw bones, some valgast, some human, and even some Malrag bones, and he wondered if the valgasts had a habit of dumping the corpses of their victims into the vast lake. It seemed as if that would poison their only source of drinkable water, but perhaps the valgasts enjoyed the extra flavor.

  They crossed the bridge to the Shadow Market. As they drew closer, a variety of scents filled Mazael’s nostrils, the greasy odor of the valgasts, mixed with peculiar spices and things that smelled poisonous. He saw dozens of valgasts moving through the market, some of them wearing armor, others hooded robes, and a few of them wore nothing but loincloths, their mottled gray-green hides covered in swirling black tattoos. There were a few humans in the market, all of them armed to the teeth, their weapons and armor glowing with magical symbols. The wizards’ brotherhood put bounties upon wizards who turned to necromancy and dark magic, and Mazael wondered how many of the renegades ended up here.

  He also saw a San-keth serpent priest wrapped around the spine of its undead carrier, guarded by four changelings with yellow, black slit eyes. There were other creatures that Mazael did not even recognize – short figures clad in hooded robes of black leather, flickers of crimson light shining from the ends of their sleeves and within their deep cowls. There was another creature that looked vaguely like a humanoid lizard with a dragon’s head, and it turned a look of loathing contempt towards the San-keth cleric.

  As Mazael reached the end of the bridge, a half-dozen valgast warriors in bone armor approached, spears in hand, and placed themselves between him and the Shadow Market.

  “Halt!” snarled one of the valgast warriors. Its voice sounded like steel rasping against a stone. “Why have you come to the Shadow Market?”

  “To trade, of course,” said Mazael. “Why does anyone come to the Shadow Market? Other than the pleasure of such fine company.”

  The valgast leader stepped forward, its needle-filled mouth snapping shut in a flash of anger. “You have an impudent tongue.”

  “I’ve come to trade,” said Mazael. “I’m told traders often have impudent tongues.”

  The valgast leader shook its spear. “I should gut you and feed you to the fish of the lake. Or perhaps I shall sell your carcass to the princes of the burning lakes. They find human meat most toothsome.”

  “They would find me most indigestible,” said Mazael. He dropped his hand to his sword hilt. “Care to find out if you can take me?”

  The valgast scowled and sniffed, its nostrils flaring wide. The valgasts’ expressions were alien, but Mazael glimpsed the confusion there. Azurvaltoria’s spell blocked their scents, and to the valgast, they would smell like nothing at all. Perhaps the creature could still smell their sweat and their clothing, but it would not be able to smell their blood.

  “Bah!” said the valgast. “You are not worth my time, human. The overseer will decide what is to be done with you. Come with us, or you shall die.”

  Mazael grinned at the valgast. “Lead the way.”

  The valgast spat upon the ground and beckoned with its spear, and Mazael and the others followed the valgasts deeper into the Shadow Market. They drew brief glances from the other patrons of the Market, but not long ones. To all outward appearances, they were only a group of five human mercenaries, and there were far stranger and more dangerous creatures here.

  The valgasts led them to a cleared area on the far side of the Shadow Market, the purple-lit towers of Tchroth rising overhead. A half-dozen steel cages stood in a loose semicircle, and within the cages were black creatures about the size of horses. They looked a bit like giant mantises, with glittering black eyes and forelimbs like serrated scythes.

  The fattest valgast Mazael had ever seen squatted on a stool in the center of the semicircle. The valgasts Mazael had all fought, even the valgast priests, had been lean and wiry. This valgast was so fat he almost looked spherical, and he was draped in a ragged black robe adorned with ornaments of bone and jade. Two more valgasts stood next to his stool. One of the valgasts was a warrior with the look of a bodyguard. The other held a bowl filled with writhing black grubs, and every so often the fat valgast’s fist darted down, seized a handful of the grubs, and shoved them into his mouth. The fat valgast’s other hand held a wand that looked as if it had been made from a human femur, symbols carved into its length. From time to time the symbols in the bone wand flashed with a harsh purple light.

  “Overseer Vagenash,” said the leader of the warriors.

  “What, Talchak?” snarled Vagenash, his voice deeper and wetter than most of the other valgasts Mazael had heard.

  “These humans desire entry to the Shadow Market,” said Talchak.

  “Do they?” said Vagenash. He shoved another handful of grubs into his mouth. “Did they say why?”

  “We wish to trade,” said Mazael, “and to see the splendors of Tchroth with our own eyes.”

  “Humans may not defile holy Tchroth with their unclean touch!” said Talchak.

  “Bah,” rumbled Vagenash. “The Prophetess of the great goddess Marazadra has decreed otherwise, has she not? Soon the goddess herself shall return to physical form, and we shall march alongside the humans of Skuldar to put all of the world beneath the sway of the goddess. Or so the Prophetess foretel
ls.” Mazael suspected that Vagenash might not have been the most fervent in his devotion to Marazadra.

  “They may be spies,” said Talchak.

  Vagenash grunted and sat up a little straighter. “Perhaps. Perhaps. But it is a strange group, no? Two human males and three human females. Very strange indeed. I understand humans do not customarily permit their females to take up arms and march to war.”

  “We are not that strange,” said Mazael. “We are not marching to war. We are here to trade.” He shrugged. “And perhaps to look for work. My companions and I have a variety of useful skills, and we understand there are merchants who need such skills in the Shadow Market.”

  “Come closer, human,” said Vagenash.

  “But overseer…” started Talchak.

  “Shut up, Talchak,” said Vagenash. Talchak scowled but stepped away. “Human, approach me.”

  Mazael took a few steps forward and stopped a yard or so from Vagenash, keeping an eye on the overseer and his guards for any sign of treachery. Up close, the valgast overseer reeked of sweat and mold and old cheese, all overlaid with the musky smell of the grubs he was shoveling into his mouth. Vagenash leaned forward, his stool creaking alarmingly beneath his bulk, and his nostrils flared, his unblinking black eyes reflecting the purple glow from the city.

  “You don’t smell like anything,” he said.

  “I bathe regularly,” said Mazael.

  “Mmm,” said Vagenash. He leaned back, wheezing as if the effort of movement had drained him. “None of you smell like anything. Oh, I can smell your sweat and leather, but I cannot smell your blood. It is as if some clever wizard masked your presence with a spell.”

  Mazael kept his face calm, but his hand itched to draw Talon. “Valgasts are not the only ones who track by scent, are they?”

  It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it seemed to mollify Vagenash.

  “Indeed,” said Vagenash. “Many of the visitors to the Shadow Market have powerful enemies. That is no concern of mine, of course. Still, Talchak may be right, and you may be spies.”

  Mazael was beginning to get Vagenash’s meaning. “And how can we prove to you that we are not spies?”

  Vagenash rumbled in approval and gestured with his bone wand. “Do you see the beasts in the cages behind me?”

  “They are rather hard to miss,” said Mazael. The giant mantis-creatures remained motionless for the most part, but from time to time they twitched, jerking back and forth with remarkable speed. Mazael suspected they would make formidable combatants.

  “We call them razormanes,” said Vagenash. “They are descended from smaller insects found upon the surface. Within certain caverns of the underworld are areas of…wild, chaotic magic, let us say, and the original razormanes were created when their ancestors were exposed to that magic. The power twisted them, increasing their bloodlust and growing them to enormous size. We use them as war beasts.”

  “I imagine that requires a trainer of particular skill,” said Mazael.

  Vagenash let out a watery laugh. “Ha! No, razormanes cannot be trained as our hunting spiders can. No, they can only be enslaved through magic.” He gestured with his femur wand, pointing at the steel cages, and Mazael saw the bone collars that encircled the necks of the razormanes. The collars glowed with the same harsh purple light as the symbols upon the wand. “It is a long, arduous, and expensive process.”

  “They must make for effective war beasts,” said Mazael.

  “They do,” said Vagenash. “Unfortunately, the spells of enslavement are not always completely effective. Sometimes one of the beasts simply cannot be controlled. Regrettable, but such things cannot be foreseen. Alas, the resources spent constructing the spell of enslavement are then lost.” He pointed his bone wand at the rightmost cage. The razormane within it kept twitching, and Mazael saw that no glow came from its bone collar. “That one completely rejected the spells of control.”

  “So why haven’t you killed it?” said Mazael.

  “That would be wasteful,” said Vagenash. “Usually, when a razormane eludes the controlling spells, we use it for gambling. A bold warrior confronts the razormane in single combat, while the spectators place bets…”

  “And no one has been bold enough to confront the feral razormane yet,” said Mazael, “and you’re looking for volunteers.”

  Vagenash smiled a fang-filled grin. It made him look like a murderous toad. “Actually, three valgast warriors and two human renegades all challenged the razormane. It made rather…messy work of them.”

  “And you made a handsome profit by collecting wagers,” said Mazael.

  “For the greater glory of the goddess, of course,” said Vagenash, reaching for another handful of grubs. He realized that the bowl was empty and scowled, and the valgast servant scurried off to obtain more grubs. “Certainly the priests did not refuse my tithes when I submitted them to the Tower of the Spider.”

  “Then you’re looking for another volunteer to fight the razormane,” said Mazael.

  He felt Romaria give him a sharp look, heard Azurvaltoria snort in amusement.

  “You are indeed quick on the uptake, human,” said Vagenash. “That is the deal I offer you. Fight the razormane and kill it, and will permit you and your companions free entry to the Shadow Market and Tchroth. Fail,” he grinned a needle-toothed grin, “and Talchak and his lads will kill you all. Perhaps we will keep your females alive and use them for breeding stock with our other slaves.”

  Sigaldra bristled, but Azurvaltoria only smirked. The valgasts would be in for an unpleasant surprise if they tried to take her captive. Or Romaria, for that matter. She had said that valgast flesh tasted terrible, but that had never stopped her from tearing out their throats while in wolf form.

  “And either way,” said Mazael, “you will make a handsome profit upon the wagers?”

  Vagenash shrugged, his broad shoulders rippling beneath his robe. “Precisely, human. Do you not see the wisdom? Only fools play the game. The path of wisdom is to arrange the game so that you profit no matter who wins.”

  It was so similar to something the Old Demon had said that Mazael felt a chill. Perhaps the valgasts had learned that proverb from the Old Demon himself. But he had learned that lesson himself, hadn’t he?

  “Well, then,” said Mazael. “I accept your terms. Let’s see how we can profit from this game.”

  Vagenash grinned that fang-filled grin and started barking commands to Talchak and his warrior.

  ###

  Sigaldra watched as the Shadow Market transformed itself into a fighting ring.

  In the center of the Market’s island was a shallow pit about thirty yards across and three yards deep. At first, it had been filled with booths and stalls selling weapons and poisons and what seemed to be grilled mushroom slabs. At Vagenash’s command, the merchants dismantled their stalls and hauled them away. If any merchants were too slow, the valgast warriors encouraged them with jabs from the butts of their spears. Another group of valgasts dragged the steel cage holding the feral razormane to the edge of the pit, while a third group dismantled the stairs leading into the pit.

  Standing in the midst of so many valgasts and other creatures made Sigaldra’s skin crawl, but so far, the peace of the Shadow Market reigned. She suspected that Vagenash dealt brutally with anyone who caused disruption in the Market.

  Given how fat he was, maybe Vagenash ate troublemakers.

  Mazael walked to the edge of the pit, Romaria next to him. She gave him a quick kiss and stepped back, and Sigaldra was close enough to overhear them.

  “Good fortune,” said Romaria.

  Mazael smiled. “Shall I bring you its head as a trophy?”

  “Gods, no,” said Romaria with a quiet laugh. “The razormanes stink badly enough as it is. I can only imagine what it will smell like once you open it up. Be careful.”

  “Always,” said Mazael.

  She laughed again. “Liar. I love you.”

  “And I love you,” said Mazael
. “Which, I should mention, is no lie.”

  He squatted, gripped the edge of the pit, and dropped into it. Mazael walked towards the center as he drew Talon, the blade of dark dragon talon flashing with the golden symbols of the Guardian’s magic. Sigaldra glanced at Azurvaltoria, but the dragon seemed more interested in watching the various creatures around the Market, which made Sigaldra feel slightly better. If the San-keth cleric or one of the renegade human wizards tried something, Azurvaltoria would blast them to ashes.

  She turned again and saw Romaria looking at her.

  “I’m sorry,” said Sigaldra.

  Romaria lifted her eyebrows. Her eyes were cold and blue, but Sigaldra thought she saw a faint hint of strain in them. “For what?”

  “For…having to watch him go into battle,” said Sigaldra. “I know that must be hard.”

  “It is,” said Romaria.

  “My father was Theodoric, the last hrould of the Jutai,” said Sigaldra. “I would watch him and my brothers go into battle. Gods and ancestors, I hated it. He died fighting a Malrag balekhan in the middle lands.” She wasn’t sure why she was talking about that. Perhaps the strain of sneaking into this dangerous place was getting to her.

  “My father died fighting the Malrags as well,” said Romaria in a quiet voice. She spoke to Sigaldra but looked at Mazael as he waited in the pit, Talon ready in his right hand. “A renegade Dominiar knight with a bloodsword commanded them, and he killed my father. Mazael killed the Dominiar in the last battle.”

  “You must have seen the hrould go into battle many times,” said Sigaldra.

  “Yes,” said Romaria. “Deepforest Keep and Morsen Village and Sword Town and other times than I can remember.” She shrugged. “But it is different for us than it is for most husbands and wives. I have gone into battle at least as many times as he has. I know it is as much a strain upon him as it is on me.”

  For a moment they stood in silence, and then to Sigaldra’s surprise, Romaria smiled.

  “But I wouldn’t have it any other way,” said Romaria. For a moment her face seemed more alien than usual, more Elderborn. “We were not made for peaceful lives, my husband and I. And it is just as well. If our natures were different, if we preferred peace to war, men like Lucan Mandragon and Malaric and Amalric Galbraith would have had a free hand to do as they wished.”