Mask of Spells (Mask of the Demonsouled #3) Page 12

  “That is not my nature,” said Sigaldra. “I want to live peace with my sister and what remains of the Jutai. We just want to be left alone.”

  “Perhaps we can accomplish that,” said Romaria. “If we do, it will begin here. Watch what happens. I fear for Mazael, yes…but he is going to be victorious. Just watch.”

  The valgasts finished dragging the heavy steel cage to the edge of the pit, and Talchak’s warriors stopped collecting wagers. The overseer of the Shadow Market heaved himself to his feet and waddled to the edge of the pit.

  “Hear me!” he roared. “For our entertainment, a bold human warrior thinks to face a feral razormane in single combat. Will he prevail? Will he strike down the razormane? Or will the razormane rip him to bloody shreds? We shall now watch for your amusement. Open the cage!”

  The valgasts opened the cage and jabbed their spears through the bars, driving the razormane forward.

  With a furious shriek, the razormane leaped from the cage and landed in the pit, its legs flexing as it landed. Sigaldra finally had a good look at the thing. It did indeed look like a mantis the size of a horse, albeit sleeker and leaner than a horse. There were blood-colored stripes down the side of its armored carapace, and its massive forelimbs were like serrated scythes. Its faceted eyes glittered as its head turned back and forth, its antennae waving, and with a chittering scream, the razormane surged forward, drawing back its forelimbs to strike at Mazael.

  The sheer speed of the creature’s charge should have knocked Mazael to the ground. Somehow Mazael anticipated the movement, and he sidestepped, the razormane’s attack missing him by mere inches. He struck with Talon as he dodged, the curved blade biting into the creature’s armored side. Some kind of black slime bubbled from the wound, and the creature shrieked in pain. Mazael raised Talon and brought it hammering down at the razormane’s head. The creature’s bladed forelimbs rose in a parry, and it went back on the attack.

  Mazael and the razormane danced around each other, sword and scythes flashing back and forth. Mazael kept circling the razormane, launching blows towards its side, while the creature kept turning to face him, slashing with its forelimbs. Sigaldra could not understand what the Lord of Castle Cravenlock intended. Why attack its side? Surely he could not hope to reach its heart before the creature killed him. Better to aim blows at its head.

  The reason for Mazael’s tactics became apparent a few minutes later when he landed another blow, and this time, Talon sheared off the razormane’s middle leg at the base. The black limb struck the ground and rolled away, and the razormane let out a tearing shriek of fury and pain. Now Mazael went on a furious attack, Talon spinning around him in a dark blur. His attacks forced the creature back onto its wounded side, and to stay upright, the razormane had to use its right forelimb as a leg.

  That left an opening at Mazael could exploit, and he exploited it by driving Talon through the razormane’s right eye and deep into its head. The razormane went stiff, and then into a wild, spastic dance, and Mazael ripped Talon free and stepped back, the golden symbols burning through the black slime covering the blade.

  The razormane twitched once more and then collapsed motionless to the ground.

  A roaring cheer went up from the valgasts and the other denizens of the Market, and Mazael raised Talon over his head, turning in a circle. Sigaldra glanced at Romaria, and to her surprise she saw that the older woman was breathing fast, her eyes a little wider than usual. At first, Sigaldra thought she was overcome with relief, but then she realized the truth. Romaria had found watching Mazael kill the razormane exciting. Likely she would pull him into her bed the moment they were alone together.

  Sigaldra shuddered a little. Mazael and Romaria were suited to each other…and she was very glad that Mazael Cravenlock was not her enemy.

  “Victory to the human!” said Vagenash, his thick voice booming through the market.

  ###

  “A good fight, my lord,” said Adalar, gripping Mazael’s hand and helping him out of the pit.

  “Thanks,” grunted Mazael, regaining his feet. “It wasn’t a fair fight, though. That thing was strong and fast, but it wasn’t bright. It didn’t realize what I was doing, and I doubt it even realized that it was dead. A good lesson, there. Best to keep your head in a fight.” He laughed. “Though you’re not my squire any longer.”

  “It’s still a good lesson,” said Adalar.

  Sigaldra, Azurvaltoria, and Romaria joined them, and Romaria kissed Mazael.

  “Sure you don’t want its head as a trophy?” said Mazael.

  Romaria grinned. “No. Vagenash would charge us extra for it.”

  They walked to where Vagenash waited.

  “My winnings?” said Azurvaltoria, holding out her hand.

  Vagenash scowled but clubbed one of his guards with his bone wand, and the valgast produced a small pouch of gold coins.

  “You bet on me, I hope,” said Mazael.

  Azurvaltoria smiled and tucked the pouch into her coat. Given that she had ruled over a cavern packed with treasure, Adalar wondered what need she had of coins. On the other hand, all her treasures had been buried when the Prophetess collapsed the cavern, so maybe she needed to rebuild her wealth.

  “You have been victorious, human,” said Vagenash. “I have turned a tidy profit, and you may now access the Shadow Market and the plaza of the Outer Gate of Tchroth. Under no account enter any other part of Tchroth, or else you shall be killed on the spot.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Mazael.

  Vagenash scowled once more, nodded, and waddled away, trailed by his guards and slaves. Bit by bit the normal commerce of the Shadow Market resumed. On the other side of the Market, Adalar saw the stone bridge leading to the towers of Tchroth itself.

  “Well,” said Mazael, rolling his shoulders. “Shall we see if we can meet some old friends in Tchroth?”

  Chapter 9: City of the Spiders

  “I suggest,” said Azurvaltoria, “that we first visit the Tavern of Blood.”

  Mazael frowned. “The valgasts drink alcohol?”

  They crossed the narrow bridge leading from the Shadow Market to the Outer Gate. For a moment, they were alone. Beyond the massive stone arch of the Outer Gate, Mazael glimpsed a plaza at the base of the stalagmites, a plaza teeming with valgasts.

  “Prodigiously,” said Azurvaltoria. “They ferment it using mushrooms.”

  “Mushroom wine?” said Sigaldra. “How does that taste?”

  “Horrendous,” said Azurvaltoria, “but the valgasts will eat almost anything, so perhaps it masks the taste of their food. The plaza below the Outer Gate contains the Tavern of Blood, which is the only tavern in Tchroth that outsiders are permitted to visit.”

  “I assume,” said Mazael, “that you have a reason to visit other than drinking mushroom wine.”

  “Yes,” said Azurvaltoria. She pointed at the dark shape of the Tower of the Spider. “That is the way to Mount Armyar and the Heart of the Spider.”

  “It leads to Mount Armyar?” said Mazael.

  “More precisely,” said Azurvaltoria, “it leads to the ruined temple housing the Heart of the Spider. Marazadra’s worshippers had rather greater engineering skill in ancient centuries.”

  “The valgasts themselves clearly do not lack it,” said Mazael, looking at the dark shaft of the Tower of the Spider and giant stone spider crouching at its base. As he looked at it, he realized that the statue was hollow, that valgasts came and went through its yawning jaws. He supposed it was a temple or a cathedral of some kind.

  “No,” said Azurvaltoria. “Unfortunately for our purposes, the Tower of the Spider is the most sacred site in Tchroth. Any humans entering it, even slaves, are put to death. Attempting to enter through the front doors would get us killed in great haste.” She smiled at Mazael. “Not even you could fight through that many valgast warriors and wizards.”

  “I shouldn’t like to try,” said Mazael. “So what do you suggest? That we sneak our way
into the temple?”

  “We could try,” said Azurvaltoria, “but that has too many risks.” She gestured at the massive stalactites hanging from the cavern ceiling. “See those walkways?”

  “Aye,” said Mazael. “There are hundreds of them.”

  “And some of them,” said Azurvaltoria, “pass very close to the Tower of the Spider, do they not?”

  “You’re saying,” said Sigaldra, “that you want to sneak onto one of those walkways and…jump over to the Tower of the Spider.”

  “To the top of the Tower of the Spider,” said Azurvaltoria. “That is the key.”

  “We don’t actually need to pass through the Tower of the Spider, do we?” said Mazael, intrigued by the idea. “We need to reach the entrance to Mount Armyar at the top of the Tower of the Spider. And if we can bypass the temple entirely, why not?”

  “It’s…rather quite high, isn’t it?” said Sigaldra.

  “Do you have a problem with heights?” said Azurvaltoria.

  “No,” said Sigaldra. She paused. “I’ve just never been that far off the ground before.”

  “If it makes you feel better,” said Adalar, “we are technically very far below the ground.”

  Sigaldra snorted in amusement but fell silent. Mazael could tell the thought of climbing those high walkways troubled her a great deal, but she would not let it stop her, not when her sister’s life was at stake.

  “I imagine,” said Mazael, “that the valgasts guard those walkways well.”

  “They do,” said Azurvaltoria, “but not as well as the entrance to the Tower of the Spider. What shall we do about it?”

  Mazael shared a look with Romaria. His wife rolled her eyes. Azurvaltoria had been a useful ally, but her flair for the dramatic did become tiresome.

  “Let me guess,” said Mazael. “You know someone at the Tavern of Blood. Someone with authority, someone who owes you a favor or whom you can compel, and you will use them to gain access to the upper walkways.”

  Azurvaltoria pouted, and Mazael blinked in surprise. The dragon was thousands of years old, and yet she was pouting like a frustrated child. The experience was so surreal that for a moment he wasn’t sure what to do.

  “Was my plan that transparent?” said Azurvaltoria.

  “Not at all,” said Mazael, “but it is clever. I just hope it is clever enough to work.”

  “It should,” said Azurvaltoria.

  “This…person who owes you a favor,” said Mazael. “A valgast?”

  “Aye,” said Azurvaltoria, recovering her poise. “A valgast priest. A few decades ago, the valgasts tried to break into the Veiled Mountain to steal the Mask. They came well-prepared and well-armed – warriors, wizards, razormanes, motaylakars, all of their war creatures. Naturally, I killed them all, but I did spare one wizard who begged for his life. I permitted him to depart, in exchange for a favor to be named should I ever encounter him again.”

  “Why?” said Mazael.

  Azurvaltoria shrugged. “I’m not sure. Perhaps I was bored. Perhaps I was feeling merciful. Perhaps I thought I might have to come to Tchroth again and I would need assistance.” She scowled at herself, brushing at her red coat. “Though I did not think I would be locked in the form of a hairless ape the next time I came to Tchroth.”

  “Surely it must be an improvement over the form of a valgast,” said Romaria.

  “Somewhat,” said Azurvaltoria. “Humans do smell better. Marginally.”

  “How flattering,” said Sigaldra. She seemed nonplussed by the conversation, though Azurvaltoria often had that effect.

  “None of us have bathed for a while,” said Mazael. “So this valgast wizard you spared. What is his name?”

  “Zanaxar,” said Azurvaltoria. “I fear the trauma of his escape from the Veiled Mountain left him a hopeless drunkard. He still retains the rank of a priest, but spends most of his time drunk in the Tavern of Blood.”

  “That was the real reason you didn’t kill Zanaxar,” said Romaria. “You thought he might make a useful spy.”

  Azurvaltoria shrugged again. “Perhaps. Even I can sometimes do a thing for more than one reason.”

  “We can argue about it later,” said Mazael. They had almost reached the end of the bridge, the huge stone arch of the Outer Gate yawning before them. It was covered in the twisted characters Mazael had come to recognize as the valgast script. He wondered what the words upon the gate said. “Which way to the Tavern of Blood?”

  “It is the building at the far end of the plaza,” said Azurvaltoria, “built at the foot of the stalagmite on the right.”

  Mazael strode through the Outer Gate, the others following him.

  The plaza beyond was large enough to hold a good-sized village, two massive stalagmites rising on either side, a stalactite hanging overhead, all of them dotted with glowing windows and doors. Market stalls and booths lined the plaza, but unlike the Shadow Market, all the merchants and the customers were valgasts. Mazael felt the creatures’ hard, suspicious stares as he crossed the plaza. If the valgasts wanted to attack, he would be happy to give them a fight they would not forget, but the creatures seemed content to let him pass.

  Just as well. Here in the heart of Tchroth, there was no way he and the others could escape a fight. Mazael counted at least five hundred valgasts scattered throughout the plaza, and spotted a half-dozen soliphages standing here and there, motionless in their hooded black cloaks. Fighting five hundred valgasts would be difficult. Fighting that many valgasts with the aid of soliphage spells would be even impossible.

  No, best to stick to the subterfuge for now.

  Mazael did not cower before their gaze, but looked around with an air of scorn and contempt, one hand resting upon his sword hilt. It was the right response. The valgasts watched him with wariness, but none of them were willing to challenge him. Evidently, Vagenash’s decrees were backed by the chief authorities of Tchroth.

  Mazael began to notice the subtle differences between the different classes of valgasts. The warriors were larger, standing nearly five feet tall, their hides a mottled greenish-yellow beneath their bone armor. The valgasts who served as merchants and craftsmen were shorter, and tended towards plumpness, unlike the muscular warriors. Some of the valgasts were shorter and wore only loincloths, their bodies adorned with spiraling black tattoos. They seemed to serve as laborers and porters, stacking merchandise and clay containers for the merchants or carrying supplies for the warriors. Mazael wondered if the tattoos were marks of shame, the way some lords on the surface branded cattle thieves and brigands.

  As they drew closer to the stalagmite on the right, he had a better view of the Tower of the Spider. The giant stone spider stood in the center of a vast plaza. A large crowd of valgasts gathered around the base of the huge spider, and Mazael wondered if the Prophetess was already in the temple. Did she intend to address the valgasts as she had given a speech to the priests and priestesses of Marazadra in Armalast? He couldn’t imagine that the valgasts would appreciate a speech from a human sorceress. Yet if the valgasts followed Marazadra, and they believed that the Prophetess was the chosen of Marazadra, perhaps they would do anything she asked of them.

  The slender mass of the Tower of the Spider rose from the back of the spider-shaped temple. At least, compared to the thick stalactites hanging around it, the Tower only looked slender. It was a massive construction of gleaming dark stone, reaching all the way to the ceiling of the cavern. If Azurvaltoria was right, the stairs within the Tower led to the slopes of Mount Armyar and to the Heart of the Spider itself.

  Now it was just a matter of getting to those stairs.

  Though unless Mazael missed his guess, at least three thousand valgasts were between him and the Tower of the Spider, with more filtering into the plaza below the temple with every passing moment.

  “An assembly,” murmured Azurvaltoria. “The valgasts gather for war.”

  “Do you think the Prophetess will speak to them?” said Sigaldra. Her hand kept twi
tching towards her bow, and Mazael hoped she kept herself under control.

  “Most probably,” said Azurvaltoria. “I assume she is meeting with the high priests and the warlords of Tchroth and will address the warriors before she resumes her journey to the Heart of the Spider.” She tapped the hilt of the maethweisyr on her belt, just visible within her dark red coat. “I would cast a spell to confirm…”

  “Don’t,” said Romaria.

  Azurvaltoria grinned. “But the soliphages in the plaza would almost certainly detect it and kill us at once.”

  “This Zanaxar who owes you a favor,” said Romaria. “Won’t he attend the assembly?”

  “Probably,” said Azurvaltoria. “After he’s sufficiently drunk. The innards of the valgasts digest alcohol and other poisons more efficiently than the innards of humans, so it takes more to make them drunk. We’ll have a few minutes yet.”

  “You know some odd things,” said Adalar.

  Azurvaltoria turned towards the young lord, her smile stark and white in the purple-lit gloom of Tchroth, and Mazael remembered the dragon’s fangs in the caverns of the Veiled Mountain. “I’ve been quite bored for a long time, Lord Adalar. There has been little else to do.”

  They crossed in silence to the Tavern of Blood at the base of the stalagmite.

  Mazael had been in hundreds of taverns, inns, and wine houses scattered from Tumblestone to the Grim Marches and back again, and to his surprise, the valgast tavern felt the same as many of them. The Tavern of Blood was a large rectangular chamber hewn from the rock of the stalagmite. A long table ran along one wall, built not from wooden planks but the molded bone the valgasts used for their weapons and armor. Massive stone tubs of blood-colored liquid rested on plinths behind the table and tattooed valgast laborers drew out cups of the reeking stuff. More valgasts sat at stone tables scattered around the cavern. Most of them bore the tattoos of laborers, but some wore the robes of merchants and a few the armor of warriors. The valgasts looked up as they approached, their unblinking black eyes glinting in the light, and then turned their attention back to their cups of wine. Mazael suspected that this place did not draw the most fervent of Marazadra’s worshippers.