Castle Cravenlock stood on a war footing.
Mazael saw camps of mercenaries arrayed around the base of the castle’s rocky hill, some standing in precise military order, others little more than a hodgepodge mess of tents and latrine ditches. At least three thousand men all told, Mazael reckoned. Nearby a blue banner with a silver star, the standard of the Knights Justiciar, flapped over a camp of five hundred men. Next to the Justiciar camp rose the banners of Lord Marcus Trand and Lord Roget Hunterson, their camps holding at least another two thousand men.
Mitor meant to challenge the might of Swordgrim with this rabble?
Spearmen patrolled the castle's ramparts, looking down as Mazael and the others rode up to the gates. Armsmen guarded both the gate and barbican, while crossbowmen waited atop the wall.
Mazael reined up before the gates.
“Halt!” called a man from the ramparts. “Who comes?”
“Gods almighty!” swore an armsman. “That’s Lady Rachel with him!”
“I am Sir Mazael Cravenlock!” said Mazael, standing up in his stirrups. “Behind me are Sir Gerald Roland of Knightcastle, Lady Romaria Greenshield of Deepforest Keep, and the wizard Timothy deBlanc. And no doubt you recognize Lady Rachel Cravenlock?”
“My gods!” exclaimed the gate’s lieutenant. “Sir Mazael, Sir Tanam Crowley abducted Lady Rachel a week past! For you...to come with...”
“How do you think Lady Rachel won free?” said Mazael. “Do you think the Old Crow let her go?”
“Open the gate!” said the lieutenant. “Lord Mitor will want to meet with his brother and sister at once.”
“He damn well better,” muttered Mazael.
The castle’s portcullis rattled up, and Mazael rode into Castle Cravenlock’s courtyard and came home.
It was almost exactly as he remembered. A new roof had been put upon the stables, and three additional forges stood against the curtain walls, but nothing else had changed. The earth beneath Chariot’s hooves remained a mixture of hard-packed dirt and grassy patches, and the servants, peasants, and armsmen going about their business in the courtyard could have been the same men Mazael had seen fifteen years ago.
Someone touched his elbow. “Welcome home,” said Rachel.
Mazael laughed. “Yes, but I rather doubt home is glad to see me.”
Grooms hurried forward to take their mounts, and Chariot bared his teeth. Mazael handed the reins over, and the big war horse deigned the grooms to lead him.
“You ought to have that horse gelded, you know,” said Romaria. She slid down from her mare’s saddle. “He’s hasn’t stopped sniffing at my poor mare.”
Mazael snorted. “Why would I want to do that? A gelding’s no good in battle.”
“A gelding would be easier to control,” said Romaria.
“Yes,” said Mazael, “but a gelding wouldn’t bite the faces off my enemies.”
A young boy in a page’s livery ran forward. “Sir Mazael Cravenlock,” he said in a high voice. “Lord Mitor commands your presence and the presence of your companions in the great hall at once.”
“There’s gratitude,” said Mazael. “I bring back his abducted sister and he cannot even rouse himself to come meet me?” The page flinched. No doubt Lord Mitor was not often questioned. “Very well. Tell him we will come presently.”
The page bowed and ran off.
“Master Cramton, accompany me,” said Mazael. He turned to the Cravenlock armsmen. “Make certain his family is comfortable. If they give me a single word of complaint, I’ll take you back down to those gallows and hang you myself. Oh, and try not to burn down any more inns while you’re at it?”
“Shall...shall some of us escort you to the great hall?” said an armsman.
“I know the way,” said Mazael.
He started for the great hall. Some of his mood must have shown on his face, and servants and armsmen alike melted out of his way. Mazael climbed the steps to the central keep and walked through the anteroom. The massive double doors to Castle Cravenlock’s great hall stood open.
The great hall had been built in imitation of the vast vaulted naves of the high cathedrals. Delicate pillars supported the ribbed roof, and crystal windows stretched from floor to ceilings. The banners of the Cravenlocks hung from the ceiling and balconies. The lord’s dais stood at the end of the hall, and a long table rested at its foot for the lord's councilors. Both dais and table stood empty.
“Where is everyone?” said Mazael.
A herald’s voice rang out from the balconies. “All hail for Mitor Cravenlock, Lord of Castle Cravenlock, and liege lord of the Grim Marches!”
“Oh dear,” said Gerald.
Lord Mitor Cravenlock appeared from the lord’s entrance behind the dais, the hem of his embroidered robe trailing against the floor. Unlike the castle, Mitor did not look as Mazael remembered. He looked worse. His face was milk white, and dark bags encircled his bloodshot green eyes. Sweat plastered his lank black hair to his pale scalp, making him resemble a poisonous mushroom, while his belly strained against the front of his robe. Mitor sat in the lord's chair, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Mazael and Rachel, and did not speak.
“All hail of Marcelle Cravenlock, lady of Castle Cravenlock and wife of Lord Mitor!” boomed the herald.
Mitor Cravenlock's wife and Marcus Trand's daughter was a thin woman in a rich green gown. As far as Mazael could see, she had no curves at all. She looked at Rachel with open contempt, and sat down with serpentine grace besides Mitor.
“Marcus Trand, Lord of Roseblood keep, vassal to Lord Mitor!”
Lord Marcus, built like an ale keg, looked nothing like his daughter. Muscles rippled beneath his fine tunic, yet Mazael saw the cringing sycophancy in his eyes. He took a seat at the table beneath the dais.
“Roget Hunterson, Lord of Hunter’s Hall, vassal to Lord Mitor!”
Lord Roget was a thin, stooped man with a long white beard and a bald head who looked as if he had not gotten much sleep.
“Sir Commander Galan Hawking, Commander of the Justiciar Knights of the Grim Marches, and Lord Mitor’s honored guest and friend!”
Sir Commander Galan gleamed, light reflecting from the polished silver of his breastplate. His blue cloak with its Justiciar silver star flowed out behind him, and he moved with the grace of a stalking lion. Once Lord of Hawk’s Reach, Galan had supported Lord Adalon against Lord Richard. But Lord Richard had won, Galan’s younger brother Astor became lord of Hawk’s Reach, and Galan found himself shipped off to the Knights Justiciar. He had done well in the order, it seemed, but Mazael saw bitterness in the Sir Commander’s eyes.
“Sir Albron Eastwater, armsmaster of Castle Cravenlock, vassal to Lord Mitor!”
Sir Albron looked like the sort of muscled, handsome knight that rescued pining damsels in jongleurs’ bawdy tales. His skin was tanned, his face chiseled, his eyes clear and strong. Sir Albron wore a black surcoat embroidered with the three silver swords of Cravenlock. A plain longsword with a leather-wrapped hilt hung from his belt. Mazael wondered if Sir Albron knew how to use that blade. Sir Albron smiled when he saw Rachel, and she returned the smile tenfold.
Mazael saw Romaria staring at Sir Albron as well, her eyes intent, and suppressed a laugh.
“Simonian, wizard of Briault, advisor to Lord Mitor!”
“A foreign wizard...my lord knight, he wouldn’t have been trained at Alborg,” whispered Timothy. “He could have learned dark arts. Briault is a land of warlocks and necromancers.”
Romaria looked away from Sir Albron and frowned.
“Of Briault?” said Mazael to Rachel. “You didn’t tell me that Mitor had hired a foreign wizard.”
Rachel blinked. “I...I forgot.”
A man wrapped in a voluminous brown robe followed Sir Albron. He wore a bushy gray beard, and unkempt iron-gray hair encircled his head like a lion's mane. His eyes were brown and muddy, the color of a pond choked with silt. He reminded Mazael of someone, but he could not place the recollection. Simonian’s murky
eyes fixed on Mazael for a moment, and then he sat at the councilors' table.
The herald banged his staff against the floor three times to signal the beginning of court.
“You,” said Lord Mitor, his voice rusty.
“Correct,” said Mazael.
“What are you doing here?” said Mitor. “Why are you here? Father sent you away fifteen years ago. Why did you come back?”
“Why did I come back?” said Mazael. “I’m gone for fifteen years, I rescue your sister from the likes of Sir Tanam, and return with her to Castle Cravenlock, and that’s all you have to say?”
“Will you tolerate this questioning from your younger brother?” said Lady Marcelle.
“I am lord of Castle Cravenlock,” said Mitor. “Not you. You do not question me.”
“My lord,” said Sir Albron. His voice was melodic. “Sir Mazael has accomplished a great feat! My men scoured the countryside and we found no trace of Sir Tanam. I had feared her lost to Lord Richard’s clutches. And now Sir Mazael has returned your sister, my dear betrothed,” a flush of pleasure rose in Rachel’s cheeks, “to our arms. We should greet Sir Mazael with gratitude, my lord, not with suspicion and angry accusations.”
“Indeed,” said Lord Roget. “Lord Mitor, Sir Mazael has rescued your sister. He may very well have saved the Grim Marches from another bloody war.”
“Don’t speak foolishness, old man,” said Mitor. “There will be war.” Gerald's frown deepened, and Timothy tugged at the spike of his beard. “I am the rightful liege lord of the Grim Marches. My father was liege lord, and I am his heir. Lord Richard Mandragon is a usurper and a craven murderer, and I mean to see him cast down. I may even kill him myself.”
The thought of Mitor facing battle-hardened Lord Richard in single combat was absurd. Mazael could not stop his laugh.
Lord Marcus’s ruddy face darkened. “See, my lord! He laughs at you. Your own brother laughs at you. This is unacceptable, I say, unacceptable. How do we know Sir Mazael had no hand in Lady Rachel’s abduction? Yes, perhaps he had her kidnapped, and then returned her to raise his standing in your eyes?”
Lord Roget grimaced. “Pardons, my lord of Roseblood, but that is absurd!”
“Is it?” said Sir Commander Galan. “My own brother stood by and did nothing while Lord Richard stripped me of my lands and titles. This Sir Mazael is no different.”
Marcelle reared up like a venomous snake. “Perhaps Rachel and Mazael both are traitors, hmm? For all we know, they both could be in league with...”
“Silence!” Gerald’s voice rang across the hall. “Is this how courtesy is done in the Grim Marches? Perhaps the men of Knightrealm and the High Plain are right to call this a land of barbarians. My brothers and I have had our differences, but we always spoke to each other with courtesy. And Sir Mazael has done more than speak, my lord of Cravenlock! We cut through Sir Tanam’s soldiers and whisked away Lady Rachel. Sir Mazael has returned with him your kidnapped sister, and you greet him with accusations? What madness is this? What utter madness? I half-think Lady Rachel would be better off in the hands of Sir Tanam Crowley!”
Shocked silence followed Gerald’s speech.
Simonian’s harsh laughter broke the silence. “Well spoken, my lord knight,” he said, speaking with a guttural Briaultan accent. “Honest counsel is often rare at Castle Cravenlock.”
Marcelle’s thin lips twisted with fury. “You...you dare...”
Mitor raised a spindly hand. “No, my wife. Sir Gerald...is right, I fear. I see his father Lord Malden has raised him very well, yes. Very well, brother. I apologize.”
Mazael grinned. “Accepted.”
“Now, please...tell me why my brother and...lawful heir...should return so suddenly, without warning, after fifteen years?” said Mitor. His hands twitched in his lap.
Mazael frowned. “Lawful heir?” And then it hit him. Mitor had no children. Though it was hardly surprising, given how fertile Lady Marcelle looked. If Mitor had fathered no children, Mazael was the rightful heir to Castle Cravenlock and its lands.
And that mean Mitor feared Mazael had returned after all these years to kill him and claim Castle Cravenlock. And why not? Mitor was fat and weak. Mazael could run up the dais and tear his older brother into a dozen pieces before his councilors could react.
But Mazael did not want Castle Cravenlock.
“Very well, my lord brother," said Mazael. "First, I didn’t know I was your lawful heir. I haven’t heard anything about Castle Cravenlock since I rode out the barbican without looking back. I had assumed that you would have had a brood of squalling sons by now, but it appears that I was wrong.” Lady Marcelle's expression was nothing short of venomous. “Second, I have been in service to Lord Malden Roland, you’ve heard of him, no doubt, for the last nine years. It was only at his command I returned to Castle Cravenlock. Lord Malden had heard rumors of the difficulties in the Grim Marches, and sent me with Sir Gerald to investigate and report back to him. And third, the matter of Lady Rachel’s rescue. As I said, I knew nothing of the troubles. I happened upon Lady Rachel and Sir Tanam at the inn near the Northwater bridge. Sir Tanam claimed he was taking Lady Rachel back to Swordgrim for crimes of witchcraft and sorcery. These were obviously false charges, so I cut through Sir Tanam’s men, burned the bridge behind me, and rode for Castle Cravenlock.”
Mitor did not look pleased. “You...you burned the bridge? I shall have to pay to have it replaced...”
“I brought Lady Rachel back, and you’re quibbling about a damned bridge?” said Mazael.
“You destroyed my property!” said Mitor. “Do you have any idea how much it costs to raise a bridge over those rivers? I shall expect remuneration.”
“I brought you sister back, fool,” said Mazael. “That is remuneration enough, I should think!”
“You do not call the Lord of Castle Cravenlock a fool,” said Marcelle.
“Shall I lie to the Lord of Castle Cravenlock, then?” said Mazael.
Mitor stood. “You...”
Simonian folded his gnarled fingers beneath his bearded chin. “My lord Mitor...in my homeland of Briault, it is often said that everything carries a price. You can have your heart’s desire, so long as you pay for it. A wooden bridge...well, is that not a small price to pay for your sister’s life?”
“Yes, but...” said Mitor.
“After all, suppose for a moment that Sir Tanam had delivered Lady Rachel to Lord Richard at Swordgrim. You would have been at Lord Richard’s mercy,” said Simonian. The wizard seemed almost amused at the prospect.
“I am at no one’s mercy!” said Mitor. “I am the liege lord of the Grim Marches...the rightful liege lord! If my sister had to die to further my cause, then so...” Rachel flinched, and Mitor’s voice trailed off. Mazael knew full well what Mitor had meant to say, and he hated him for it.
The cavorting amusement never left Simonian’s eyes. “My lord Mitor, your brother has done you great service in returning Lady Rachel. Lord Richard could have forced Lady Rachel to marry his son Toraine. Or, he could have demanded you submit to him at doom of your sister’s life. And if you had refused, if your sister had to die to further your cause...what lord or knight would have followed you then? If you had forsaken her, why, you could forsake them.”
“You mock my honor?” demanded Mitor.
“Of course not, my lord,” said Simonian. “I know that you are the most honorable of men.” Mazael sensed the mockery in his words. Couldn’t Mitor hear it? “But do the lords of the Grim Marches know it? My lord, by returning your sister, Sir Mazael has overcome all these difficulties! Now all the kingdom knows Sir Tanam and his lord the Dragonslayer as kidnappers and oath breakers.”
Mitor sighed. “Ah, Simonian...as always, you are correct. Truly, you are the wisest of my advisors.”
The mocking glint never left Simonian's murky eyes. “I live but to serve you, my lord.”
“We must have a feast tonight,” said Mitor, settling into his high-backed chai
r. “Yes, a great feast, a celebration of thanksgiving to the gods for bringing Lady Rachel back to us.”
“And Sir Mazael,” said Sir Albron, smiling. “He must be honored. I fear he had a greater hand in returning my betrothed than did the gods.”
“Yes, yes of course,” said Mitor, waving a hand. “Honor Sir Mazael. And we must also show the might of Castle Cravenlock for the Grim Marches to see! Lord Richard the great Dragonslayer has been shown as a betrayer who sends his knights to kidnap weak women. Yes, I am liege lord of the Grim Marches, and we shall show it for all the kingdom!”
“Is that wise?” said Mazael. “Between the combined forces of Castle Cravenlock, Hunter’s Hall, Roseblood Keep, the Justiciars, and the mercenaries, you will have just under ten thousand men. Lord Richard can call twenty, maybe twenty-five thousand to his banners.”
Sir Commander Galan laughed. “I can bring another two thousand sergeant foot soldiers and mounted knights from the Justiciar estates under my command. Besides, Lord Richard is a usurper and a murderer. Our cause is just! We cannot lose.”
Mitor smiled. “Lord Alamis Castanagent has pledged nothing, but the liege lord of the High Plain has no love for the Mandragons. He will come to support me, yes. And your own father, Sir Gerald, your father burns for justice on the Mandragons. Lord Malden would stand with the Old Demon if he went to war against Lord Richard!”
Gerald frowned. “My father wants justice for Sir Belifane, yes, but he is not a foolish man. He will not rush into war.” Mazael knew better. Lord Malden hated Lord Richard, and would drag the kingdom into war to bring the Dragonslayer down.
Mitor smirked. “We shall see, yes. Sir Albron, please see Sir Mazael and Sir Gerald to guest rooms...”
“There are a few matters we must first discuss,” said Mazael.
Mitor scowled. “What? It had best be important.”
Mazael gestured at Cramton. “This is master Cramton, an innkeeper...a former innkeeper...from the town.”
“I assumed he was one of your servants,” said Mitor. “Well, why should I care?”
“Your soldiers burned his inn,” said Mazael, “and when I rode into the town, I found them preparing to hang master Cramton and his family.”
“Well, what did they do to warrant hanging?” said Mitor.
“Captain Brogan had accused them of treason, of aiding Sir Tanam...”
Mitor waved a hand. “There it is, then. Why is this peasant fool still alive?”
“He committed no treason,” snapped Mazael. “Captain Brogan and his men tried to rape Cramton’s serving girls. He refused to allow it, and so Brogan imprisoned Cramton and burned his inn!”
“Sir Mazael is right,” said Rachel. “Master Cramton and his family and his workers had nothing to do with my kidnapping. It was entirely the work of Sir Tanam and his men.”
“I commanded my men to keep order in the town,” said Sir Albron, his voice calm and pleasant. “How they carry out their orders is of no concern to me, so long as they are carried out.”
Annoyance flashed across Mitor’s face. “If this peasant’s workers refused to service my soldiers, that, too, is treason!”
“No, that is arson and murder!” yelled Mazael. “I killed Captain Brogan for...”
Mitor lurched out of his seat. “You killed Brogan? You killed one of my armsmen? How dare you? Who do you think you are, to ride into my town and my lands and kill my soldiers?” Cramton shrunk down into himself.
“Who do you think you are?” roared Mazael. “A lord is supposed to do justice for his people! And where is the justice in murder and fire? Your armsmen, bandits, I’d call them, torched this man’s inn and tried to hang his family. Children, Mitor, they tried to hang children! You were complaining about remuneration? I demand you pay it to master Cramton for the loss of his inn!”
“Demand?” said Mitor, his voice shrill. “You demand nothing of me! I am Lord of Castle Cravenlock and liege lord of the Grim Marches! You are a landless knight! You demand nothing of me, and certainly demand nothing for damned peasants!”
“You call yourself a lord, then be a lord!” said Mazael. Red rage howled through him, and he wanted to draw Lion, run up the dais, and kill every last one of those fools before the guards could react. “Do you know what a lord is who won’t do justice? A bandit, a thug in an oversized robe! So, go ahead, Mitor, gorge yourself and get drunk and call yourself liege lord and ignore your people. And when Lord Richard comes for you, they’ll rise up for him, and the Dragonslayer will mount your head above his gates.” He cast his glare over the council table. “Alongside the heads of your fool advisors!”
Sir Commander Galan and Sir Albron reached for their swords, while Simonian only smiled. Lord Marcus got redder. “You dare insult me so...”
“Shut up, you bag of wind!” said Mitor.
For a long moment Mitor and Mazael glared at each other.
Mitor looked away first. “Very well. Remuneration. So be it. One hundred crowns.”
“That’s all?” said Mazael.
“We have need of servants here in the castle. The peasant and his family can work here until their inn is rebuilt,” said Mitor. “I trust you are satisfied.”
“My...my lord is generous,” said Cramton, staring at the floor.
“Yes. See that you don’t forget it,” said Mitor.
“Why is Sir Nathan Greatheart not armsmaster?” said Mazael. “He kept the armsmen of Castle Cravenlock in better order than this Sir Albron.”
“Sir Nathan is too old,” said Mitor. “He is incapable of carrying out my orders. That fat slug Master Othar, as well. Simonian serves me far better.” Mitor smiled. “He can do things that Othar could never dream of...”
Mazael took another step forward. “If you had them killed...”
“Of course not!” shouted Mitor. “No! I did no such thing! They are in my service, under my protection. They serve here still. When war comes, I will find some post suitable for Sir Nathan’s skills. Guarding the baggage, perhaps.”
“Very well,” said Mazael. “There is one more matter. While on the road west of here, near the Cirstarcian monastery I met Lady Romaria Greenshield, of Deepforest Keep, who wishes a word with you.”
Romaria gave another strange glance to Sir Albron and stepped forward. “My Lord Mitor."
“Lady Romaria,” said Mitor. He snickered. “Or is it Lord Romaria? I find myself unable to tell, from your garments.” Mitor’s councilors all laughed, save for Simonian.
Romaria smiled. “A beardless man in a long robe, and one who has fathered no children as well. What shall I make of that? I was looking for Lord Mitor...but I seem to have found a eunuch instead. Pray tell, where shall I find the Lord of Castle Cravenlock?”
Mitor slammed a fist down on the arm of his chair. “Watch your tongue, woman. You are in the presence of civilized men, not the wood demons and the barbarians of your home.”
Romaria laughed at him. “I assumed I was in the presence of courteous men, but it appears that I was wrong. Sir Gerald Roland was correct. Did you learn your courtesies from a toad? Shall I return to Deepforest Keep and tell my father Lord Athaelin that you would not speak with me? Perhaps I should pay a visit to Swordgrim next.”
Mitor’s thick lips pulled back in a snarl.
“My lord,” said Simonian. “It would be wise to gain the friendship of Deepforest Keep. Lord Athaelin’s lands border on your own. When you march to fight Lord Richard, Athaelin could make a powerful friend...or a dangerous enemy.”
“I am the liege lord of the Grim Marches!” said Mitor. “I do not need to ask for Lord Athaelin’s friendship. It is mine by rights. And if he refuses it...why, then I shall have to take it.”
“I did not come to offer my father’s friendship,” said Romaria. “I came to bring you his warning.”
“Oh?” said Mitor. “So now the Lord of Deepforest Keep threatens me? Does he truly wish my wrath so much?”
A smile twitched across Romaria’s face.
“Oh, no, Lord Mitor. Your wrath is something that keeps my father awake long into the night, I am sure. But I came to bring a warning of the danger you face, not threats.”
“And what dangers do I face?” said Mitor. “Asides from having queerly dressed women strut through my castle, that is.”
“Something far more dangerous than I,” said Romaria, “and that is saying quite a bit. Dark magic is loose in your lands, Lord Mitor. The dead rise from their graves and walk the earth, and no one is safe at night. My father believes that a renegade wizard is to blame.” She looked at Simonian for that.
Silence answered her pronouncement. Then Lady Marcelle began to chuckle. Soon Lord Mitor laughed, and the rest of his councilors joined him. Simonian only smiled at Romaria over his folded hands.
“The dead live, eh?” snorted Sir Commander Galan. “If that is so, then should you not be on your knees praising the gods for such a miracle rather than wasting Lord Mitor’s time?”
“These...creatures...do not live,” said Romaria. “They are dead things, given a semblance, a mockery, of life through dark necromancy.”
“So, the dead walk in my lands,” said Mitor. “Bah! You say they were raised by dark magic. Who wielded this dark magic, eh?”
“Some wizard, some renegade,” said Romaria. “Perhaps from Briault.”
“I confess!” said Simonian. “I am the guilty party! I had hoped to use these walking dead men as an entertainment at Lady Rachel’s wedding!” A fresh gale of laughter answered his jest. Even Rachel chuckled.
Romaria smiled. “Laugh if you wish, Lord Mitor...but I assure you, when you see these creatures with your own eyes, the laughter will stop.”
“I have heard enough,” declared Mitor. “I will not be made mock in my own hall. Corpses crawling from their graves? Bah! If you come to bring me lies, woman, why not bring some more interesting ones...gold falling from the sky, perhaps, or a forest where jewels grow upon trees?”
Romaria’s smile grew thin. “Because gold does not fall from the sky, nor have I found any trees that bear gems in place of fruit. I bring you no lies, Lord Mitor...ignore my warnings at your peril.”
“Enough,” said Mitor. “This audience is over. I wish a private word with my sister and with Sir Albron. Once we are finished, Sir Albron will escort our...guests...to their chambers. Now, be gone.”
Rachel climbed the steps to the dais, and Sir Albron took her arm. For an instant revulsion touched Rachel’s features, and then she smiled. Mitor’s guards came forward to escort Mazael and his companions from the hall. The audience was over.
2
Rachel’s Love