Free Mask of Swords by Jonathan Moeller Page B

the coming storm. But join with me, and I can protect you.”
    “Your goddess, you mean,” said Sigaldra. “I have heard the rumors. This strange goddess you serve…you have converted Earnachar to her worship, and you wish to do the same with me?”
    “Yes,” said the Prophetess. “Why should this surprise you? Do not all priests proselytize? Have not the priests of the church of the Grim Marches come among you, seeking to harvest your souls for the Amathavian gods? Their gods are dusty and faded legends. My goddess has power. Join with me, and she shall protect you.”
    “Your goddess,” said Sigaldra. “What is her name?”
    “That is known only to the initiated,” said the Prophetess. “Follow me, and you shall learn all that and more.”
    “No,” said Sigaldra. 
    She met the other woman’s green eyes for a long moment. They did not have Earnachar’s malicious glee, but they held no emotion whatsoever. With a chill, Sigaldra realized that the Prophetess’s eyes would likely show no emotion as she killed.
    “Very well,” said the red-haired woman, drawing her cowl back up. She turned her horse and rode back to the others. Rigoric moved to her side, and Sigaldra suspected that the masked orcragar served her, not Earnachar. 
    “Bah,” said Earnachar. “We have given you more of a chance than you deserve, you and your band of widows and cripples and fools.”
    “Not all of us are cripples, headman,” said Vorgaric, the massive hammer steady in his hands.
    “Think on what we have said,” growled Earnachar, turning his horse. “Someday you will remember this day and curse that you were not wise enough to listen.”
    He rode away, his men flanking the Prophetess and the other two robed women. 
    Sigaldra and her men stood in silence for a moment.
    “I don’t like him,” said Talchar at last, spitting into the dust. “Talks too much.” 
    “That could have gone better,” said Sigaldra. 
    “It could have gone worse,” grunted Vorgaric. 
    “How?”
    “We are not dead,” said Vorgaric. 
    Sigaldra could not argue with that. “I…”
    A scream rang over the walls.
    Liane.
    Sigaldra raced through the postern gate and up the stairs to the rampart. Liane sagged against the battlements, her pale blue eyes wide as she stared at the departing horsemen.
    “I see them,” she whispered. “I see them, I see them, I see them…”
    “You see what?” said Sigaldra, talking Liane’s shoulders. “The horsemen? They will not attack, and if they do, we shall send for the hrould…”
    “No,” said Liane. “The spiders.”
    “Spiders?” said Sigaldra, looking around. Liane had never been frightened of spiders before.
    “The spiders riding the horses beneath the black cloaks,” said Liane.
    “Those weren’t spiders,” said Sigaldra. 
    “They had the souls of spiders,” said Liane. “I saw them…sister, we should not be frightened of Earnachar. We should be frightened of the priestess, for she owns his soul now.”
    “The Prophetess, you mean?” said Sigaldra. “She is just a woman with silly ideas.” 
    “No,” said Liane. “She has a soul full of darkness, full of dark magic, and she has marked us. She is coming for us, Sigaldra. She is coming for us.”
    She fell into Sigaldra’s arms, weeping.

Chapter 5: Old Friends
     
    Castle Cravenlock hummed with activity. 
    Mazael walked through the courtyard, the golden scales of his armor flashing in the sun, his black cloak streaming behind him. Around him servants and squires and pages went about their business, loading armor and weapons into carts while knights shouted instructions. Mazael climbed the stairs to the rampart, looking down at Cravenlock Town and the plains below. The tournament field outside the town’s new walls had been cleared, and already the pavilions of knights and the tents of Tervingi thains rose. 
    A traditional tournament would have been too expensive, and most of the Tervingi preferred to fight on foot,