Mask of Dragons by Jonathan Moeller Read Free Book Online

Mazael’s blood to augment his magical powers, and that had started Lucan down the path to destruction. His intentions had been good, but the stolen power had destroyed him nonetheless.
    Mazael had no doubt the Prophetess’s intentions were malicious. So what would she do with the blood of a Demonsouled? 
    Maybe Romaria was right, and the Prophetess's plans wouldn’t matterwhen Mazael killed the Prophetess and crushed her allies. 
    Somehow he knew it would not be that simple. It never was.
    They reached the camp later that day. Mazael had commanded Sigaldra to make camp at the entrance to Weaver’s Pass, and she had followed his instructions to the letter, setting the camp at the edge of the foothills of Skuldar. He was pleased to see that nearly seven thousand of his men had gathered, equipped and armed for war. Furthermore, they had constructed themselves an orderly camp, with tents lined in rows, the camp itself ringed by a ditch and a low earthwork wall. That would be Adalar’s doing, Mazael suspected. The men of Knightreach had made similar camps for themselves to keep the runedead at bay during the Great Rising. He had thought that Adalar and Sigaldra would work well together, and that instinct appeared to have been right. 
    Ashes crunched beneath the steel-shod hooves of his horse. 
    “Big fire here,” said Molly, riding up with Riothamus. 
    “Bonfire, maybe?” said Mazael. 
    “No,” said Romaria, her blue eyes narrowed as she sniffed at the air. The gesture made her look peculiarly wolfish. “A couple of pavilions burned here, I’m sure of it.” 
    “Pavilions?” said Riothamus. “Perhaps the valgasts launched a raid.”
    “If they did, it failed,” said Romaria. “I smell valgast flesh in the ashes as well.” 
    Molly laughed and pointed at the camp. “That might be a hint, too.” 
    Stakes jutted from the top of the earthwork wall, and some of the stakes had been topped with valgast heads. There were dozens of the heads, their unblinking black eyes staring at nothing. No crows disturbed them. Apparently the carrion birds found the flesh of valgasts unpalatable, and their eyes were made a peculiar crystalline substance as hard as stone. 
    “They must have gotten the idea from the Tervingi,” said Riothamus. “Of old, the valgasts only attacked on Midsummer’s Day and Midwinter’s Day. If a Tervingi hold repulsed them, they left the heads upon the walls as a warning to others.” 
    A band of horsemen circled the camp and headed towards Mazael’s column. Most of the riders were Tervingi horsethains, and Mazael spotted the Tervingi headman Arnulf at their head, grim in his chain mail. A thin man in a black coat road next to him. 
    “Ah, we’ll have some news now,” said Mazael. “Sir Hagen!” Hagen urged his horse forward, scowling at the valgast heads. “Get the men ready to camp. Oh, and find Sir Tanam. Have him send scouts around the camp, and a few men up Weaver’s Pass. If the Skuldari are about to throw their full strength at us, I would like to know about it.” 
    “My lord,” said Hagen, and he turned to carry out his instructions. 
    Arnulf and the black-coated man reined up before Mazael. The Tervingi headman was a big man, a perpetual scowl on his face behind his ragged yellow beard. The man in the black coat was shorter and thinner, with gray-streaked brown hair and a beard he kept trimmed to a precise point. His black coat and clothes were favored by the brotherhood of wizards, and he had served as Mazael’s court wizard for years. 
    “Arnulf, Timothy,” said Mazael. “What news?”
    Arnulf grunted. “Battle and fire.” 
    “The valgasts tried to attack the camp several times before we arrived, my lord,” said Timothy. “Holdmistress Sigaldra and Lord Adalar devised a clever stratagem to defeat them.”
    “How?” said Mazael. 
    “Lured them into pavilions, and then burned the pavilions down around their heads,” said Arnulf. “Too bad I missed