Mask of Dragons Read Online Free

yet it seemed there were a dozen narrow paths that let small warbands in and out of the mountains. The Skuldari, with their spider mounts, could take those paths easily. Yet those warbands were no more than a nuisance, and with the Grim Marches rousing for war, the lords and knights marching west to the Weaver’s Pass would deal with them. Likely Mazael himself had destroyed a warband or two on his way here, and when he arrived, the host of the Grim Marches would march on Skuldar. 
    Then, perhaps, they would find the Prophetess and Rigoric and get Liane back. 
    Assuming the valgasts did not kill them all first. 
    The valgasts worshipped the spider-goddess Marazadra, the same goddess the Skuldari revered. Unlike the Skuldari, the valgasts lived in the labyrinth of dark caverns beneath the Grim Marches, and boiled out of the ground like ants to attack. According to both the Jutai and the Tervingi, the valgasts had once only attacked upon the days of midsummer and midwinter. Now they claimed that the death of the Old Demon had freed them from their constraints, and they could attack freely.
    So they did. 
    Adalar was not sure they could hold Weaver’s Pass against the nightly valgast raids. 
    The Jutai had fought against the valgasts before, but the men of the Grim Marches had never faced them before this spring. Consequently, they did not know how to fight them. Both the Jutai and the Marcher folk knew how to fight infantry and horsemen and archers…or Malrags and runedead. They did not know how to fight creatures that tunneled up through the ground beneath their boots. Adalar supposed that in the distant past, when ancient men had first encountered foes wielding swords or bows or chariots, they had not known how to fight them, but they found a way in the end.
    So it was time for a new method of fighting.
    Adalar only hoped his plan worked. 
    By the gods, he hoped that at least it wouldn’t get all of them killed.
    The camp came into sight, and Adalar was pleased to see that his instructions had been followed. Twelve large pavilions had been raised in a wide circle around the camp, and holes had been cut in the roofs of each of the pavilions. Within each pavilion burned a half-dozen braziers, their smoke rising into the sky. At Adalar’s command, the various knights, lords, armsmen, and thains had moved their bedrolls into the center of the ring of pavilions, with no cook fires or tents. That inspired a great deal of grumbling, but Vorgaric the smith had threatened to crush the head of anyone who disobeyed Lord Adalar’s commands, and that had inspired a spirit of swift obedience. 
    “Sir Wesson!” called Adalar as they approached the ring of pavilions. “How goes the work?”
    A stocky knight about Adalar’s own age turned, wearing chain mail and a blue surcoat adorned with the silver greathelm sigil of Lord Gerald Roland of Knightcastle. In imitation of Lord Gerald, Wesson had started growing a mustache, and it had grown out a bit since Adalar and Wesson had arrived in the Grim Marches. Adalar had come to the Grim Marches intending to bury his father and return to Mastaria without delay, but instead he had been drawn into a war.
    Yet another war…
    For a moment the exhausted apathy that had haunted him since the defeat of Lucan Mandragon threatened to wash through him, but Adalar shoved it aside. Tens of thousands had fallen to the runedead, but they were dead and beyond all aid. The living still needed his help – the Marcher folk, the Jutai, Sigaldra’s sister Liane.
    Sigaldra herself.
    “Well enough, Lord Adalar,” said Wesson before Adalar’s thoughts could dwell further on the Jutai holdmistress. “It took some doing to get the ropes tied properly, but we did it in the end.” He scratched at his chin. “One of your armsmen used to be a Knightport sailor, and he knew some things about trick knots.” 
    “Good,” said Adalar, looking at the men within the ring of pavilions. “Everyone