Mistress of Masks

by C. Greenwood

  “The youngling?” he asked, forehead creasing. “Of what use is he to us? He’s certainly no warrior. We saw that last night when the Aviads attacked. He couldn’t defend himself, let alone anyone else.”

  He might have added that Eydis, on the other hand, had surprised him with how well she handled herself. He wouldn’t have taken the skinny redhead for much of a scrapper, but last night, even with only a fire poker for a weapon, she had fought like a cornered cat. A cat battling birdmen. He smirked at the thought, before recalling their present situation was much less amusing.

  “I am determined in this, Kroadian,” she was telling him now. “There is more to this Geveral than meets the eye, and at some point he is going to be vital to the success of our quest. I have seen this.”

  Before he could reply, he was distracted by the sounds of a commotion occurring outside the hut. A cry of “fire” sounded in the distance, followed by the thud of running feet. Hurrying to the window, Orrick saw their Watcher guard had deserted his post.

  “What’s happening?” asked Eydis, joining him at the window. “Is it the Aviads returning?”

  Orrick didn’t answer. Their window was positioned to afford a view of treetops, a glimpse of the walkway twisting around the hut, and little else. They were on the wrong side to see anything of the village.

  But Orrick’s keen hearing detected what his eyes could not. Someone was stealthily approaching the hut. The soft steps weren’t those of a guard but of someone who had no business being here. Someone who did not care to be detected.

  The door handle rattled softly.

  Casting caution to the winds, Orrick demanded, “Who’s creeping around out there?” When there was no response, he laid a hand to the iron door handle. And jerked away when it was painfully cold to the touch. His hand throbbed as if it had touched a frozen flame. Before his eyes, the door handle changed, turning blue as ice crystals formed over the iron, then spread, crackling over the lock and down the side of the door.

  Orrick knew magic when he saw it. “Is this your doing?” he asked Eydis, uneasily.

  She shook her head and stepped back as the door’s hinges and handle suddenly shattered, shards of frozen metal showering the floor. With a bang, the door fell. And there, on its other side, stood the figure of a tall and slender youth with the sharply pointed ears and narrow features of the Drycaenian race and the simple forest clothing and long loose hair favored by the Treeveil inhabitants. This particular youngling was the last person Orrick had expected to see.

  “Geveral,” Eydis cried. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to rescue you,” he said. “Or at least that’s the plan if my little diversion keeps your guard out of the way long enough to get you both out of here. Orrick, catch.”

  Orrick caught the blanket-shrouded object the youngling threw at him. It was large and startlingly heavy. “My sword,” he realized, tearing the blanket away. “How did you get this away from the Watchers?”

  “Never mind,” said Geveral. “There’s no time to explain. You have to follow me now.” He led them quickly out into the evening light and hurried them down a twisting walkway. Their path took them farther from the village and into a deserted area where the platforms and walkways were in disrepair. Strangely, Orrick didn’t see a soul around.

  Geveral seemed to read his mind. “Most of the village is down in the southern glade, witnessing the burials of the victims of last night’s attack. Only Watchers remain to guard the village. Considering how wary everyone is of fire after last night’s destruction, it was a simple matter to stuff a chimney with oiled rags, fan the billowing smoke out the windows, and yell ‘fire.’ With any luck every Watcher in Treeveil has descended on my cottage by now. But it won’t take them long to discover my ruse, so we must waste no time.”

  He skidded to a halt alongside a small railed platform that looked something like a wooden box hitched to ropes and pulleys. Orrick and Eydis stopped with him.

  “We use this supply elevator for bringing up heavy goods,” Geveral explained. “It’s the quickest way down to the forest floor. When you’ve put Treeveil behind you, head north to the near road. There you’ll find a white horse hitched to a cart and waiting for you. I’m not sure I procured all the provisions you need for your journey. But the food I stowed in the cart should get you as far as the next village anyway.”

  “Why are you doing this?” asked Eydis. “You’ll face punishment for helping us escape, and now you’re giving us your own horse and supplies?”

  Geveral hesitated. “I have a feeling about you, Eydis Ironmonger. You see things other people don’t. I don’t know the full nature of your quest to the baselands. But I believe those birdmen raided my village last night because they were desperate to stop the two of you. Whatever your mission, those creatures of darkness fear its success. For me, that is reason enough to speed you on your way.”

  Eydis grabbed the youth’s elbow. “You could help further by accompanying us. I have foreseen you will grow into a great mage one day. When that happens, Earth Realm will have need of you.”

  “I’m sorry,” the boy said, looking uncomfortable. “But I’m not whatever you think I am. Besides, I can’t leave home right now. I haven’t even buried my brother.”

  Orrick cut in. “There is no time for debate. Eydis, get in the elevator and we’ll lower you.”

  Her expression was reluctant, but at least she complied, climbing over the low rail and onto the platform. Together Orrick and Geveral worked the pulley and watched her descend to the forest floor where she disembarked and waited.

  “She’s right about one thing, you know,” Orrick told Geveral as the two of them raised the platform again. “You’ve done us a good turn. And that’s why I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “For this.” Orrick rounded on the youth so suddenly the boy couldn’t get in more than a startled cry before Orrick’s fist caught him square in the jaw and knocked him flat on his back.

  The village boy might have been long-limbed, but he lacked muscle and was light as a flour sack when Orrick lifted his limp body and dragged it onto the elevator platform. It was a tight squeeze, but he managed to climb in after the unconscious youth and work the pulleys along, lowering them to the forest below.

  Eydis’s eyes bulged when she saw him hauling Geveral out of the elevator and hefting the boy’s unconscious form over his shoulder. “Have you gone mad? What in the Mother’s name have you done to him?” she cried.

  Orrick shrugged a broad shoulder. “You wanted the boy, you’ve got him.”

  “But I didn’t want him joining us like this,” she sputtered. “Not against his will.”

  “Aye, it’s not ideal,” Orrick agreed. “But it’s the only way we were going to get him. You heard the boy—he was set on staying behind. Anyway, we’ve got the entire journey to change his mind.”

  She gaped. “You are the most uncivilized—this is just—I haven’t even the words to say how wrong it is. We cannot run around stealing younglings from their homes and families.”

  “That’s why it’s lucky you chose this one,” Orrick said. “He hasn’t got any family. He’s of no use to anyone but us.”

  He was already tramping away through the underbrush, and she hastened after him, protesting all the way. “I didn’t choose him, my vision did. Anyway, I never said we should force him to join our quest.”

  “You said he was a vital piece in the game,” Orrick pointed out. “That we couldn’t succeed without him. I don’t know about you, but I don’t make it a habit to set out on quests and fail for neglecting the little details.”

  He paused to peer through the gloom. The last light of evening was leaving the skies, and the overhead canopy of leaves and branches blotted out the glow of the moon. “Which way did he say would take us to the near road? North?”

  “Yes, but—”

  He strode away, leaving her to protest vainly and then scramble to catch up. Behind them,
the shadows of Treeveil faded in the distance.

  * * *

  “We’re lucky Geveral thought to slip a map in with all these supplies,” Eydis said. “Now we have something more to go on than your vague sense of direction.” She spread the crudely drawn map on the ground and examined it under the glow of the campfire.

  Orrick poked a stick into the flames, sending a shower of sparks flying. “I didn’t hear you complaining when I got us off the Isle of Bones—”

  “Actually my boat did that.”

  “—and brought us down the Elder road, to the forest, and into Treeveil. I doubt you’d do as well, traveling in a country not your own.”

  She ignored that. He was fast learning it was her habit to ignore inconvenient facts.

  “Should we even have stopped here?” she asked, changing the subject. “We’re only a few hours from Treeveil, and if the villagers get up a rescue party to come looking for Geveral, they may see our fire.”

  “What if they do?” he grumbled. “I can handle an army of those spineless tree-swingers.”

  She lifted a brow. “That’s not what you were saying when they held us prisoner.”

  Before Orrick could reply, there came a faint moaning sound, followed by a rustling noise from the cart nearby.

  “Sounds like our party’s newest and most reluctant recruit is waking up,” Orrick observed. He went around to the back of the cart and drew back the sheet of canvas covering a struggling form.

  The dark-haired youth lying in the bed of the cart looked the worse for wear after traveling the last few miles jouncing around, unconscious, in the wagon. He blinked in the firelight and asked, dazedly, “Where am I, and why does my jaw feel like it was hit with a blacksmith’s hammer?”

  “Flattering of you to say so,” Orrick answered, “but it was only my fist. We’re a few miles outside Treeveil, camped alongside the near road. Are you thirsty?”

  “I can’t move my hands,” the youth complained, struggling against the cord holding his hands bound behind him.

  Orrick shrugged. “Doesn’t mean you can’t drink,” he said, hauling the boy upright and sitting him on the edge of the cart. “We’ve got a water-skin around here somewhere. Strange to think you’re the one who packed it for us, along with the rest of these provisions. To say nothing of supplying the cart for your own abduction.”

  “Is that what this is?” Geveral asked. “Are you really dragging me away from my home against my will after all I’ve done for the two of you?” His bewildered gaze took in Eydis in the background. “I trusted you—both of you.”

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” Orrick said. “One moment we’re prisoners, the next it’s you.”

  “But I rescued you from that holding cell and spirited you away to freedom,” Geveral argued. “And now I’m sitting in the back of your cart, trussed up like a chicken?”

  “That pretty well sums it up,” Orrick agreed.

  “Orrick, don’t tease him,” said Eydis, coming to join them. “We’re all on the same side here. Untie him.”

  “Not until I know he won’t run off into the trees,” Orrick said, indicating the surrounding forest. “He knows these woods better than we do, and if he takes to his heels, he just might lose us. And you’re the one who said we cannot complete this quest without him.”

  She rubbed her forehead. “This is not the way it looked in my vision. I thought he was supposed to want to help us.”

  “Are you mad?” Geveral asked, disbelievingly. “I keep telling you, I’m not whatever you think I am. Do you even know what it means to be a Drycaenian mage? First one has to have inherited powers from our dryad ancestors. It’s rare those powers are strong enough to merit training from the village mentor. And out of the handful of younglings chosen for that training, a very small number are sufficiently gifted to be sent to one of the academies for formal testing and advanced training. Only when that training is complete is one fully acknowledged a mage and returned to his village to manage its weather and crops and to tutor other younglings with the gift. So you see, even were I strong enough, it would be years before I could master my powers enough to be of use to anyone.”

  “Yet you were of help tonight when you used your magic to break us out of that cell,” Eydis pointed out.

  The youth hesitated. “That was different. What I did broke all the rules. A dryad mage doesn’t use his magic against his own people or to flout authority.”

  “I foresee,” said Eydis, “you’ll be the first to change many things. Not all of it to the good. But always you will do what is necessary for the protection of Earth Realm and your own race within it.”

  He looked troubled. “Is the world really in need of saving?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It is.”

  He appeared to think that over. But all he said was, “My wrists are sore. Would you two consider untying me if I give my word not to run off until this discussion is settled?”

  Eydis looked at Orrick. “I see no reason not to trust him.”

  Orrick scowled. His instincts told him the boy would go running back to his village the first chance he got. But he also suspected Eydis would give him no peace until he complied with the request. Clearly she was foolish enough to believe people kept their promises.

  So he cut the Drycaenian boy’s bonds. He was just straightening afterward when he heard it. A distant howl carried on the wind. This belonged to no domesticated dog; neither was it the bay of a wolf. It held an unearthly quality, like the cry of a ghostly hound caught between mortal and immortal realms. He could think of only one place where he had ever encountered such a creature. The Lostlands.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Geveral

  The barbarian stiffened, asking, “Do you hear that?”

  Geveral exchanged a glance with Eydis, who shrugged. “Hear what?” she asked.

  “A cry on the wind,” said Orrick. “A baying sound like that of a hound from beyond the grave.”

  Geveral smiled weakly. “You’re joking.” He looked to Eydis. “He is joking, right?”

  “I do not know,” she answered uneasily. “He’s never had any sense of humor before.”

  They fell silent, each straining to hear whatever the barbarian heard. But all Geveral’s ears picked up was the breeze whispering softly through the surrounding trees and the muted popping and hissing sounds coming from the camp fire. A whicker came from Snowflake, who was tethered to a nearby tree. Other than that, the night seemed peaceful.

  Orrick broke in on the silence. “I hear two of them, maybe three.”

  “Two or three whats?” Geveral asked, bewildered.

  “Hunger hounds. Foul beasts of the Lostlands, where they are known for their speed and agility. The few that have strayed over the border and fallen into the hands of my people are used to hunt spies and criminals. Their sense of smell is not to be matched, and driven by fire and eternal hunger, they can outrun any man or beast alive.”

  “But not horses surely,” Eydis cut in. “Anyway, what would such creatures be doing in the heart of Lythnia and the rangelands? We’re far from the border.”

  But the barbarian wasn’t listening. He had his nose to the wind. “They’re a mile off, maybe less. And there’s another creature with them. Something that smells of rotting human flesh. Perhaps it drives them.”

  “Kroadians have elevated senses,” Eydis softly explained to Geveral. “If Orrick hears and smells them, they’re coming.”

  As if to punctuate the statement, Snowflake, nearby, began snorting and stamping. The horse’s ears were back, the way she held them when something made her nervous.

  “Are you sure it isn’t just wolves you and Snowflake are sensing?” asked Geveral.

  Kicking out the campfire, Orrick ignored his question. “We must move quickly. They’ll be upon us in a matter of minutes. Our only hope is to reach the lake on that map you were looking at, Eydis. Hunger hounds fear water, so if we can get that far before they run us down, we’ll stand half a chance
.”

  Geveral didn’t like the sound of those odds. But Eydis was already stuffing the map into her belt and gathering the provisions around the campfire, so he saw no choice but to follow suit. Treeveil was too far to flee back to even if he hadn’t already given his word that he wouldn’t.

  He moved to soothe Snowflake, planning to hitch her to the cart. But at that very moment his ears finally picked up a baying sound in the distance. The horse heard it too and reared back on her hind legs, shrilling and pawing at the air.

  “Easy, girl,” Geveral murmured, sidling up beside her. But Snowflake wouldn’t be calmed. She jerked hard on the rope, breaking it free of the tree trunk. Geveral ran at her, but Snowflake easily dodged past him and galloped away, disappearing into the trees.

  “I suppose that leaves us stranded,” said Eydis.

  “We’ll move faster without the cart anyway,” Orrick said. “Grab what you absolutely cannot do without, and let us be away from this place.”

  Geveral joined the others in transferring provisions from the cart to his back. But he hadn’t gotten far when there came another series of howls, this time much closer than before. The hunger hounds were covering ground fast.

  “Abandon the rest of it,” the barbarian ordered.

  Eydis tried to argue, but Orrick grabbed her and hurried her away from the roadside.

  Geveral had no choice but to reluctantly follow the two into the trees. Stumbling in the gloom, he tripped over thick tree roots and was whipped in the face by sharp branches. Only occasional patches of moonlight filtered through the leafy overhead canopy, leaving him to travel by sound as much as sight. He followed the noise made by Orrick and Eydis as they crashed through the dense underbrush. But always in the distance, he heard the baying of the hounds getting closer. The pursuers were clearly onto their scent.

  Heart pounding and lungs burning, Geveral stopped for a second, resting with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. When he was ready to run again, he realized he could no longer hear the sounds of Orrick and Eydis. He had fallen too far behind, and now he was separated from the others. What now? Should he keep running blindly, hoping to catch up to them? Panic rising, he strained to see through the darkness and struggled to quiet his panting breath so he could listen for some distant sound to guide him.