Mistress of Masks

by C. Greenwood

  Geveral followed her gaze but saw nothing suspicious. The millhouse and surrounding yard seemed pleasant and peaceful. The only noise that met his ears was the singing of birds in the trees, the sound of the river rushing past, and the rhythmic splashing of the waterwheel against the side of the mill.

  Eydis said, “At this hour the miller and his family should be busy about their chores. Yet nothing moves in the yard, and there are no voices from the house.”

  She was right. The stillness did seem strange. The door of the millhouse stood wide open, as they neared, but no one stirred in or out. There was a chicken coop in the yard and a small livestock enclosure, but both stood empty.

  “There’s a foul scent on the air,” Orrick observed. “A smell of death.”

  Geveral sniffed the wind but smelled nothing but earth and pine. “Is it hunger hounds?” he asked, trying not to look as nervous as he felt at the thought of another encounter with the monstrous beasts.

  “No, this scent is… different,” said Orrick. “We’d best pass the long way around.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Eydis said. “We may not come upon another homestead for miles, and we need food. We’ll just have to approach with caution.”

  Orrick scowled but didn’t argue, only drawing his heavy sword and holding it ready as they entered the clearing. The dusty ground around the house was covered in tracks, large animal prints like none Geveral had ever seen.

  The barbarian’s face was grim as he examined them. “If these tracks were made by what I think they were, our miller is likely long dead.”

  “We cannot know that yet,” Eydis said. “I’ll search the house for signs of life. Geveral can check the livestock pens, and you, Orrick, can look at the outbuildings.”

  “We stay together,” Orrick corrected firmly. “We may need the advantage of numbers.” He strode off to the millhouse, leaving Geveral and Eydis to exchange glances, shrug, and follow.

  Geveral wasn’t sure if their footsteps, as they crossed the creaky porch, were actually loud, or if his hearing was only heightened by his unease. The front door hung crookedly open, affording a partial view of the house’s gloomy interior. When Orrick kicked the door off its single hinge, the noisy crash should have summoned everyone in the place. But there were no startled exclamations. No frightened miller and his family came rushing to see who was breaking into their home.

  The house was eerily silent as the three pushed their way inside. The space they entered was a low-ceilinged kitchen with a long table and chairs drawn around a fireplace. The tabletop was dusted with flour, as though someone had been abruptly interrupted while cooking. A blackened slab of pork on a spit over the embers also suggested business left unfinished, as though there had been a hasty departure.

  “Maybe nobody’s home?” Geveral offered.

  “They’re home all right,” said Orrick, pointing. Geveral followed his gaze to something pale sticking out from beneath the table. A human hand. There was no body attached, only a pool of dark blood around the severed limb.

  “I’m afraid this is what’s left of our miller,” Orrick said. “Look at this,” he added, flipping the hand over. “The wristbone wasn’t severed cleanly. It’s been crushed, not cut.”

  “What does that mean?” Geveral asked.

  Instead of answering, Orrick touched the blood pool. “The blood is fresh, so the miller hasn’t been dead long. It’s likely the creatures that killed him haven’t gone fair. We should get away from here, while we still can.” As he spoke, his eyes darted around the room, scanning the shadows.

  Geveral swallowed. He didn’t want to see the kind of monsters that could instill fear in the big Kroadian.

  Eydis said, “We can’t go anywhere before we search this house from attic to cellar. Someone could be lying injured and in need of our help. We mustn’t leave them to their fate.”

  “Better it be their fate than ours,” Orrick growled. “You clearly don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

  “So why don’t you tell us?” Geveral cut in.

  The barbarian hesitated. “If I’m wrong, you’ll call me mad.”

  “We already think that,” Eydis put in. “But we have a right to know what we’re up against.”

  Orrick glowered. “Have either of you ever seen a swarm of scorpions? I’m not talking about the little insects that hide in shadowy places and are as scared of you as you are of them. I mean fire scorpions from the Lostlands. Creatures bigger than a horse and more venomous than any snake. Their pincers can chop a man in half. Their stingers pierce flesh like daggers and drip with venom that paralyzes their prey, even while it burns like fire as it works through their body. That’s where they get the name fire scorpions. From the blazing agony caused by their venom. They’re seldom seen outside the Lostlands, but wherever they wander, they create havoc. Does any of this tell you why we should be swift to put this place behind us?”

  Eydis’s eyes were round but she held firm, and Geveral respected her for it. “We’ll run as soon as I’m satisfied there’s no one here in need of rescue,” she said.

  When Geveral quietly agreed, Orrick grumbled, “The dryad and the witch siding against me. Why am I not surprised?”

  But he joined them as they searched the premises. It wasn’t until they left the house and looked into an outbuilding that they found another body.

  “This isn’t our missing miller,” Eydis said, squatting beside the dark-haired young man who lay lifeless on the ground. “See, he’s still got both his hands. Maybe he’s the miller’s son.”

  “I don’t care who he was,” Orrick said. “These marks confirm it was scorpions.” He pointed out the large red welts on the face and arms of the corpse. There was a wide puncture mark at the center of each, surrounded by blistered flesh, from which emanated a faintly acidic smell.

  “What are you doing?” Geveral asked as the barbarian collected yellow puss from one of the oozing stings into a small vial from his belt pouch.

  “Scorpion venom has its uses. If nothing else, it’ll fetch a high price in the right quarters.”

  Geveral frowned, saying, “This poor man is dead. Can’t you show a little respect?”

  “Why?” asked Orrick. “He’s past knowing the difference. Anyway, if we hope to barter for supplies on the way to Asincourt, we’ll need something to bargain with.”

  “He has a point, Geveral,” Eydis said. “We’d best let him do what he does best—look out for himself. And hope he remembers his promise to look out for the rest of us while he’s at it.”

  If the barbarian heard her warning, he didn’t rise to it. “What I cannot figure out,” he mused, “is what fire scorpions are doing in the rangelands in the first place. Any skilled sorcerer can summon the creatures, but controlling them is almost impossible. They’re small-brained beasts and rampage indiscriminately, destroying whatever they encounter.”

  Eydis shrugged. “Maybe that’s the intention of whoever created them? To cause confusion throughout the countryside?”

  “Or,” Geveral put in, “our enemy, Rathnakar, is rallying more forces. Do you think it’s coincidence we encounter evidence of these dark creatures en route to Asincourt? Perhaps they’ve been summoned there.”

  Orrick said, “If these fire scorpions are converging on Asincourt, the seclusionary is doomed.”

  “Not,” said Eydis, “if we get there first.”

  * * *

  By late afternoon a light sprinkle was falling. They had put the disturbing scenes of the millhouse behind them and kept on the move, finally discovering the road marked on their map. Already soaked by the drizzle, they agreed camping in the damp weather would be as miserable as traveling and far less productive, so they decided to push on.

  As they continued, the road widened into a well-traveled way with many diverging branches. In better weather it might have seen frequent traffic, but today there was not a soul in sight. Their first encounter with another human being didn’t occur until they reach
ed the Blackwater bridge, where the map indicated they could cross the river.

  Here they found a wrinkled old man in a wet cloak, securing the shutters of his toll roof.

  “Wait! Please don’t close up yet,” Eydis said. “We’ve come a long way and are desperate to buy passage across the river.”

  “I’m sorry to say you’ll not be gettin’ that today, young miss.” The toll man had to raise his reedy voice to be heard over the rising wind. “Take a look over yonder.”

  They followed his direction to the rickety bridge, which stood partially submerged in the swirling river.

  “She’s floodin’ high,” the old man continued. “Must be gettin’ heavy rains upstream. And it looks to be headed our way. You folk had best wait on the weather and cross in a day or two.”

  Geveral could see by the dark sky ahead that the man was right. They would soon have more to worry about than wind and drizzle.

  But Eydis wouldn’t be dissuaded. “I’m afraid waiting is not an option for us. Is there no other way to get across this river?”

  In the failing light, the old man squinted over her shoulder at Orrick and Geveral. “You lads ought to talk sense into yer lady friend. Mark my words, ’tis a dangerous storm on the way. I’ve been on this river long enough to know when I see it comin’.”

  But under Eydis’s answering scowl, he relented. “There’s a ferry five miles up the road if you’re foolhardy enough to risk the wild crossing.”

  Geveral thanked him, but the toll man seemed distracted, staring after Eydis and Orrick. “You know, there’s somethin’ familiar about your big companion,” he said. “Can’t put my finger on it, but I’ve seen that face of his somewhere before.”

  Shrugging, Geveral took his leave and hurried after the others.

  Eydis had her map out again and was scanning it for the ferry. “Can you do nothing about this rain, Geveral?” she grumbled as sprinkles spattered over the map. “I thought Drycaenian mages could manipulate weather.”

  “I wish I could,” he said honestly, “but it’s not that simple. I’m as helpless against this rain as you or Orrick. What’s with him anyway?”

  The big barbarian had come to a standstill in the road and was staring as though fascinated by a soggy notice nailed to a signpost. Whatever he saw was apparently not to his liking, because he ripped the poster down, crumpling it viciously before Geveral could get a look.

  “Is something wrong?” Geveral asked him.

  Brows lowered, Orrick said, “Nothing that concerns you, wizard boy.” Stuffing the crumpled poster inside his cloak, he stomped away.

  “So I’ve been promoted from boy to wizard boy?” Geveral asked under his breath. He tried to catch Eydis’s eye to see if she’d noticed Orrick’s odd behavior, but she was engrossed in her map.

  “If we keep going after sundown,” she said as they walked, “and push through until midnight, I think we can make the ferry in good time. Once we’ve crossed over, we can camp on the other side of the river and find our way back to the road in the morning when we have the daylight. Of course we could move faster if the rain stopped.”

  Geveral caught the hint. “I told you, it’s not in my power. Even the best mages struggle with weather, and I am nothing beside them.”

  “So you keep telling me,” she persisted, casting him a sidelong look. “But when the hunger hounds chased us, I saw you reach out to that old tree, and I’m sure you did something. Communicated with it in some way.”

  He let his discomfort show, and she dropped the matter.

  But she was right. He had connected with the forest sentinel even if he wasn’t ready to discuss it. The brief communication was a first for him, a level of understanding he had never achieved with the smallest of seedpods before, let alone a full-sized tree. He wished he could speak with Mentor Kesava about it, that he could ask the many questions tumbling around in his head. But Kesava was dead, home was growing more distant with each step, and it felt wrong to discuss sacred things with outsiders. Not even one as brave and good as Eydis. As for Orrick…

  He glanced at the tall threatening figure leading the way. Thinking of the crumpled notice hidden inside the barbarian’s cloak, he knew he was a long way from being able to trust Orrick as an ally.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Orrick

  Orrick squinted against the driving rain that made it difficult to see more than a short distance ahead. The night was a dark one, heavy clouds blotting out any hint of moon or stars. If not for his superior night vision, he wouldn’t even have seen the crevice in the outcropping of rocks lining the road. It was just one deep slash against lighter shapes and shadows, but that was enough to draw him in for a closer look.

  He thought he heard Eydis call, “Why are we leaving the road?” but her voice might have been only the shrill howling of the wind.

  “Never mind. Just follow me!” he shouted over his shoulder.

  The gale snatched up his words and threw them back at him. But if the others didn’t hear, at least they followed as he led them to the overhang, bowing his head against the spray.

  They were in luck, he discovered, on reaching the shelter and ducking inside. It was no crevice but a small cavern, deep and wide enough to accommodate all of them. Eydis entered after him, throwing back her hood and shaking water from her red hair.

  He raised his voice over the echo of the rain hitting the rocky roof. “I told you we should have sheltered in the trees a mile back. In this deluge we could’ve passed by your precious ferry and never seen it.”

  “I know,” she admitted, moving aside for a soaked Geveral to pass. “Our best course now is to weather the storm and look for the ferry in the morning.”

  “Maybe it won’t be so bad,” Geveral put in. “Some previous traveler has left us stocked with firewood.”

  He was right. There was a pile of dry logs near the back of the cave. Orrick gathered an armload and piled them in a corner where they would be shielded from the worst of the wind. It took several failed efforts with his flint, but he was eventually able to coax up a fitful flame.

  Everyone threw off their wet cloaks and held their hands over the faint tendrils of heat rising from the pathetic fire. The rumbling of his stomach reminded Orrick he hadn’t eaten since this morning and wouldn’t get the chance to hunt tonight. They’d all have to sleep with empty bellies, a small discomfort among a load of bigger problems. But no one complained. The noise of the storm would have discouraged conversation even among a more congenial group.

  Orrick stretched his feet toward the fire, while Geveral fed sticks into the flames in a hopeless effort at building a steady blaze. Eydis’s lithe form moved around at the edge of the flickering shadows, spreading her cape and Geveral’s out to dry on the rocks. She didn’t offer to take Orrick’s soggy cloak, but that came as no surprise. It was clear since the addition of the dryad boy to their party that Orrick was the odd man out. Not that it mattered. He was accustomed to relying on no one, and he didn’t have the need for companionship that seemed to afflict other people.

  He took out the crumpled notice he had ripped from the signpost earlier. Smoothing the damp paper, he examined the caption and the sketch of his likeness. The ink of the drawing was smudged, and he’d never been much good at reading letters. But he knew enough to realize he was looking at a reward posted for his capture. It may have been his own country he had allegedly betrayed, but the Lythnian authorities were certainly taking a keen interest in his fate. It was almost enough to make him reconsider Eydis's original offer to disguise him with her magic. Almost.

  Scowling, he held the notice to the flames, letting it blacken and curl.

  He was aware of Geveral watching him destroy the notice. He could feel the Drycaenian youth’s curiosity. But before the boy could annoy him with any questions, they were both startled by a short scream. Orrick followed the sound just in time to see the top of Eydis’s head disappearing through the cave’s floor.

  “Eydis!” Gev
eral cried, even as Orrick scrambled across the cavern.

  The hole in the floor must have already been there, concealed under old leaves and debris, just waiting for someone to step in the wrong spot.

  Dropping to his knees, Orrick peered down into the darkness but could make out nothing.

  Joining him, Geveral shouted down, “Can you hear me, Eydis? Are you all right?”

  There came no response, no sound at all echoing up the abyss.

  Orrick sized up the tight opening and decided his shoulders were too wide to fit through.

  As if reading his mind, Geveral said, “I’m smaller than you. I should be the one to go down after her.”

  “Wait,” Orrick cautioned, fetching a burning stick from the fire and dropping it down the hole. The flaming stick tumbled end over end, growing small in the distance, until finally smashing into the floor below. In the pool of light it created, there was nothing to be seen but rock. No sign of Eydis.

  “It’s a long drop,” said Orrick.

  Geveral prepared to lower himself down anyway. “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Don’t be a fool. You’re no use to her if you get yourself killed.” Orrick looked thoughtfully into the shadows at the back of the cave. He’d noticed earlier how the wider cavern extended through a crevice into what looked like a tunnel leading deeper into the rock. It might be a dead end, but it was worth a try. “Let’s explore our options before either of us hurls himself down that hole,” he said. “There may be more than one way to reach her.”

  Geveral looked reluctant but gave in. “As long as it’s quick.”

  Grabbing another fire stick, Orrick fashioned it into a crude torch with a rag twisted around one end. With it lighting their way, he and Geveral delved into the deeper regions of the cave. It didn’t take them long to find a narrow tunnel leading farther into the rock. Orrick sensed before they had gone far down the sloping passage that they were now beneath ground level. The air was cold, the floor damp. A constant dripping sound could be heard in the distance. Geveral called Eydis’s name again and again, but the only voice echoing back was his own.