“The High Blade has decided to move the interrogation up to tonight. I understand that he plans to torture them himself. They must be hiding back there somewhere,” the guard asserted to his junior officer. “Go get them.”
The junior officer, obviously blissfully unaware of the dreaded fungus, proceeded into the darkness-obscured rear of the cell, where he tripped over the cowering body of Passepout.
“I found one,” the younger guard called back, still backing up, not realizing he was quickly approaching the fungus-encrusted wall of the cell. “The other one has to be—”
The young guard’s report gave way to a scream of outrageous pain and surprise. As the guard’s backward journey brought him into contact with the wall-anchored fungus, it had latched onto his unsuspecting body and stubbornly refused to let go. The young man screamed again as the fungus began to dissolve any living tissue with which it came in contact.
The senior guard stepped forward to help the junior officer, but quickly thought better of it as the young man’s screams turned to a horrible sound that could only be described as a sickly combination of sucking and chewing. He turned to fetch reinforcements.
Frantic to make his own escape, Passepout bolted forward like a charging bull. The force of his bullet-like flight literally bowled the still-turning senior guard over, tossing him in the air, and causing him to follow a head over heels path that sent him rolling back into the sucking fungus, right past the watching eyes of Volo. Before he knew it, the senior guard had joined his junior as wall’s the main course.
Passepout, meanwhile, still not looking where he was going, collided with Mason McKern who was just entering the cell. The senior Cloak saw him coming, managed to brake his stride, and braced himself against the door frame, blocking the stout thespian’s charge of egress.
Volo stepped forward, out of the darkness. “What kept you?” the master traveler queried.
“Something must have happened to my brother,” the mission-obsessed mage replied, “but I found his spellbook. I am sure the key to releasing the mask from Rassendyll’s head is in here somewhere.”
Mason opened the book, and his expression immediately darkened.
The pages were all blank.
Selfaril strode through the subterranean halls of the dungeon of Southroad Keep, muttering to himself.
“Why didn’t Rickman alert me the minute that they were apprehended?” he asked himself, his gruff tones echoing off the stone walls. “Perhaps he has finally outlived his usefulness. A position such as his might lead to a lust for more power, and acting on such a desire would not be convenient for me.…”
The High Blade knew the subterranean passageways by heart, having played beneath the city during his carefree childhood years. He often found the below-the-surface byways to be a much more agreeable method of getting around town, as it limited the necessity of his interaction with the common rabble. Without retinue or bodyguard, he traveled with confidence, safe in the security and protection afforded by his own dagger and sword, one in a concealed holster, the other bouncing in its scabbard at his hip.
A few minutes’ walk, and two turns to the left, then up a staircase, and he should arrive at the cell.
“I hope that they will have the prisoners ready for me,” he muttered. “Incompetence always puts me in a bad mood.”
Volo ran his hand over the pages of the blank book.
“Just our luck,” Passepout said, regaining his composure after the unsettling chain of events in the cell. “I guess we won’t be able to get the bucket off his head.”
“No,” Volo corrected, “we will just have to take the book to Honor so that he can translate it for us. I can feel the letters of the language of the blind imprinted on these pages. We’d better make for the rendezvous point.”
“What were the guards doing here?” Mason asked.
“Apparently Selfaril was bored and decided that a little entertainment would do the trick, so our interrogation was moved up to tonight.”
“Then we will have to hurry,” Mason said urgently. “He’s probably on his way as we speak.”
Mason led the way down farther into the bowels of secret passages that existed beneath the keep’s dungeon. The senior Cloak was in the lead, Passepout close behind, and Volo brought up the rear. They had just descended a torchlit staircase when Volo heard footsteps approaching from above. The master traveler paused for a moment to look back, and saw Rassendyll and Honor about to descend the staircase after them.
Volo called to their co-conspirators and waved, but unfortunately due to the iron mask that covered Rassendyll’s face, couldn’t see the look of concern on the secret twin’s face. He turned back toward his traveling companions to alert them of the arrival of their allies, when he felt a sharp blow to the top of his head as the hilt of the High Blade’s sword came crashing down on top of his beret clad skull.
The master traveler blacked out, his legs going limp, and his body rolling down the stone stairs like a broken puppet, his limbs all akimbo.
Rassendyll saw his evil twin brother gaining on the unsuspecting Volo and tried to warn him, but it was too late. Thinking quickly, he drew his father’s sword from his scabbard with one hand, while extracting Honor’s side foil from its holster as well.
Honor was a bit startled at first, but quickly realized that they were under attack, and flattened himself against the wall until he got his bearings on the battleground and the attacker. He did not even feel the removal of his side-arm due to the twin’s preternaturally light touch.
Selfaril stood his ground, not aware that the helmeted knight was indeed his twin brother. The High Blade assumed him to be just the latest mercenary sent to train under Fullstaff, and decided to offer the stranger an opportunity to change sides.
“What ho, fair knight,” Selfaril hailed, “I have no gripe with you. Throw in with me and I’ll guarantee you a commission in the Hawks.”
Rassendyll advanced down the steps, keeping silent.
“Well,” the High Blade replied, “if that is your decision.”
Selfaril lunged forward, charging forward over the body of the fallen Volo. Rassendyll excellently parried with one rapier, while attacking with the other. The High Blade dodged at the last possible moment, losing his footing slightly, and slipping to the bottom of the staircase.
“Well done, Sir Knight of the Hard Day,” Selfaril taunted as he backed away from the foot of the staircase. “The blind old man has taught you well.”
Rassendyll joined him on the stone floor, Honor creeping behind him to stand alongside Mason, while Passepout rushed up the stairs to aid the fallen Volo.
The two swordsmen crossed swords again with Rassendyll thrown off balance by a slashing blow of steel to the side of the mask.
“Maybe that lesson rings a bell,” the High Blade jested evilly.
Rassendyll righted himself quickly and responded. “I have never taken a lesson in the ways of the sword,” he replied. “I’ve inherited all of my moves from our father.”
The High Blade’s twin set upon his brother with the fury of a whirling dervish. Selfaril had to use all his skill and cunning to parry each move.
While the two brothers fought, Mason handed his brother’s spellbook to Honor who scanned each page with his hand until he came upon the spell to unmeld the mask. Finding the proper spell he quickly told the procedure to Mason who ran to the still-fighting Rassendyll, and placing his hands on each side of the mask, said an incantation, and quickly removed the two pieces that had been melded to the young man’s skull.
Rassendyll was relieved to finally be free of his burden, but had no time to enjoy his release, for while Mason had worked his magics the evil High Blade had taken off down one of the subterranean tunnels.
Rassendyll turned to assist Volo who was just coming around when Honor yelled at him sternly. “We’ll take care of him,” Honor boomed. “Go after your brother.”
Not pausing for a response, Rassendyll rushed into t
he darkness in hot pursuit of his murderous brother.
Just Desserts
The Tower of the Wyvern:
Selfaril raced through the subterranean tunnels deep beneath Mulmaster until he reached a side passageway leading upward. A few steps inside, he felt against the cavern wall until he touched what to the naked eye would have been a long-abandoned sconce. Gripping it firmly, the High Blade turned it to the left. The sound of a pulley creaked into reluctant compliance, opening a hidden door that revealed a ladder hanging from above. Turning the iron sconce back to its original position, Selfaril hurried inside and began to climb upward in the darkness, not even noticing that the secret door behind was still slightly ajar, held open by some inward mechanism of the pulleys that had jammed after years of limited use and zero maintenance.
When some previous High Blade had this passage installed, he probably intended to use it as a possible escape route from the sanctity of his study, Selfaril thought. Isn’t it ironic that my first use of it is for the exact reverse?
The murderous High Blade climbed further onward and upward through the secret space that existed between the walls that separated the rooms within the Tower of the Wyvern, occasionally scuffing his boots against the tunnel wall.
Anyone on the other side of this wall, he thought, will probably complain of hearing rats or vermin scurrying in the night. I’ll assure them that they will not be bothered again.
The ladder was anchored to a ledge upon which the High Blade hoisted himself. Not pausing to rest for even a second, he crawled forward through a curtain obscured from view by the tunnel’s darkness, and entered his study on hands and knees through a false wall inside the hearth that was used to heat his inner sanctum.
It’s a good thing I didn’t order Slater to have a fire set before the reception, he thought with a chuckle, then set his mind to the matters at hand. I’d better summon Rickman and his Hawks to rid the tunnels of my verminous brother and his cohorts before anymore mayhem is started.
Standing up, and stretching for just a moment, Selfaril closed his eyes and took a breath.
Just a little out of shape, Selfaril realized, but then again even my best Hawk would be out of breath after such a workout.
The High Blade relaxed for a moment and pulled the bell rope that would send a signal to Rickman’s quarters (which, unbeknownst to the High Blade, were quite vacant), then plopped himself into his chair to await the arrival of his right-hand man.
No sooner did Selfaril issue a sigh of relief at having finally arrived in the safety of his sanctuary, than he was greeted with a shock. The wormlike Thayan ambassador stepped from behind a set of curtains and reached forward, thrusting a crystal wand into the High Blade’s chest that severed his heart in twain.
The last thing he remembered in his life was the distinct taste of the blood filling his windpipe and mouth, and a feeling of dampness on his breast as his silken tunic failed to absorb the onrushing blood from the pump within his chest that had not yet realized it should stop beating.
Rassendyll raced after his murderous brother in the darkness, relying only on his hearing to guide him in the proper directions. The cool air from the tunnel felt good against the skin of his face, luxuriating in the absence of the metal second skin that it had become accustomed to.
The formerly iron-masked man stopped short. He no longer heard the skit-skat of running steps in front of him.
Remaining absolutely silent, even holding his own breath, Rassendyll listened carefully for any new sounds.
A new noise had been added to the subterranean cacophony of plips, plops, and echoes … an irregular scuffling sound like a spoon scraping against the inside of a jug, or a muffled striker making occasional contact with the inside of a bell. As he listened, the sound seemed to be getting farther and farther away in a seemingly upward direction.
Silently and carefully as possible, so as not to lose the trace of the new sound, Rassendyll backtracked along the passageway, his hands searching and sweeping along the wall for some variance in the tunnel’s make up.
He stubbed his finger on the still unrighted sconce, and noticed the barest of crevices in the wall. Reaching inside he forced the door open further, and feeling around, immediately discovered the ladder.
He quickly pulled back his hand as the ladder continued to dance back and forth for a few seconds, before coming to a hanging rest.
Whoever was just using this seems to have arrived at his chosen destination, Rassendyll thought.
Still in hot pursuit, the High Blade’s twin brother paused for a few seconds more, listening for new movements on the ladder, then proceeded to climb upward to where he now knew his brother had fled.
Rickman watched the assassination of High Blade Selfaril from his safe haven of the closet through which he normally entered the High Blade’s sanctuary when the utmost secrecy was required. The ambassador had hidden himself behind Selfaril’s chair, barely obscuring himself from view with the help of a hanging tapestry that provided a barrier of insulation between the seated High Blade and the cold and drafty stone walls of his chambers.
The stupid ninny, the captain of the Hawks thought. Selfaril will certainly notice the unusual tumor that seems to have grown on the wall behind the tapestry. If he sees that worm, I may have to lend a hand in his disposal.
Rickman thought that he knew all of the secret passages in and out of Selfaril’s study until he saw the High Blade make his entrance on hands and knees through some passage within the hearth.
I will have to have the local engineers make up a floor plan for all of the entrances and exits to this room once I become High Blade, he noted mentally, adding as an afterthought that they would have to be executed when it was completed.
Selfaril was out of breath and distracted as if he had been in a chase and was only now able to take a rest. As a result he failed to see the tumorous bulge against the wall that was the more-or-less concealed assassin.
A feeling of warmth and joy entered the captain of the Hawks’ heart when he saw the wormlike ambassador plunge the crystal wand into the High Blade’s heart, recognizing it as the twin of the one that had been left at the Retreat barely a week ago.
The High Blade is dead! Long live the High Blade! he thought, his own dagger ready to silence Selfaril’s assassin. Next he would sound the alarm, alerting Mulmaster to the tragedy that had occurred; that an agent of the First Princess has killed her husband.
Just as he was ready to make his grand entrance, the sound of scuffling came from the hearth, and a second figure entered the secret chamber.
Rassendyll felt the slickness of sweat on his face as the exertion of the past few hours began to take its toll. All of my training in the Retreat never prepared me for this, the High Blade’s twin thought, pausing for only a moment to get his breath. Holding the ladder firmly with one hand he wiped the perspiration from his brow and face with the other, simultaneously slicking down his recently unshorn whiskers with the discarded sweat before resuming his climb.
Another few steps upward, he felt the end of the ladder and carefully pulled himself up onto the ledge to which it was anchored.
Fighting the desire to stop and rest again, Rassendyll frantically scanned the darkness for some indication of where to go next. A hint of a crack of light to the left provided the only clue so, carefully feeling forward on hands and knees, he crawled to it until he felt the fabric of a curtain, which he lifted up just enough to slip under it.
Rassendyll crawled forward, momentarily blinding himself with the light of the High Blade’s study. Withdrawing back slightly into the shade of the hearth, he allowed his eyes to adjust for a moment before once again penetrating the room.
When he opened his eyes he saw the feet of a robed individual standing by a great desk. Carefully and silently he took to his feet, ready to do battle if necessary.
The wormlike ambassador turned when he heard the noise from the direction of the hearth—only to confront the man he thought
he had just killed bearing down on him with a sword.
The ambassador looked at the figure slumped in the chair, the crystal wand still embedded in its chest, and then back at the apparition approaching from the hearth.
They are one and the same! the Red Wizard realized. He has already come back from the dead to acquit his honor!
Frantically, the portly and soft Thayan civil servant retreated to the place on the wall against which he had previously hidden, but was unable to slip back behind the tapestry. He thought for a moment that perhaps he could extract the wand from the corpse’s chest, but quickly realized that it would do no good against one who had already been killed; and besides that, the corpse’s double was already upon him.
The wormlike ambassador embraced the darkness of fear and panic and fainted dead away, falling to the floor inches from the feet of the approaching twin of the High Blade.
Rassendyll glanced down at the pathetic heap of flesh that was his brother’s assassin, and then looked to the corpse of his brother, the stain of blood slowing in its spread across his chest.
“I only wish that it had been my own hands that had the honor of taking your life,” Rassendyll said out loud to his unhearing twin.
A voice from behind the nearly exhausted Rassendyll replied, “I am sure you do, and, I assure you, you aren’t alone in that wish.”
Rassendyll spun around, careful not to become entangled in the mass of flesh that was the Thayan ambassador’s unconscious body, and immediately recognized the figure stepping out of his closet hiding place as the man who had accompanied the High Blade on the night upon which the events that would forever change his life had begun.
“We meet again,” Rickman said acidly, “and might I say the beard becomes you much more than the mask your brother insisted upon.”
Far below the High Blade’s sanctuary, four figures pressed onward through the darkness, trying to catch up with the twins. Without the benefit of a torch, or even the fleeting traces of sound left by the one being pursued, the party was unable to keep up given the lead and pace that the younger men possessed. The four hastened guardedly through the black of subterranean night.
The Mage in the Iron Mask Page 21
