Midnight's Mask

by Paul S. Kemp

  First the slaadi, he said.

  First the slaadi, Jak acknowledged.

  I’m coming down, Cale said.

  “Luck,” Magadon whispered, and drew an arrow.

  Cale nodded and looked down from the nest. He picked a patch of darkness at the base of the mast and stepped to it.

  The moment he felt the deck under his feet he pulled the shadows more closely around him and drew Weaveshear.

  Jak? He projected.

  An invisible hand closed on his elbow. Here, the little man said.

  Out of habit, Cale turned to look at the little man but of course saw nothing. Cale weaved darkness and shadow around him to make himself invisible too. He and Jak would not be able to see each other, but they could stay in ready contact through the mindlink. Besides, they had worked together so often that they virtually knew the other’s thoughts.

  While Cale knew that the slaadi could see through invisibility spells, he figured the glamers would at least keep wakeful crewmen from spotting them as they moved across the ship. Cale remembered too that the slaadi made frequent use of invisibility themselves. He decided to take a moment to counter that.

  Hold a moment, little man.

  Holding his mask, he softly intoned the words to a prayer he had never before used. When he finished the spell, his perception changed. His skin and the hairs on his arms became finely attuned to the slightest differences in the pressure of the air against his body, the subtlest movement of the wind, the nuance of temperature. The spell enabled his mind to process tactile information and convert it into something perceptually akin to vision. Cale could not distinguish colors, but at a distance of fifteen paces he could “see” with his eyes closed better than he could with them open.

  Beside him, Jak was visible through his new sense. The little man eyed the forecastle, blades in hand.

  The slaadi will be in the forecastle, Cale said to Jak and Magadon. Mags, we are both invisible.

  Keep me apprised of where you are, Magadon answered. I don’t want an errant shot to hit you accidentally.

  Cale sent an acknowledgement and he and Jak silently crept among the sleeping crew toward the forecastle. They updated Magadon as to their location every five or so paces. Cale checked the faces of the sleeping crewmen closely, in case a disguised Riven was among them. He was not. Cale figured Riven to be with the slaadi.

  Together, the two made their way invisibly over the deck.

  It took Azriim a moment to spy the priest and his halfling companion. He spotted them on the maindeck, near the mast. He watched them creep across the deck toward the forecastle, as silent as specters. Their invisibility spells did not shield them from Azriim’s vision, but he had almost missed them—despite their invisibility, they both kept to the shadows, seemingly out of professional habit. Azriim pointed them out for Dolgan. Azriim did not see Riven, and the human had not responded to Azriim’s mental call. He decided to try again.

  Answer me, assassin, he sent.

  Be silent, Riven finally responded. Their mindmage may detect the communication. Maintain the connection and I will contact you when I’m ready.

  Azriim had not seen the mindmage. He scanned the ship but still did not see him.

  We are on the maindeck behind the forecastle, Azriim said. The priest and the halfling are moving right toward us. Where are you? Where is their mindmage?

  The assassin did not respond and Azriim sighed with perturbation.

  Cale and the halfling drew closer, checking the crew as they approached.

  Beside Azriim, Dolgan grew eager for bloodshed. He shifted from foot to foot and grunted softly.

  Silence, Azriim commanded him.

  The big slaad bit down on his lip until it bled and asked, What are we going to do?

  Azriim could have simply fled Demon Binder for Dolphin’s Coffer. That had been his plan, after all. He had put Demon Binder on a course far from Dolphin’s Coffer and the vicinity of sunken Sakkors. And he could see to it that Cale and his companions would have difficulty following him after they left the ship.

  But that would not have been fun at all. Better to just kill them, he thought.

  He grinned at his broodmate and said, Let’s shoot a lightning bolt down their gullets and burn the ship out from under them.

  Dolgan chuckled and pointed his finger at the halfling. Azriim slapped his hand down.

  Not yet. When they get close. I want to see his face when it happens.

  A dagger toss from the forecastle, Cale saw the slaadi with his magical sense. They were in human form, standing invisibly under the eave of the forecastle’s deck. The captain—Azriim, Cale presumed—held a wand in one hand. The mate—Dolgan, no doubt—shifted from foot to foot, licking his lips.

  Cale managed not to give a start, though he wondered how they had learned that he was aboard. An alarm spell of some kind, he supposed.

  Thinking quickly, he feigned examination of a crewman sleeping in a deckbag near him.

  Little man, look at this. He nodded at the sleeping sailor, a grizzled slaver of no interest whatsoever. The man smacked his lips and turned over in his deckbag.

  Jak turned and came to Cale’s side. Before he could speak, Cale said,

  The slaadi are standing to either side of the forecastle door. They see us. I don’t think they know that I can see them.

  Jak stiffened, but only just. Cale hoped the slaadi had not noticed. He knew he had only a few moments before the creatures would get suspicious.

  Can you make them visible? he asked Jak.

  Jak nodded, as if at something Cale was saying about the crewman. Cale gestured at another crewman, as though they were making conversation about something.

  Just as you’re about to finish the spell, you signal me, Cale said. I will close on them. Mags, you shoot at Dolgan the moment he is visible to you. He’s to your right of the forecastle door. I will tell you if he moves.

  Understood, Magadon answered.

  Cale and Jak both nodded, pretending to be in accord about something. They turned and started back toward the forecastle, continuing to move as slowly as before.

  Jak palmed his holy symbol and began to incant.

  From his vantage in the crow’s nest, Magadon looked down at the forecastle. He imagined the slaad’s location and drew an arrow to his ear. He found his mental focus, summoned his energy, and caused it to manifest physically on his arrow. The tip’s edges glinted dim red, charged with power.

  He judged the wind and the distance, and readied himself. The moment Jak rendered the slaadi visible, he would let fly.

  His heart nearly stopped when the cold edge of a sharp blade settled against his throat, and the sharp point of another settled against his spine. Magadon had heard nothing.

  “Goodeve, Mags,” said a voice.

  Drasek Riven’s voice.

  Magadon went cold.

  Jak whispered the final word to his spell even as his mental voice said to Cale and Magadon, Now!

  Cale stepped from the shadows around him and into the shadows beside Azriim. He materialized at the same moment that the magical pulse from Jak’s spell reached the slaadi. The pulse hit Cale and the slaadi and stripped all three of their invisibility.

  Cale drove Weaveshear into Azriim’s side, through his ribs, through his lungs, and into his heart. The slaad gasped with pain and sank to his knees, his mismatched eyes wide with surprise. Blood poured from his open mouth.

  Cale expected a mentally-charged arrow to come streaking out of the crow’s nest but it never did. He had his back to Dolgan but his augmented magical sense saw the slaad as he pointed his hand at Cale.

  Cale jerked Weaveshear free of Azriim and tried to intercept whatever was coming but he was too slow. A white-hot lightning bolt issued from the slaad’s palm, slammed into Cale’s side, burned a hole into his flesh, and sent him skidding across the deck. For an alarming moment, his pain-wracked body would not respond to his commands. The air smelled acrid, with an undertone of
burning flesh and cloth. But as his shade flesh regenerated the injuries, the pain subsided and his body answered.

  Mags! Cale projected to Magadon, climbing to all fours and turning around. Shoot!

  Jak became visible as he chanted the words to another spell and fired a bolt of white energy into Dolgan. The divine force hit the slaad in the side. He grunted and took a backward step. Jak charged at him, blades bare.

  Meanwhile, Azriim had found his feet. Like Cale, the slaad’s flesh was already regenerating. He leered at Cale as he stood, still bleeding from a hole in his side, and spat a gob of blood to the deck.

  Cale rose on wobbly legs and brandished Weaveshear.

  The noise of the battle was waking the slavers. On the maindeck, sailors rose, assessed the situation, shouted, and grabbed for weapons. A call went up: “Invaders at the forecastle! They’re at the captain and Hack. Arms! Arms!”

  Cale had only moments. He advanced on Azriim but Magadon’s mental voice sounded in his brain. Erevis, stop! Riven … has me.

  It took a moment for the words to register. When they did, Cale stopped cold and cursed. Jak, too, stopped his charge.

  “Now, now,” said Azriim, favoring his side but still smiling. “Mind the cursing or I’ll have Riven gut your mindmage.”

  Cale gritted his teeth. Magadon’s mental projection must have reached the slaadi. Azriim took out his bronze teleportation rod and began turning its dials, slowly, just to gloat. In his other hand, he held a wand of blackened iron capped with an orange jewel.

  “Thank you for the amusing diversion,” the slaad said. “Regrettably, I cannot linger. I had hoped to kill you myself, but alas, we often do not get what we wish.”

  Before Cale could reply, Azriim projected to Riven, Kill the mindmage, Riven. Then we travel…. The connection was cut and Cale did not sense whatever last bit of information Azriim sent to Riven.

  Magadon’s mental scream caused Cale to clutch his head. A sympathetic stab of pain traveled through the psychic connection and doubled Cale over. He felt Magadon die and the mindlink terminated.

  Smiling even as his body began to transform again, Azriim turned the dial on his teleportation rod with his thumb while pointing the iron wand at the forecastle.

  “Farewell, priest,” Azriim said.

  Cale and Jak both dived for cover.

  A tiny ball of fire shot from the wand, hit the forecastle, and blossomed into a globe of flames. The sheath of shadows around Cale kept the flames and heat from his flesh. When he looked up, he did not see the slaadi. They were gone. Jak’s cloak was smoking but otherwise the little man appeared to have avoided the flames.

  The forecastle was ablaze. The entire ship would soon be afire.

  The crew stood stunned for a moment, clutching weapons, wearing snarls, watching their ship burn.

  “They’ve burned the captain alive!” shouted a bald, tattooed giant of a man. “At ’em, lads!”

  Cale and Jak stood and went shoulder to shoulder. The crew advanced warily. Cale could see their courage building. They would soon charge.

  “We could return to the Plane of Shadow,” Cale said out of the side of his mouth, though he figured he knew Jak’s answer.

  Jak shook his head. “We cannot leave the slaves, Cale. Let’s finish this. I can take care of the fire.”

  Cale nodded, brandished Weaveshear, and awaited the advancing crew. Meanwhile, the little man hurriedly incanted a prayer. When he finished, the ship listed to one side, as though struck by a powerful wave. Cale barely kept his feet.

  The crew exclaimed, several fell to the deck, and all looked around in alarm.

  Cale looked out to sea, which appeared calm. What could—

  A wave surged upward from the sea and crashed over the railing. To Cale’s astonishment, and to the open-mouthed shock of the crew, it did not soak the deck but instead held the form of a churning pillar, about the size of an ogre. It moved rapidly over the deck with an awkward undulation until it stood before Jak and Cale. Sound emerged from it, like the crashing of surf, or the swirl of a whirlpool. The cadence suggested that the sounds were speech.

  The crew froze in their boots.

  Cale realized that he was looking at living water, an elemental. He had heard of priests summoning such creatures, but he had never known Jak to do so. The little man continued to surprise him.

  “A servant of the sea-bitch!” one of the crew shouted.

  “Quench the flames and begone,” Jak ordered the elemental.

  The elemental responded in its incomprehensible tongue, thinned, elongated, and stretched forth for the forecastle. Its body soaked the flames, steaming and sizzling and smoking. In three heartbeats the fire was quenched.

  The living wave instantly dissipated, drenching Jak’s and Cale’s boots and those of the crew. The elemental had returned to its place of origin, leaving a watery trail behind.

  “Nicely done,” Cale said.

  “We’re at sea,” Jak said. “I thought I should be prepared.”

  Unfortunately, the angry crew did not seem as impressed. With the fire extinguished, they charged full on, weapons bare.

  Azriim, Dolgan, and Riven appeared on the maindeck of Dolphin’s Coffer. Azriim had retaken the form he had used when he first set foot on Dolphin’s Coffer back in Selgaunt.

  Spherical glowglobes lit the deck. Crewmen lay sleeping in leather bags, hammocks, and among coils of rope. The ship was anchored, with sails furled, just off the coast of an island that was little more than an enormous mountain jutting from the sea—Traitor’s Isle. A single spire sat on the rocky island, the tower in which a treacherous wizard long ago had been sealed.

  Azriim smiled. Dolphin’s Coffer was exactly where it was supposed to be.

  The crewmen on nightwatch noticed their sudden appearance and shouted in alarm. The rest of the crew awakened, scrambled out of their deck beds, and grabbed for blades. Three of the crew who had been on watch near the side railing rushed forward with steel and teeth bare.

  Azriim held up his hands—he still held his wand and teleportation rod—and called out, “We are expected by Captain Sertan.”

  The captain must have prepared his crew, or perhaps the sailors recognized Azriim from his previous visit—Captain Sertan had given him a tour of the ship a few days ago—for the three sailors halted their advance, though they continued to stare at Azriim and his cohorts menacingly. Riven answered with a sneer and a stare.

  The seamen did not hold the assassin’s gaze.

  Azriim liked Riven more and more.

  A call went out and Captain Sertan quickly appeared at the forecastle rail. Azriim attuned his vision to see dweomers and saw that his charm on the captain remained in effect.

  “All is well, seajacks,” the captain shouted to his crew. “These are the friends I spoke of.”

  The crewmen lowered their blades. Those who had been sleeping grumbled at their fellows for disturbing their slumber and curled back into their deckbags and hammocks. At least a few muttered about the ill fortune that accompanied having mages aboard.

  The captain left off the railing, slid ably down the forecastle ladder to the maindeck, and walked toward Azriim. Azriim used his arm to hide the bloodstains on his shirt caused by the wound Cale had given him. His flesh continued to regenerate.

  The captain wore a wool jacket, dark trousers, and high boots. A thick-bladed cutlass hung casually from his hip. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced than when Azriim had first met him. He probably had slept little.

  When he reached them, Captain Sertan said, “Welcome aboard, goodsirs. I am pleased to see you. I was beginning to doubt that you would show.”

  Azriim gave him a courtly bow. As he did, he pocketed his wand and rod, at the same time drawing forth the wand with which he had previously enchanted the captain.

  “I am a man of my word, Captain,” he said.

  “So I see. An honorable man who pays well is welcome on the Coffer. My ship is in your service, as w
e agreed. Where to?”

  Azriim smiled and shook the hand on which he wore the magical glove. The movement and Azriim’s will summoned the Sojourner’s magical compass from its extra-dimensional space and it appeared in his hand.

  The captain marveled, wide-eyed.

  The needle within the gold-chased, transparent sphere bobbed for a moment before pointing steadily in one direction: west, out to sea.

  “The helmsman should follow the indicator on this compass until it points straight down,” Azriim said. “That’s when we’ll be disembarking.”

  The captain looked at the compass, then in the direction of the indicator. “Nothing lies in that direction but open sea for twenty leagues. There’s nowhere to disembark.”

  Azriim put a friendly hand on the captain’s shoulder. As he did, he surreptitiously touched the small wand in his hand to the captain’s arm and thereby renewed the charm.

  “That will be our problem, Captain Sertan. Your problem is simply to get us there.”

  The captain pursed his lips but Azriim’s spell turned it quickly into a smile. “Well enough. But I’ll ask you for the second half of our payment now.”

  Azriim could not help but smile. Sembians remained Sembians, even when enspelled.

  “Of course, Captain. We’re all friends here, after all.”

  Azriim withdrew three large rubies from a pouch at his belt and handed them to Sertan. The human eyed them, eyes glittering, and put them into his sash belt.

  “I have quarters reserved for you in the sterncastle,” he said, and turned to leave.

  “One more thing, Captain,” Azriim said, and Sertan turned back to face him. Azriim pulled an enchanted emerald from his pouch. He held it up for Sertan to see, then placed it on the deck and spoke a word of power. The emerald shattered, leaving in its wake a soft green glow that quickly spread to the entirety of the ship.

  To prevent another unwanted appearance of the priest of Mask, Azriim projected to Dolgan and Riven.

  In truth, he figured Erevis Cale to be dead or at least incapable of following them. Demon Binder was leagues and leagues away. And with this dimensional lock in place, the priest could not teleport through the shadows to Dolphin’s Coffer, even if he could somehow find them.