The Wizard's Mask

by Ed Greenwood

  They spent some time at it, keeping low so they'd not be seen from afar, but couldn't find anything new, or that looked amiss.

  "He does know where we're headed," The Masked pointed out, and Tantaerra granted that point.

  "Haul out that map," she ordered. He obeyed, displaying it with a flourish. Whereupon she was forced to admit that not having the slightest idea where they were now made it less than useful.

  The Masked circled an area with his forefinger. "We're somewhere hereabouts," he murmured, "and have to get to there." His finger pointed out Hurlandrun. "Not all that far off."

  He lifted his hand to indicate the rocks around them. "And I can't help but notice," he added, "that this ridge curves a little north of true west, taking us more or less toward where we want to end up. So, it being a nice starry night, and that star marking north to tell us where we're heading when we get down into the trees again ..."

  "Such a clever masked man," Tantaerra told him. "Lead on."

  The Masked gave her a little bow, the first she'd seen from him in a while, and did so.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The sun was low in a golden sky, a few fingers of cloud near the horizon but nothing overhead, when Tantaerra and The Masked paused wearily in a clearing in the seemingly endless forest, looked at each other, and agreed it was time to seek somewhere to hide and sleep out the night.

  They'd walked all night, and now all the day after that, finding many clear springs and fast-flowing streams to drink from but little beyond a few unripe berries to eat. Now it was almost sunset, and they were tired and growling-stomach hungry.

  It seemed they'd come far beyond where the boldest Molthuni had penetrated into this part of Nirmathas, right now—and past most of the Nirmathi warbands, too, into a backland area where there was still farming going on, and some measure of peaceful daily life. A countryside of small clearings and valleys amid the deep forest, linked by cart-tracks that still hosted creaking carts, and not just men stalking along with swords and bows looking to deal death.

  The armies of Molthune had reached this far in the past, they could tell. More than one burned homestead had been reduced to a fire-blackened chimney standing half-cloaked in vines amid the trees, and they passed slightly less ruined homes standing abandoned, with once-tilled fields rapidly disappearing under saplings, high bushes, and creeping vines.

  The Masked pointed to one derelict house, ahead. "Let's pass that, then circle around it and have a good look before it gets too dark."

  "I'm not sleeping in there," Tantaerra told him. "Humans and halflings aren't the only critters that like being sheltered from the rain. Most of the forest ruins I've poked through have been full of snakes. And spiders, some of them bigger than my head."

  "I wasn't thinking of spending the night inside," The Masked told her. "I was thinking of sleeping up on the roof. If it's still sturdy enough."

  "Now that," Tantaerra agreed, "is a notion that has promise."

  There didn't seem to be anything either lurking or lairing in the house. It was an overgrown but sturdy skeleton of its former self, cloaked in all manner of leafy bushes. The roof was rotten and canted in at one corner where beams beneath had given way, but in the main looked strong enough to sleep a large Molthuni patrol. Several pines growing up one wall made a dark rampart of sorts that concealed the highest corner of the roof from anyone on three sides of the ruin, so they settled down on their backs in that corner and tried to ignore their hunger by chewing spruce needles and the green underbark of certain trees The Masked had sampled before.

  "My, what an interesting life you've led," Tantaerra told him, as the sun slipped below the horizon. It started to grow cool, and the tapestry of stars shone clearer overhead. "If we both survive into our dotage and end up bored by the same hearthfire, suppose you tell me how you came to sample tree underbark. Tell me then, not now."

  The Masked chuckled. "Then it shall be. Yet you always want to talk, so what would you prefer to converse about now, Tan?"

  "'Tan'? Not 'little one'? Who is this 'Tan'?"

  "Lady Halfling Patron," came the reply, "I await the telling of what you're interested in discussing—so long as it not be food." The masked man's stomach promptly growled. Loudly.

  It was her turn to chuckle, a little ruefully. Looking up at the stars rather than at the man beside her, she murmured, "I think we need to decide some things. Such as whether or not we should just forget this 'quest' Lord Telcanor sent us on. I don't trust him to treat us well, even if we should somehow succeed and bring him this Fearsome Gauntlet. And who calls their enchanted bauble a 'Fearsome Gauntlet,' anyway?"

  "Agreed," The Masked muttered back.

  The stars were bright and glorious now, the moon not yet full-risen. They looked up at them in companionable silence for a time until he added, almost grudgingly, "Then again, he just might be telling the truth about having some sort of magical hold over us. I doubt he does—but he might have a pet spellcaster who could strike at us from afar. We both had our hair washed, which meant he has some of our hair from the combs, and I've heard of spells ..."

  Tantaerra sighed. "Me too." She stretched and changed the subject. "This Nirmathas is a beautiful land. Though I mistrust Voyvik as the sort of utterly ruthless zealot who would slice his granddam's throat."

  She let her words trail off, but The Masked picked up the sentence very much as she would have continued it. "His dream of a free and peaceful Nirmathas still seems worthwhile, doesn't it?"

  Tantaerra gave him a smile.

  And discovered that he'd fallen asleep, there in the moonlight, mouth still open.

  She regarded him thoughtfully, her smile not leaving her. Not a bad companion, for a human. Not bad at all ...

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  It was his bladder that woke him.

  The Masked blinked up at a sky that was no longer clear and star-girt, but a great sheet of mottled gray cloud from horizon to horizon, the sort of dour overcast that could easily persist all day. It was a bright enough gray that dawn must have come, but the chill in the air was still as sharp as a knife, as a bard might say.

  Right now, he needed to set aside such lyrical prattle, find a handy bush, and let fly.

  He raised himself on one elbow, and discovered he was cramped and stiff—and that a whisper-snoring Tantaerra was once more curled up against him like a cat.

  Ah. That would be why the cold hadn't roused him before his need to relieve himself. The Masked shifted away from the sleeping halfling as gently and quietly as possible, stretched, then stood up, swaying for a moment, and looked around.

  The birds had awakened long ago, and their calls reassured him that no one was on the move immediately around their ruin. He'd water the greenery just there ...

  He took two stiff strides, planted himself, and—

  The roof gave way beneath him.

  He barely had time to go from upright to falling onto his back before he was plunged into the damp green gloom of the empty rooms they'd explored the night before, rotten beams disintegrating around him in a swirl of dust, as he slammed down onto—

  Something large and meaty and alive, that convulsed beneath him with a great gasp and emitted a wild shriek.

  The Masked bounced and rolled off whoever it was, ending up with his feet thrust up into the air and his neck in the dirt where the floor had once been, one of his shoulders against a support post that now leaned alarmingly, as wood groaned overhead.

  He found himself staring across the windowless, overgrown rooms at a tousled, staring Orivin Voyvik, daggers in both hands and looking very much like he wanted to bury them in someone.

  He blinked, focused on The Masked, then let out a rising snarl of rage and stalked forward. "So! You try to kill me! Wel—"

  His words were lost in a sudden tumbling roar as a lot more roof fell—and Tantaerra tumbled helplessly down on Voyvik's head, smashing him to the floor and sending one of his daggers tlanging off a post.

  He roared
, this time with real pain, and staggered to his feet to face a tousled and furious Tantaerra, with two of her daggers raised to menace him.

  He blinked at them—and then whirled and fled, out through an empty window frame and into the forest, at top speed.

  The Masked looked at Tantaerra, and she looked at him ...and then they both burst into laughter, shouting out helpless mirth that left them doubled over, before hastily departing the ruin to relieve themselves.

  It was some time before they could cling to silence again, and join each other with attention for anything else. The Masked produced the map, and Tantaerra held up Voyvik's lost dagger, arching an eyebrow.

  "My first trophy."

  The Masked shook his head. "Drop it. Or leave it thrust into a post or beam for him to find. He might be able to trace his own weapons, from afar."

  Tantaerra nodded soberly, then flung the dagger away across the room, to thunk into a post. "So," she asked, "did he track us here, or can he trace us—or did he just happen upon the same ruin, through sheer happenstance?"

  The Masked spread his hands in a helpless shrug.

  Tantaerra sighed. "Show me the map and let's get walking. To someplace where food hangs ready from the trees, cooked and plentiful."

  Both of their stomachs rumbled then in loud complaint, which set them to chuckling again.

  "If he's out there listening to us, he's going to be furious," Tantaerra warned.

  The Masked shrugged again. "True, but that's far from the greatest of my worries."

  "Oh? Am I the greatest of your worries?"

  "No. Not anymore."

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Tarram Armistrade knew he shouldn't show himself on this lofty height of rocks, but he was long past caring. This was not a mission either of them was going to live through. What he needed was a wagonload of riches to pay some wizard he could trust—if all Golarion held such a thing—to make sure he and Tantaerra were free of spells that would locate or kill them if they just walked away from this fools' task.

  So they could do just that, and at least save their necks.

  They'd been stealing food and skulking, then trudging, for days now. Hurlandrun was less than a day away—if they'd been able to fly, rather than clambering through trackless forest trying not to be seen or heard by anyone, while at the same time trying to steal food.

  Nirmathas, green and rolling, stretched away below him in all directions. It was a beautiful country, but deadly; after all these years of war with Molthune, the Nirmathi treated every stranger as a spy or invader to be killed on sight or led into prepared traps. When he and Tantaerra weren't being shot at—every local seemed to have a bow, or at least a crude crossbow—people were trying to draw them into snares, pit traps, or ambushes. Even the damned innkeepers.

  And Tantaerra was in a particularly foul mood this morning.

  "Finished gazing out over your domain? Or are you contemplating leaping off, because death will be just so much easier than what we're going to have to try to do?"

  When he didn't reply, she added tartly, "May I remind you, masked man, that you still owe me my ten silver weights back—as you've done such an execrable job of hiding me and abetting my escape."

  The Masked rolled his eyes. "And have we not escaped Braganza? After escaping Halidon? I'd say you owe me another ten silver weights," he replied, not turning.

  The halfling sputtered at him, one of her sudden rages choking her so severely that she fought to find words.

  He ignored it, turning and transfixing her with a steady gaze.

  "Seriously," he told her quietly, all playfulness gone from his voice. "If anything happens to me, do not try to loot the Shattered Tomb by yourself. You'll die. Horribly."

  "You think so little of my skills?" she flared, predictably enough.

  The Masked quelled a sigh. "It's not what I think, it's what I know. I know you don't have the magic, or the familiarity with the ways of magic, you'd need to stay alive."

  "Oh? And just how do you know this so unerringly?"

  Beneath his mask, Tarram smiled. "Magic."

  "Ah. Of course. How convenient. Magic, that splendidly glib explanation for everything!"

  "Tantaerra Klazra," he said patiently, "let me tell you a story."

  "Why not? Deceitful men always do! Pray make it a good one, Sir Armistrade, for I have heard a fancy-tale or two before in my time."

  Ignoring her scorn, he chose a sloping rock to sit on, waved her to another that faced it not far away, and began. "Far away and long ago," he said, "I was once as brashly confident as you. If a little taller."

  "Until you stole a certain mask," the halfling retorted.

  That earned her a glare, but she merely said, "Suppose you begin with this tomb and how it came to be, back when the world was younger and a certain masked man was still brashly confident. Tell me a fireside tale. After all, it's about time."

  The Masked nodded. "Very well. Once there was a mighty wizard named Mahalagris, who dwelt where we're headed. He was known for transforming squirrels and rabbits and the like into ferocious beasts under his command, and summoning monsters to do his bidding. He was not a nice man."

  Tantaerra's lip curled. "They never are, are they?"

  But The Masked wasn't listening to her. He was thinking about Karm, and masks, and his greatest mistake ...

  Chapter Twelve

  Wizards, Scripts, and Secrets

  Tarram Armistrade cleared his throat, looked at the halfling who'd hired him seemingly half a lifetime ago, and warned, "After I finish telling you this, we should move. Far from here, and fast."

  Tantaerra looked disgusted. "Magic."

  He nodded. "Wielded by one who can kill us as easily as snapping his fingers."

  "Say on," the halfling commanded, giving him a shrug to let him know what she thought of his warning.

  The Masked grinned. Feisty to the last, this one.

  "Mahalagris had an apprentice," he told her. "Araungras Karm, a younger and more ambitious man whose spells were paltry compared to those of his master, but who learned fast, and was bold beyond prudence. Not to mention greedy."

  "He wanted the magic Mahalagris had, and killed him for it," Tantaerra said flatly. "Not a unique tale, Tarram."

  "He wanted power over men, and wealth, and all the good things in life," The Masked continued patiently, "the very things Mahalagris scorned in favor of isolation and study and the crafting of new magic."

  "This Karm wanted it all, without having to work for it."

  "He did."

  "And so?"

  "And so, when Mahalagris stayed in his backland home and refused to involve himself in the strife between Nirmathas and Molthune, Karm met secretly with Molthuni who paid him well—and went to war on behalf of Molthune."

  "Starting by murdering his master."

  "I see you're familiar with minstrels' scripts. Karm's first strike against the foe was indeed to treacherously murder Mahalagris, in hopes of gaining his master's power—but his first mistake was to think that the Nirmathi regarded Mahalagris with the same fear and contempt he did."

  "Oh?" Tantaerra looked up, and her eyes held real interest at last.

  "Wracked—and pursued—by the spells loosed by his dying master, Karm managed to bear away from his master's abode just one thing. This mask."

  The halfling's full attention was on him now.

  "It took months before Karm was healed in body and confidence, and well-girded enough in replenished magic to dare to return. When he did venture back into Nirmathas, well disguised, he hoped to gain the spell-tomes of Mahalagris and his master's things of power, including a blade that whispered and a gauntlet that blasted men in battle. The first had been borne by a loyal bodyguard who died in Karm's attack, and the second by the wizard himself, though Karm's swift savagery robbed him of any chance to use it. There was much wealth, too."

  "So did Mahalagris rise from his grave and murder this Karm, or did Karm replace him and become the same
fell and mighty wizard his master had been?"

  "Who's telling this tale?"

  The halfling rolled her eyes, but nodded and waved at The Masked to continue.

  Bowing his head gravely, he did. "Karm found his master's abode much changed. The Nirmathi had interred Mahalagris with honor—possibly out of respect for what good he'd done Nirmathas, but more likely out of fear of reprisals from his ghost. And they were right to be afraid. Mahalagris's spirit had indeed risen as a mighty undead creature, adding his own magic to the tomb's already extensive defenses. Karm's second attempt failed as well, and he had to flee for his life, leaving Hurlandrun a smoldering ruin behind him."

  "Just how do you know all this?"

  "Some I learned by listening late on nights when drink had loosened tongues, but most of it I've had from the mask itself. Visions, unexpected and beyond my bidding. I've paid attention, in hopes of staying alive a little longer. And there's more."

  "I'm sure. Say on."

  "So Karm's pride was in tatters, and his fear—of a master risen and implacable as a terrifying, undying thing—ruled him. He wanted to keep his Molthuni riches, so he staged his own glorious battle-death, going down fighting in a blaze of spells.

  "A year or two later, a nameless backchambers wizard quietly surfaced in Braganza, casting spells in private for those who could afford them. He later hired a particular thief, a far-traveled loner, to carry out an, ah, acquisition for him—but really to be blamed for something else."

  "And would this particular thief have enjoyed the name Armistrade?"

  "Among others. In my profession, changes of name are a frequent necessity. So is travel. I've been...traveling a fair while."

  The halfling gave a wave that said she was aware of such things, and asked, "And so?"

  "And so, not finding the taste of a wizard's betrayal any more to his liking than any other betrayal, Armistrade decided to get even by learning the wizard's true name and story and stealing Karm's most precious possession: this mask."

  "And that was your big mistake."

  "You know scripts frighteningly well, Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra." He sighed, then leaned close and muttered, "I'm a prisoner of this thing. What happens to it, happens to me—and though I can wear a mask under or over the mask, or take it off when the need arises, it has to be on my face a lot of the time, or else I sicken. If I hire a wizard to cast an illusion on me or on the mask, it soon melts that illusion away. It eats any undermasks faster than I can afford to have them made. And it has some connection to the Tomb. I think it was made there—and I'm hoping it can get unmade there, or else its hold over me weakened, or something of the sort. I'm sorry to be so mysterious—I feel more about the mask than I really know. It's not as if it's ever come with instructions—though I suspect Voyvik knows something."