by Ed Greenwood
One horse and rider loomed untouched among the dweomercats. Mahalagris's new host grinned, eyes glowing blue, and raised the Whispering Blade.
Tantaerra faced him, panting. She could punch him with the gauntlet, but he'd probably be magically protected against its blows. If she concentrated on his hands and his mouth, just maybe ...
He laughed coldly, and spurred his mount into a gallop. Right at her.
"Tarram?" Tantaerra called, not daring to try to sort through the gauntlet's powers with a charging warrior thundering at her.
There came no reply. Well, time to do what halflings did best.
Tantaerra ran, heading for horses that were down but struggling, dodging wildly kicking hooves. A horse could be shelter enough to keep the wizard from riding her down or easily slicing her apart as he galloped past.
He tried, with a brutal disregard for good horses, but a leaping, rolling, and ducking halfling was a far smaller target than a human, and he missed.
Why doesn't he just blast me? Oh, of course—the gauntlet. He wants it undamaged.
Tantaerra didn't stand still to ponder this or watch Mahalagris wheel around in a sweeping turn to come back at her. She rushed to the heap of exposed boulders, kicking at her partner as she ran past. "Up! Up, damn you, Armistrade! This is no time to—"
Then the wizard was on her again, the thunder of racing hooves almost deafening, the Whispering Blade lashing out.
Come kiss me, little one!
Its entreaties hissed past her ear as she ducked low behind a large boulder, just getting clear. Mahalagris wheeled his horse around hard, trying to deny her time to find better cover.
Heart pounding, Tantaerra didn't try. She had to do this just right, or ...
A lashing hoof almost drove her chin up through the crown of her head, but she flung herself sideways and it laid open her ear instead. Rebounding bruisingly off a rock she'd just inadvertently hurled herself against, Tantaerra sprinted up a rising stair of boulders and launched herself from the highest one in a desperate leap.
Thank the General Lords for putting so many bad riders on horseback, giving Molthuni saddles such high backs. She caught hold of the one Mahalagris was sitting in and swarmed up him.
Mahalagris worked a swift magic that wove a halo of spitting sparks around her daggers and buckles and all else metal, leaving her hand numbed and spasming.
To keep from falling off, she wrapped herself around the wizard's neck and shoulders from behind, entwining her legs around his shoulder, watching the Whispering Blade rising to slice at her.
He doesn't care what happens to this body he's using. It won't let go in pain, or go wild if I blind it, or—
We meet at last, the Whispering Blade greeted her triumphantly, as its edge came at her face.
Tantaerra grabbed hold of the wizard's dark hair and kicked off from his shoulder hard, wrenching his head around and forcing his sword to slash wildly wide.
She clung to it for a battering instant, banging against his chest—gods, did all cavalry reek this much?—as Mahalagris glared down at her.
Tantaerra glared right back up at him. She was close enough to spit and blind him, if it hadn't been straight uphill and likely to end up all over her. Her fingers, clutching the fistful of hair desperately, brushed his cheek.
A black wave of cold, fell fury fell on her, invading her mind, seeking to crush and overwhelm her.
Tantaerra clung to the one thing that held fast, a wan and glimmering light in the roaring, swirling, fang-ridden darkness trying to devour her. The Fearsome Gauntlet.
She was seeing things. Fleeting memories from the mind of Mahalagris, scenes so horrible that Tantaerra shrieked.
Then it was all gone, so abruptly that she was lost in a daze, vaguely aware of the moon hurtling past.
No, she was flying through the air past the moon, or...or ...
She landed hard, crashing through tall grass like a stone, and rolled out of sheer habit. The gauntlet was still with her, still glowing, and she was vaguely aware of dull thuds, ragged repeated blows.
When she could stand again, on legs that threatened to melt out from under her, she saw Tarram Armistrade swinging a broken lance like a blacksmith's hammer, battering the wizard's head and shoulders, and thrusting the splintered end of the lance—it no longer had its pointed head—at Mahalagris's face whenever he could.
In the distance, the horse Mahalagris had been riding was galloping off like the wind, tossing its head and bleating like a scared lamb.
The Whispering Blade was lying in the trampled grass not far away. Mahalagris reached out an arm toward it.
Despite the blows The Masked was raining down, the sword quivered and slid haltingly toward the wizard, a little at a time.
Tantaerra ran toward it, unsteadily, almost falling twice. If she could stand on it, perhaps her weight could stop it moving.
Or perhaps, just perhaps, the magical sword was what could kill a wizard who was already dead, if she carved him with it ...
The lance broke, and Mahalagris laughed in triumph and started to clamber to his feet. The Masked punched him hard in the face—and the wizard punched him back.
Then they were clawing and punching and grappling, Mahalagris managing to snatch the mask off Tarram's face—and Tarram toppling them both to keep from being smashed in the face with his own mask. They rolled on the ground, punching and kicking.
The Whispering Blade rose from the ground, hilt first, as if to fly ...and then fell back again, bouncing like any dropped sword.
Tantaerra pounced on it, and the blade and the gage she was wearing both flashed with bright and sudden magical light.
"Oh, great," she gasped. "Now what?"
∗ ∗ ∗
Neither Mahalagris nor the body he'd taken over had taken part in many vicious alley fights, Tarram realized. The wizard wasn't trying to gouge out his eyes, and didn't know what a good handle a man's nostrils gave a ruthless foe.
Or perhaps the wizard just didn't care what happened to his borrowed body, so long as it brought fresh victims within touching distance. His mind was flooding into Tarram's, dark and terrible, exulting ...
Tarram had managed to roll atop the wizard's other arm, pinning it, so the mask was trapped under him, too. Yet he could cling to its steadying magic as the mind of Mahalagris tore at his, raging in his head, seeking to sear away everything that was Tarram Armistrade.
Light flared behind him; the Fearsome Gauntlet.
The moment he thought of it, it was as if a door had opened in the darkness seeking to ravage him, and he was plunging down a chute of wildly swirling memories. The wizard's memories.
Luraumadar, Luraumadar, Luraumadar!
The Whispering Blade had a secret!
In the hands of one who knew how—and this was how, bending one's will like this, and calling up this crawling crimson-edged darkness from the depths of the sword—it could drain the magic of the Fearsome Gauntlet.
Yet it could not hold it all, nor stop draining, once it started. The sword would quickly be overwhelmed, and self-destruct. It was a final resort, to be used only if both were about to fall into the hands of foes ...
The dark malevolence raking at his mind lurched to an astonished halt. Not at what Tarram had just learned, but in surprise at something else, something over there in his memories.
Yes, Mahalagris had been reading his memories at the same time as he'd been plunged into the wizard's. Something the undead mage had just learned had staggered him.
In the dark warm passages of his own mind, Tarram turned toward that bright and quivering amazement, to see what had so astonished the fell wizard.
Only to watch his much younger self stealing the mask that had so dominated his life from Araungras Karm.
Karm! Mahalagris whirled around inside Tarram's mind, turning to directly confront Tarram, to glare at him, to rush at him and thunder, WHERE IS KARM?
That mental shout almost set Tarram's mind afire. Sizzling a
nd half-blinded, he recoiled, flinching back, trying to mentally fend off a killing blow.
A blow that did not come.
Two burning eyes pursued him through his mind as he fled. Mahalagris was relentless. The wizard wanted Tarram dead, all right, and soon—but not until he'd learned all he could about Karm, to make hunting down the traitorous apprentice as easy as possible. No, the masked man was now a captive to be handled with exacting care, tracing from one memory to the next ...
Tarram dodged behind a mental image—the wizard's, not his—of peeling back the layers of an onion more purplish than any onion he'd ever handled, and peered deeper into Mahalagris's. There had been something more about the gauntlet, something tied to an old, ever-present puzzlement ...
Luraumadar.
That was it!
Luraumadar, the word the mask had repeatedly whispered into his mind, down all the years he'd had it—it was the command word for the gauntlet, the magical key to unlock the rest of its abilities!
It would let him do things with it that it hadn't shown him, magical powers that a moment ago he'd had no inkling it possessed.
Things like controlling the Whispering Blade.
My blade?
That was Mahalagris, astonished anew, and furious, boring through Tarram's mind. Then he departed, so abruptly that Tarram was left dazed, drenched in sweat and shaking. The wizard, that great fell heavy darkness worming its way through his thoughts, was suddenly gone—out of Tarram's head and thrusting him away with impatient arms, scrambling free of him to work a swift spell.
Tarram heard his partner curse, an oath that rose into a despairing snarl. Before he could turn to see what the wizard's magic had done to her, he saw its results.
The Whispering Blade came hurtling hilt-first through the air, into the wizard's hands.
With a cold smile of triumph, Mahalagris wrapped both hands around its hilt, swung it back, and turned to look at Tarram.
There was death in that stare.
Preserve the mind, the blade whispered, but limbs are expendable ...
Tarram smiled back. "Luraumadar," he said firmly, and clapped his mask back onto his face. It lit up like a pillar of fire.
The gauntlet blazed up to match it; he heard Tantaerra's gasp of astonishment, but kept his gaze on Mahalagris.
If the undead wizard could just indulge him by being as arrogant and stubborn as most spellcasters were, for just a few moments ...
Tarram bent his will, and the Whispering Blade flew. It almost tore itself out of the wizard's grasp, but Mahalagris sneered and hung on tighter.
Tarram sent the sword streaking into the largest boulder in the heap. There was a ringing clang, sparks flew, and the body Mahalagris had borrowed thudded into the rocks. Tarram swept the sword away into the air, the dazed wizard's body still clinging to it, then dashed it against another rock. He refused to give Mahalagris time to think. Again against unyielding stone, and again, bones shattering, Mahalagris crying out now, trying to form words with a smashed mouth.
Tarram brought the Whispering Blade to a hovering halt, and started the draining.
As the gauntlet's power rushed into it, the sword went from angry whispering to exulting gasps, a gleeful song arising from it. The slumped, broken man clinging to it lifted his head, visibly healing as a golden-white radiance erupted from the Whispering Blade and washed over him.
He was healing and growing, getting larger, a surprised and delighted smile spreading across his face. His eyes lost all pain and danced in excitement. He looked down at the masked man gloatingly as a golden-white aura grew to surround him, flickering brighter ...and brighter ...
A strap parted, and then a belt, Mahalagris's clothes falling away as he grew. The wizard didn't seem to notice, or to care.
Tarram sidestepped and backed away until he stood between the growing spellcaster and Tantaerra, and could put one hand behind his back and wave at her to get away.
He backed away himself as he made that gesture. Mahalagris was eight or nine feet tall now, his eyes flaring into golden-white flame. The wizard threw back his head and laughed, opening his arms wide. Tiny lightnings crackled around his fingertips. He was alive with power.
Tarram moved the hovering sword carefully, lifting Mahalagris off the ground slowly as a feather lifted by the gentlest of breezes.
"Ride the wind," he whispered, as if in blessing, and watched the wizard in the body of the unfortunate, mind-dead Molthuni rise into the sky, a tiny sun ascending to challenge the moon.
"Tarram Armistrade," Tantaerra said quietly from behind him, "you had better know what you're doing."
"You," he murmured, his eyes fixed on the now tiny figure, aloft amid its glowing nimbus of magic, "had better hope I do, halfling princess."
The explosion seared their eyes. Its thunder rocked the landscape, echoes rolling away across the hills to rebound off the Mindspin Mountains.
The magical backlash of the blast raced right after that echo, lifting Tarram Armistrade off his feet. He had just time to turn in midair and see dweomercats sprinting away into the distance and his halfling partner dashed to the ground in front of him. Then the magical shock of the destruction of the Whispering Blade reached the mask, and snatched all Golarion away.
∗ ∗ ∗
Luraumadar, Luraumadar, Luraumadar the mask shouted in Tarram's mind, driving him up out of darkness. The strong smell of roast boar was in his nostrils, and there were armored Molthuni warriors bending over him, half a dozen lance tips hovering near his throat.
"I'm a Lord Investigator of Molthune," he croaked.
The nearest Molthuni sneered. "And I'm a dancing pleasure-girl of the Savored Sting. Now, you're going to tell me what that mask is you're wearing, and why it's glowing—and we won't hesitate to nail your throat to the turf with lances if you try anyth—"
Tarram didn't hesitate, either. Through the mask, he could feel that the Fearsome Gauntlet still had most of its abilities; the Whispering Blade had been overloaded and destroyed long before it could drain the gauntlet entirely. He awakened the gauntlet now, using its simplest ramming blow to dash aside the lance tips.
He rolled hard to the left, to wrap himself around the ankles of a Molthuni and topple that soldier over. The smell of cooked boar seemed to be clinging to him.
Tarram kept rolling, up to his feet and into a sprint that took him out of the ring of Molthuni. He could hear them pounding right after him, and kept dodging to keep any thrown lances from biting home.
He ran through the grass in a wide circle, knowing he had to get back to Tantaerra—and because doing so should give him a good look at all of his pursuers, strung out in his wake. His targets.
A soldier at the rear of the chase wasn't running at all, but rather mounting his horse, probably having realized that a man on a galloping horse can easily run down a fugitive on foot. Tarram called on the gauntlet through its link with the mask and punched that soldier ruthlessly in the throat. The man's head lolled loosely on a broken neck as he bounced off his startled horse, making it rear and bolt.
The gauntlet was still on Tantaerra's arm, as she lay sprawled and senseless. As he aimed the gauntlet to slam into the throat of his closest pursuer, Tarram saw his commands were making the gauntlet lift his partner's limp arm and move it about, the glove towing and turning it.
His chosen target was close behind him, panting and jabbing the air with his spear, trying to stick it into Tarram's back or behind, but not quite close enough yet.
Tarram didn't hesitate. After all, it was his and Tantaerra's lives or those of these—gods!—twenty-some Molthuni.
That closest soldier was abruptly smashed aside, landing like a heavy sack, felled by the empty air.
The next closest Molthuni soon joined him, throat crushed and neck broken, another heavily thudding heap in the grass.
Followed by another, as Tarram grimly went on using the gauntlet, stumbling on in his circling run, heading back to Tantaerra now, his wind alm
ost gone.
Molthune may have more soldiers than I can count, but I have a Fearsome Gauntlet.
The patrol's horses stood watching as the running men came back toward them. A few pawed the ground, but most were stolidly accepting of the loud idiocies of human riders, and merely gazed placidly as Molthuni after Molthuni jerked back into sudden falls and lay still.
"Madness!" a soldiers shouted, realizing his superiors were all down and dead. "We need reinforcements!"
"Archers!" another agreed, and the pursuit of the masked man became a general rush back to the horses, the wide circle collapsing into a flood of men heading straight for their mounts.
"Magic to fight magic!" another Molthuni panted, as men sprang into their saddles and spurred hurriedly away.
Tarram crouched low to confound any last-second spear casts, but none came. Freed of their officers, the Molthuni were in haste not to fight, but to gallop back to Braganza.
Tarram watched them go, feeling much better. Now that all echoes of the stunning lash of the wizard's destruction were done, he felt alert and stronger. Using the gauntlet seemed to have driven away his dazedness and a lot of his aches and pains, too.
He looked at Tantaerra, sprawled and senseless. Could it do the same for her?
He bent over her and concentrated on the gauntlet, trying to get it to leak just a little power into her. Enough to invigorate, not sear or harm.
The gauntlet on her hand pulsed with light, then rippled.
Yes. Envisage that bright white light, lapping rather than flowing or rushing, creeping ...
The halfling stiffened, and her eyes flew open.
And fixed on him with blazing anger.
"What are you trying?" she snapped. "I felt it! This—this violation you're—"
Furiously she pointed the gage at him. Tarram could feel that she was trying to slap him away, to sunder his link with it, but if that dread bolt struck him ...
He overrode her, and saw the horror dawn on her face as she realized she couldn't break his control.
Frantically Tantaerra tried to snatch the gauntlet off, fumbling because her stump lacked fingers to grasp it.
