Unmasked (Rise of the Masks Book 1)

by Kaplan, EM

  "All right," Harro said nodding, trying to soothe the boy into silence. He wouldn't touch him and humiliate him. He wouldn't put a hand on his shoulder and splash mud and the blood of beasts on Charl’s clean clothes. Charl looked somewhat appeased then, his message delivered and his burden lifted.

  And where was his brother Haught? Harro wondered, again, but couldn't ask. Instead, he heaped more responsibility on the boy and commanded him to guide the first group of survivors they found toward the house. The boy always did well when given a task. And they needed help. Otherwise, they would stumble around the lawn all night.

  Harro set them off in the first group, his nephew leading the way. The miners— fighters, now—sank into shocked silence and for the most part, let themselves be led away like children. Like tired horses. The few clear-headed ones started going through the remaining tents in the shantytown with Harro. The punch of fists into fabric sounded around him as they made their way through, checking each tent.

  Harro himself checked Treyna's, but it was empty. Her panderer Jonas lay dead in the mud outside her tent, but the woman herself was gone. His woman, if he had any right to claim her. Harro clenched his jaw and continued onward, not allowing himself any time to speculate. But two tents later, he abruptly went back. He brushed back the flap and stood just inside her tent staring at the dishevelment. Her table was knocked over. He did the best he could to clean his hands. He gathered up the fancy cloth she used as a tablecloth and fashioned it into a sack. A few trinkets were all he found, so he put those, her scarves, and her soup bowl into the sack telling himself that she would probably want them back.

  The shouts went up while he was making his way out of the tent. He tensed, waiting to hear if the bastard trogs had returned, but the shouting rang out again, this time more clearly. "We got one!"

  Clutching the tablecloth tightly, trying to hold it away from his grimy self, Harro barged down the muddy thoroughfare toward the voices. He pushed his way through the people gathered to gawk. They had a trog, bound by leathers around his hands, feet, and knees. It was on its back in the mud, and they were dragging it, stopping only to shove back another person who ventured close enough to kick it in the ribs, its big knobby head, or whatever part of it they could.

  "Where are you taking it?" he demanded. They stopped, eying him with a mixture of fear and respect. Probably had something to do with the blood running down into his boots.

  "To the house," one said. "We're taking it up there."

  "No," Harro immediately said. It was a bad idea, a very bad idea. All those children and people at the house. Or even Nan the old cook, whose kitchen was near-sacred grounds. A trog within the same walls? He couldn't even think of it. He would not allow it. He said, "Take it to the old root cellar. The one out back."

  There was an old cellar back from the house toward the burial grounds. It had been primarily storage until someone realized how idiotic it was to have food storage so far away from the house. It had taken only one winter to realize that error. They could convert the cellar into a makeshift jail. They could throw the trog in there as long as he was still trussed up. Though someone would have to watch the bastard at all times. The trog would be in his element underground. The old root cellar had a dirt floor.

  Harro sighed. Opening up the old root cellar would not be a good thing. Someone had to find Rob and tell him. Finding no better option, Harro decided he would do it.

  Chapter 58

  Rob nearly lost the contents of his stomach. As much as he itched to storm down to the tent village shouting for Jenny and the boy, he couldn’t go. Someone had to stay at the house. Someone had to make sure everyone kept inside and stayed sane. Though he wasn't sure how well he was doing at that job. He had his whole useless body pressed against the window, trying to see anything outside, and he was ready to flay the skin off the next person who spoke to him. All he could see were flames in the distance. Harro was down there. Other members of the household staff were supervising the security of the basement on his command. It was up to Rob to hold it together. It was his eternal bad luck, his duty. Then more screams went up, and his heart jumped up into his throat as he sprinted downstairs to find out the cause.

  Damn it all to hell.

  Screams could mean the kitchen staff had learned something bad had happened to Ott. There was still no word from the mine entrance, and Rob felt sick about it.

  But, no. The panic was just a fire that had broken out behind the house out in the graveyard. Some fool had set a fire out by the burial grounds, alarming everyone. Rob would see to that later, whoever had started it. With Rob hovering just inside the kitchen door, a terrified houseman had gone out to check and reported that it was just a pile of brush and twigs. A bonfire. Someone setting a beacon. And someone would receive his harshest words for frightening the house people unnecessarily. But later. All that mattered now was that it was not a threat. As long as these flames were human-caused and no one had been harmed, it didn't matter. He had more pressing matters to deal with—for one, an army of trogs killing his people on his lawn. And for another matter, Jenny missing.

  Rob thought about all the times with her yet to come that might now be stolen from him. All the times he wanted to wake up next to her that might have been taken away. They'd had two mornings together in two days, one at her house and the other in his room earlier that morning. What an idiot. He sank down on a wooden bench in the hallway outside their room.

  "Sir?"

  He looked up without recognition at the man in front of him. Then his eyes cleared. One of Col Rob's young assistants was standing in front of Rob looking like he'd rather be someplace else. Probably because of the expression on Rob's face, which he tried to smooth away. "What is it?"

  "Your father wants to see you." It came out in a cringing rush. The strained relationship between Rob and his father was public knowledge within the house.

  Let him wait. He was damned if anyone thought he was going to see the old man right now. Rob clenched his jaw. His teeth made an uncomfortable grinding noise. "Thank you." But the young man just stood there as if waiting for Rob to accompany him. Rob shot him another look, pure murder this time, and the young man twitched and scrambled away at almost a full trot.

  Rob concentrated on breathing and trying to stop his head from exploding, but just a few minutes later he was interrupted again by heavy footsteps coming down the hall, a lot of people, and urgent voices. What fresh panic now? He briefly gripped a handful of his own hair to steady himself, then let go and stood up to meet whatever it was coming for him.

  The outlines of bodies became clearer. Mostly housemen, some of whom Rob didn't recognize, moving toward him quickly in a tight phalanx. He frowned as they drew nearer, not sensing their intent and feeling vaguely threatened. Through his suspicious squint, he saw a short, dark-haired head in their midst, and his chest lurched with hope. The men abruptly parted, pushed from within, and Jenny shot out, her face tense with fear, propelling herself toward Rob and wrapping her arms around his chest.

  "Thank you. Thank you," Rob murmured hoarsely to no one in particular, burying his face in the top of Jenny's hair. She's not gone. I didn't lose her, was all he could think over and over.

  "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she said, her voice muffled by his shirt. "We went to get Jack's doll. He said he couldn't sleep without it. It's his bear doll. I didn't know there was going to be a surprise attack."

  "Of course you didn't know there was going to be a surprise attack," he murmured, stroking her hair, not knowing who Jack was and not really caring. "Nobody knew."

  "I've never been so scared in my whole life," she said looking up at him, her dark eyes shiny. "And it wasn't about dying. It was that I couldn’t get back to you." Her chin quivered, and it looked like she clamped her teeth together to keep from crying.

  He knew the feeling. However, his particular brand of stupidity kept him mute, unable to put words together to tell her that he felt the same way, that he felt like
he'd lost years off his life wondering if she were all right. And that life, even a shortened one, would not have been worth much of anything without her. Instead, he nodded and held her closer, tucking her head under his chin.

  One of the housemen brought up a small boy behind her, and Rob recognized him as one of the children they'd brought in from the tent city earlier, except now his head was shaven clean just like Jenny's boys. His eyes were wide and deep set in a small, pale face. Jenny disengaged herself from Rob, causing him a small spike of anxiety. He watched her take the boy, who clung to her, and thank the men who escorted her. Rob nodded at them, finding himself unable to produce words. In turn, they seemed reluctant to leave and milled around with incongruously gentle expressions on their rough faces as they watched the reunion. Jenny went to the nursemaid and the other children. Rob followed, less than a step behind.

  The maid was relieved to the point of tears, but she quickly dried them, holding them back in true northerner fashion. The other children surrounded Jenny as she got down on her knees, so they could throw their arms around her neck. Five pairs of arms. The maid had the little boy called Jack, alternately hugging him and checking him over for injury.

  "Go rest," Rob told the nursemaid firmly, the roughness in his voice caused by tightness in his chest. "We'll have some other people up here with the children as quick as we can." She shook her head, but he insisted. "You can come back whenever you want, but you need to go rest. Eat. Take care of yourself. We'll get Marget to help," So she nodded slowly, giving in, exhaustion lining her face. Rob knew the feeling. But he wasn't ready to rest yet either.

  He stood for a minute watching Jenny calm the children. He felt inept and as out of place as the housemen loitering around, though it was his own house and they were his men. He needed to get back to checking the house, to waiting for word on survivors.

  He moved to the side of the room, his hands behind his back, looking at her, at the sweet slope of her neck and her gentle hands on their faces. She was small and soft and unharmed. He needed to get her alone. It was an inappropriate urge, but he couldn't deny the overwhelming thought that neither of them would feel whole again until he could be with her. But she was undeniably exhausted and hungry and traumatized. And there was no time for his weakness, his desperation for reassurance.

  He fidgeted in the corner until Marget, the young housemaid with the quick smile, arrived with three others to help with the children. Then Jenny stood up looking truly done in with her shoulders slumping. Rob sent the idle housemen to the great hall, hoping the preparations for the evacuees were well underway. He'd have to go check in a minute. But for now he was finally alone with Jenny. He put his arm lightly around her shoulders and guided her across the hall to their room.

  She stopped inside the room and just stood there looking blank and forlorn when he turned to shut the door behind them. With her back turned toward him, she started to pull her dress off her shoulders. He stood for a minute, and then went to the bathing room to run water in the tub. She could have a long soak, while he asked someone to bring food for her. Then, he'd come back and check on her although he wished he could stay until she fell asleep. He would have liked to lie on the bed next to her until she drifted off.

  "Rob. Come here," she said, her voice thin and unsteady, before he could twist the handle of the water faucet. He straightened and swiftly turned, arrested by the soft urgency of her voice. Her heavy outer dress pooled at her feet where she stood. Light gleamed off the muscle of her arms, the soft slope of her throat, the indentation of her navel under her thin shift. She looked ashamed and uncertain. "I'm tired. I'm still scared. And I've been sweating in terror so I'm not very fresh. I know it's a lot to ask. You're worried about the people and the house, and my brother, and me wandering off like an idiot. But if I can't have your arms around me, I think I'm going to die."

  In a heartbeat, Rob crossed the room, wrapping himself tightly around her.

  Chapter 59

  Old Col Rob shuffled slowly and patiently from bed to table to his chair; he had time for infirmity. The pain didn't trouble him much. He didn't mind being closed off from the world as long as he had his thoughts and frequent dispatches from the outside in regard to the results of his schemes and the consequences of his actions, both delicious and bothersome. It was like playing a wonderfully challenging game without the coarse and tedious interaction that the world demanded of a younger man.

  There was a sharp knock on the door, and Rob entered. Whoever the boy's real father was, Rob had turned out to be a tall man, not stunted like one of those miners. Col Rob had never been able to worm the information out of his wife—speaking of challenges, she'd been a delightful source of them at times. Col Rob didn't think much of his son's coloring or looks. The boy always had a defiant expression when he should have been cowed, and behaved submissively when he should have been challenging. Col Rob snorted. Ah well, a small failure in a long list of accomplishments.

  But wouldn't it be interesting to discover that the boy's father had been one of these horrid trogs? Had she perhaps been raped during a ride through the woods? He had always assumed the boy had been the product of an extra-marital transgression during one of her many trips south to Port Navio. But a trog . . . now, that was an interesting thought. Perhaps this could be used to their advantage. If they claimed mixed parentage on his part, they might be able to leverage a truce or establish an aboveground community of the creatures over which young Rob could preside. Pure physical power like theirs was not a commodity to be undervalued.

  Col Rob painstakingly lowered himself into his chair by the fireplace. He pulled his heavy lap rug up over his aching hip joints and waited for Rob to assume his usual stance across from him. The boy always remained standing. Not a subtle tactic by any means, but understandable given his lifelong struggle for acceptance—no, approval—from Col Rob.

  Comfortably seated, he studied Rob, now scrutinizing him for hints that his ancestry was subterranean. A heavy brow, but not even as pronounced as that low-intellect stableman who constantly flanked the boy. Now if that man Harro had been older, he'd be a likely candidate for Rob's true, blooded father. Dark coloring. Plenty of muscle to appeal to the sharp-mouthed harlot who had called herself wife to Col Rob. But, it was unlikely. The stableman Harro was only a dozen or so years older than young Rob, and certainly not old enough to be his father unless Col Rob’s wife had been a seducer of children. Highly unlikely.

  Certainly, Col Rob had appreciated certain of her unusual sexual proclivities in the early years of their relationship. He had enjoyed fighting her for dominance, though her eventual defeat and submission had spelled the downfall of their marriage. And he had so hoped for a worthy partner when choosing her. She had looked like a hellion, and he had not been disappointed at first. But she had had no staying power, and his interest in her eventually waned.

  He pulled his thoughts from the past and gazed at Rob, who stood silently before him. Col Rob had thought that by precipitating the trog attack on the tent city, Rob would be forced to action. Col Rob still had hopes for the boy. He had wished his false son would evolve into manhood through battle, through strategy and skill acquired from experience. Scars made the man. Col Rob had plenty from his own father, who had them from his father before him. It was an honorable tradition. And it mattered not whether the archers Col Rob had sent to the mine entrance had survived their mission. He still had not received report back on that endeavor. But, the trog aggression had occurred, thereby sending him a sort of hearsay confirmation of his own success in evoking the attack.

  "And what have you been doing this bright and delightful winter morning?" Col Rob asked the son who was not his son in a harsh and deliberately provoking manner. The boy was pale, but impassive, to Col Rob's amusement and surprising approval. To his credit, the boy mastered his expression. He remained in control, a definite improvement on all previous encounters. Before, Col Rob had always managed to elicit some kind of anger response. B
ut the boy was stoic today. Perhaps he was evolving.

  "The Masks are dead," Rob said flatly, expression remaining stonelike. Col Rob squinted at him. There was something not right in the inflection of his voice. He sounded unlike himself. Unemotional and distant. And, if possible, he seemed taller and darker.

  "They lived to serve their purpose," Col Rob said. Ahh, there was a response. Just the smallest hint of one. A flicker of the eye darkening for an instant. It had turned to flint and sparked admirably.

  "No one should have died this day," Rob said in a voice that was not his own. This was not Rob.

  "Who are you?" Col Rob demanded abruptly, feeling a wave of suspicion and a small flicker of fear traverse his brittle spine. He wondered where his boy Charl had gotten himself. He could have used another in the room, someone who was in alignment with him against Rob. Or whoever this person was who had disguised himself as Rob.

  "You are done meddling in the affairs of others," the man in the form of Rob said.

  Col Rob frowned when he looked up at a blade that glinted in the firelight. He said to the stranger, "And that's not my son’s dagger. Who are you? And how have you disguised yourself so well?" His old heart beat a little faster in his chest as he pondered the unexpected miscalculation of his moves and was briefly irritated that he would be leaving the game because of a trick, an exception to the rules. Deception was a woman's game, he nearly said out loud. Yet, how many times had he played the game himself?

  Nevertheless, he tried to protest the unfairness of the trick by shouting out to his guards. But his voice deserted him in a wave of weakness. He looked down to see the blade push through his thick, finely-sewn robe and slice into his chest.