by Tom Stacey
X
Beccorban had forgotten how much people stared. He hadn’t lived with others for years and it had been decades since he had lived in a city. Wort was just a village with only a few hundred people, yet still they stared, perhaps even more so — they were more easily impressed than city-dwellers. Old, young, men, women, it didn’t matter, they all came to cast weary and wary eyes at the man in the mask.
It was a curious thing, the mask. He had found it inside the robes of the strangely tall, long-faced man he had killed in the forest. Doubtless the Stranger had used it to conceal the subtle horror of his features. Oddly he had forsaken it to approach Beccorban, the man he had sought to slay. It was styled to look like a man’s face but all the natural curves and smooth edges had been chiselled out, replaced by angles and straight lines. It was lightweight and cool to the touch so that Beccorban supposed it had been crafted from some kind of metal. He had been surprised how well it fit his face. It was secured with a thin leather strap that ran around the back of his head, but the moulding was so exact that he thought it would probably stay on anyway. Well, he thought, not entirely exact. The mask pinched the bridge of his nose, making it difficult to breathe.
Wearing the face of his enemy, Beccorban emerged from the treeline into the open ground. He tried to keep his gaze fixed ahead. The mask did not restrict his vision much at all, but as he entered the bounds of the village, people began to close in around him and it was a struggle to ignore them. They kept their distance, yet he could feel the weight of their stares. He wasn’t sure how it made him feel. A part of him loved being the centre of attention. As a young man, he had sought out this kind of notice, had craved it. Even now, with his features hidden, he could command this much scrutiny. He felt alive, with fresh mountain air tinged with woodsmoke in his lungs. A whole village had suspended work that would help them survive the winter just to look at him. He felt strong and important and invincible.
And that made the other part of him afraid.
He became conscious of every step he took, of how he was sweating under his furs, of things as absurd as the grey in his hair. Do these people just see an old man? Beccorban had gone to great lengths to hide Kreyiss. She was nestled under his furs between his shoulder blades, and the hammer tapped his buttocks as he walked, as if reminding him that she was not to be ignored. It was not how he would usually have worn her but there were too many who still knew her by reputation if not by sight. A warhammer was a rare weapon nowadays and bringing Kreyiss into the open would be like lighting a beacon to those who wished him harm. For now he had the upper hand, and he meant to keep it that way.
He strode forward, taking no notice of the growing crowd, and made for Hari’s tavern. Hari was the closest thing he had to an ally out here. Most of the time Beccorban stayed in the wild, yet sometimes necessity forced him down into Wort for supplies or, less frequently, news. Hari had no notion of Beccorban’s past, and if the gods were good it would stay that way. The tavern keeper was a good man and an old soldier, yet he would not understand. Beccorban was not even sure he deserved understanding. It had been a different time.
Ahead of him, two soldiers in crimson armour and thick cloaks staggered from the tavern’s open door. One was carrying the other and they did not see him before they disappeared around the back of the wooden building. One of them left a speckle of blood in his wake.
Beccorban gripped the handle of the long knife he had strapped to his thigh. Had the soldier been wounded? A fight? Whatever the case, the presence of the soldiers made things more difficult. He wanted to stop and think but he could not. To the people around him he was a spectacle in a black mask and confidence was the shield that made them keep their distance. He was now only a few steps from the open door. Hari had a young daughter and had been good to him. He could not bring violence into Hari’s home, but if they needed help he would do his utmost. He would be ready.
He stepped into the tavern.
It was hard to adjust to the gloom inside after the brilliant glare of the snow, yet he could make out two soldiers at a dark wooden table. One was young and the other had his back to him, but both were conscripts. Hari hovered in the background, no doubt gripping the old billy club he kept hidden near the bar. To the left, in a corner, was a slight young woman, the lower half of her face covered with a dark red scarf. One of the soldiers stood quickly and then sat down again, clearly unsure of what to do. His short blonde hair was plastered to his head and darkly wet with sweat at the ends. His face still carried the soft edges of youth and was pink in patches, though Beccorban couldn’t tell whether it was from embarrassment or cold. He noticed the tankards and jugs stacked on the floor beside the table. Maybe it was the drink, then.
The young blond soldier stood again and his mouth fell open so that he looked like a suffocating fish. He made a squeaking noise and looked for help from his companion, who still had his back to the door.
When none came, he said, “We had not thought to see you back this soon, milord.” Beccorban did not respond and the boy put out a hand to steady himself on the table. “Uh, would you like to sit?” He gestured at the empty place opposite him and then realised that there was only a pile of broken wood there. He scrambled out from behind his chair, drawing it back invitingly.
Beccorban looked at Hari. The tavern keeper could not recognise him behind the mask, but he had a pained look on his face, as if he was embarrassed for the young soldier.
Beccorban grabbed an empty chair from an empty table and placed it opposite the speaker, scraping aside the broken wood with a boot. He paused and then flipped it around so that the solid back protected his vital organs. Next, he unclipped the catch that held Kreyiss on his back, deftly catching her weight and slipping his great bearskin cloak from his shoulders in one motion, wrapping it around the warhammer so that she remained unseen. He laid the bundle softly on the table, careful to avoid the telling thump of the weapon’s weight, and sat down, looking sidelong at the second soldier. This one was also young, but had curly brown hair that wound around his ears and teased the neck of the crimson tunic that poked up past his breastplate. He seemed frozen solid except for his eyes that flitted nervously towards Beccorban’s mask.
These are boys, thought Beccorban. No wonder they sent old men to kill me. They didn’t have a choice. Beccorban knew that he was an imposing sight even without the mask. His arms were long and thickly muscled, each criss-crossed with countless scars: some thin streaks of white, others great leathery worms that stretched across his skin. Under the bearskin he wore a padded leather jerkin and a wide leather belt fringed with fur. The cloak made him a giant, yet even without it he was broad across the shoulders and had the frame of somebody who had lived a life of physical endurance. The expressionless face of the mask took him from dread warrior to a thing of nightmare. Beccorban understood fear. He had lived with it and worked for it and he knew how to use it.
“How many of you are there?” he asked the frightened soldiers. Beccorban glanced to his left and saw that Hari was frowning at him. He had made no effort to conceal his voice, if only to let the tavern keeper know that the man in the mask was familiar to him. He turned back to the blonde-haired soldier who was also frowning.
“Milord?” said the soldier.
“I’m not a lord, boy. How many of you are there?” Beccorban added a hardness to his voice so that it was clear he would not ask again.
“Four, mi— four, sir,” the second soldier spoke up. The first soldier glared at his companion, his fear quickly replaced by an angry glare. It looked ridiculous on such a young and otherwise open face, and were the situation any different, Beccorban would have laughed.
“The other two were the ones I saw disappearing round the back?” he asked.
“I…” the second soldier looked at the first as if he was asking for permission. When he got no response he continued anyway. “Yes.”
“We were expecting more of you, sir,” said the first soldier, with the fir
st jagged edge of suspicion in his tone.
“You weren’t expecting me at all,” said Beccorban. He peered down at the solitary wooden plate on the table. A sorry-looking lump of beefsteak that had been forked and speared almost beyond recognition sat in a miserable puddle of watery gravy. Beccorban’s stomach clenched in hope. He was certain that had it possessed arms of its own it would have reached out and taken the meagre morsel for itself. “Now, answer my questions and answer them quickly and clearly.”
The two young soldiers looked at each other and Beccorban suddenly realised how quiet the room was. He wished he wasn’t wearing the damned mask. He had always hated wearing a helmet in battle, and though the mask fitted well, he could not be sure it wouldn’t slip down over his eyes were he forced to move suddenly.
“Why do you wear the mask?” asked the blonde soldier, staring at Beccorban with piercing eyes. The old warrior wondered if the lad could read his thoughts.
“I ask the questions, boy,” Beccorban needed time to think. This conversation was not going the way he wanted it to and he was running out of ideas to bring it back under control.
“My question is more important,” said the soldier petulantly.
Beccorban felt a bead of sweat run slowly but relentlessly down his forehead. His bluff had worked initially but now curiosity was wielding its power over the soldiers, diluting their nerves and filling them with a righteous indignation.
“You heard him,” said the soldier with the curly brown hair. “We’ve never seen you without the mask. Maybe it’s time you took it off.”
“I would be careful if I were you, lad,” said Beccorban in a low voice. “And if your hand gets any closer to that shiny blade of yours, I will cut it off.” He had seen the nervous soldier creeping a hand towards the sword belt draped over the back of his chair.
The soldier stopped in shock but quickly recovered. “Take off your mask, old man,” he sneered. “It’s time to end this farce.”
Nobody in the tavern could see it but Beccorban was grinning. His ruse had failed and he knew he did not have the silver tongue to talk his way out of it. He felt strangely relieved. This he could do.
The brown-haired soldier smiled triumphantly, leaning forward with both hands laid flat on the dark wood of the table, as if he was about to stand.
Beccorban exploded into action, kicking the table forward so that it slammed into the blonde soldier’s stomach and threw him off of his chair. Beccorban leapt to his feet, drawing the long blade from his thigh at the same time and slamming it down into the hand of the brown-haired soldier with a sickening crack. The soldier screamed and slid off of his chair on to his knees, tearing the knife through his hand as his weight failed to dislodge the blade from the wood.
The blonde soldier tried to stand but Beccorban was faster and was on him before he could recover. “Your friends are dead, boy,” he said in a cold voice. “I killed them. Every one.”
“You’re him, aren’t you?” spluttered the soldier. His friend was still screaming — a high keening sound — and his cockiness lay in shards on the floor. “Oh gods, are you going to kill me?” He looked as if he was about to cry.
Beccorban reached up and tore the mask from his face, tossing it aside with a clatter. He ran his hand through his dark hair, clearing it from in front of his face, and closed his eyes as the breeze brushed his skin. He opened them again and speared the soldier with his wintery grey gaze. “That has yet to be decided,” he said. “Tell your friend to be quiet.”
The blonde soldier looked past Beccorban to where the brown-haired soldier was moaning in pain and trying to pry the blade from the table. “Yellen?” he said. “Be still.” Yellen kept screaming and tugging ineffectually at the knife. “Yellen!” cried the blonde soldier. “Shut up! Shut up, for gods’ sake!”
Yellen whimpered. “My hand!” he mewled. “Look what he’s done to my hand, Tollett! Oh gods, it hurts!” He gave one last great yank, face white with pain, and then sank back to his knees, weeping softly.
Tollett, the blonde soldier, slowly raised a soothing hand. “Stay calm, Yellen.”
Beccorban nodded. “Good boy. Now.” He leaned forward, resting one huge palm on Tollett’s cold breastplate so that it pressed into the conscript’s neck and groin. As Tollett had fallen, he had dragged the small lump of beefsteak off of the table to lie on the rushes by his head. Beccorban snatched it up and wolfed it down, licking the gravy off his fingers. To anyone else it would have been something to feed the dogs, but to Beccorban it was a king’s feast, the first proper food he had eaten in days. “As delicious as ever, Hari,” he called over his shoulder, noisily sucking the last bits of grease from his fingertips.
“Even from the floor? High praise, woodsman,” said Hari.
Beccorban grunted. He had never told Hari his name and Hari had never asked. A tavern keeper did not make regular customers by asking too many questions. That did not mean that Beccorban could afford to be careless. His name was still feared, even this far out from the Heartlands. He did not want unwelcome trouble.
Yellen let out a shrill whine and went into a rage, screaming and pulling at the blade in short bursts of energy that served only to damage his pinned hand further.
“You need to keep your friend under control, young Tollett,” said Beccorban. “I’m beginning to dislike him.” A few of the onlookers from outside had appeared at the doorway of the tavern and were watching the confrontation with interest. Hari tried to shoo them away but they ignored him. Hana appeared from the back room and gasped in surprise but her father was there to catch her around the waist and keep her hushed.
Tollet nodded. “Yellen, you need to keep quiet.”
“Quiet? Quiet! My fucking hand, look what he’s done to my hand, Tollett! Kill him!”
“Shut up!”
Yellen made a weird noise in the back of his throat but dutifully quieted down.
“Good,” said Beccorban. “You have authority here and he must never forget that. You’re doing well. Now I have some questions. You shall answer them and then I will let you up, and you and your foolish friend can bugger off back to your mothers. How does that sound?”
Tollett nodded again. “Who are you?” he asked, his eyes betraying a respect born of fear.
Beccorban had seen that look before. “Only answers from you, boy. No questions. Why are you here?”
“W-we were told to stay behind, to wait for the others to come back. But you… you—”
“I killed them, yes.”
“But there were nine of them,” said Tollett in a small voice.
“And now there are none!” snapped Beccorban, his face filling with red rage.
Hari coughed and spoke up. “Woodsman, you can’t bring blood here. If people are following you—”
Beccorban did not bother to turn around. “I didn’t leave anybody to follow me. Have no fear, Hari.” Beccorban turned back to the terrified boy in crimson armour. “Why were you sent up here?” He tapped Tollett’s crudely painted breastplate. “This is conscript’s plate. It’s barely even metal. There aren’t any garrisons near here and you’re a long way from Kressel.”
Tollett craned his head to look at Yellen.
“He can’t help you, boy. Answer me.”
Tollett swallowed and tried to match Beccorban’s icy gaze, quickly failing and looking at a point behind his captor’s head. “We weren’t told much, but we were trying to find someone. You. I know the orders came from the Empron himself.”
“The Empron gave a conscript orders?” asked Hari incredulously.
Well, no,” said Tollett.
“Not entirely mad then,” said Hari under his breath.
“But the orders were passed down!” Tollett protested. “Directly! ‘Find the old man.’”
“Why are they looking for you?” asked Hana.
“Quiet, girl,” said Hari.
Beccorban blinked, glad that the girl’s question had been dismissed. “What of the tall man who
wore this mask?” said Beccorban, gesturing at his discarded metal face.
Tollett blinked. “Uh, we saw very little of him. He never spoke to us. He always wore a hood and a cloak.”
“And the mask,” Beccorban added.
“Yes, of course.”
“So you never saw his face?”
“No,” said Tollett, frowning.
Beccorban thought again of that strange, mournful face with pale bluish skin and ears that tapered to a point. He stood abruptly and walked back to his chair. As he passed the cringing Yellen, he tore the knife out of the boy’s hand with callous ease. Yellen gasped and then screamed anew, falling to the rushes on the floor and clutching his hand to stem the flow of blood. Beccorban gathered up his bundled fur cloak and walked to the bar, careful to keep Kreyiss concealed. “I need to get to Kressel and soon. I’m going to need some supplies. I have coin.”
“I don’t have much left,” said Hari. “These idiots took most of it.” Anger darkened his face. “And tried to take more besides.”
Beccorban raised an eyebrow and turned to look back at Tollett, who was helping the unfortunate Yellen to his feet. Tollett caught his gaze and betrayed himself with a glance flicked towards Hana, who still hid behind her father. A burning claw of anger gripped the back of Beccorban’s neck. His mind filled with hurried images he had thought he could forget. They moved so quickly behind his eyes it was as if they were afraid to cross his line of sight. “You wear swords better than you could ever hope to wield them,” he sneered at the two young soldiers. “Did they hurt you, girl?”
She shook her head, afraid to look up.
“Thank the gods for that, boys,” he said.
“It wasn’t the gods,” said Hana meekly. “It was the lady over there.” Hana pointed at the shrouded woman in the corner. “She saved me.”
Beccorban grinned savagely. “Bested by a woman, eh? Truly Veria is in trouble if you are all it can muster.” He turned to look at the slight figure in strange garb sitting in the corner. Beccorban looked back at Hari. “How did she manage to best two fully armoured men?”
