The Mask of Storms

by William Stacey

  "Wait, please!" Garos shrieked, holding his hand out.

  Bors bolted forward, but before he could take two steps, a huge fist slammed into his head, smashing him down onto the wooden dock.

  The hack-sword swept down, splitting Garos's handsome face in two.

  "Now, you get in there and earn your silver, or you'll get the same," the one-eyed man hissed.

  Bors, cold rage coursing through him, pivoted where he lay, sweeping his leg out and smashing it against the bald man's ankle, sending him falling onto the dock with a wood-splitting smash. Bors scrambled forward, ramming his knee into the man's groin—once, twice, three times. The man howled, curling up into a ball. The two guards, hearing his screams, ran to help. Bors gripped the fighting axe the man wore on his belt, and pulled it free. He leapt to his feet, instantly gaining an appreciation for the weapon's exceptional heft and balance. Bors was far more comfortable with a long horse sword or lance, but this was far from the first time he had held a fighting axe. He slipped forward, unconsciously distancing himself from the man on the ground, giving himself room to fight. Strength and speed faded with the years, but training and muscle-memory lasted a lifetime. The first man hesitated, stopping himself at the last moment. Bors didn't hesitate; instead, he slipped to the man's right, away from the heavy hack-sword, and thrust with his axe head at the man's neck. The second Bors's axe blade touched the man's neck, he applied pressure with his wrist and yanked the weapon back, severing the carotid artery. An axe could cut as easily as it could hack. Blood sprayed as the man staggered back, dropping his weapon, mouth open in surprise, but Bors was already moving past him to engage the second man.

  This man had been the one who killed Garos. He hacked down at Bors, but Bors pivoted, catching and deflecting the man's clumsy blow before ramming his shoulder into him, sending the already off-balance man to fall to the wooden dock. Bors brought his axe down on the back of the man's knee, severing his leg. As he screamed and thrashed, rolling about, clutching his bloody stump, Bors stepped in and split his skull.

  Bors assessed the battle on the ship. The fighting still raged, but given enough time, the dockhands would probably win—they were more prepared to kill than the half-asleep sailors they had attacked—but they weren't going to get that time. Even now, Bors heard the pounding of horses' hooves from the west, coming from the warehouse district.

  The Red Guard was here.

  Bors sprinted for the tightly packed collection of tents and huts that comprised the workers' camp. Just before the first rider appeared, he slowed to a walk and slipped amongst the onlookers, ignoring their stares.

  "What's going on?" one asked.

  "You tell me," Bors answered as he drifted among them, losing himself in the crowd and the darkness. He moved slowly around them, coming out again near the edge of the onlookers, where he could still see the pier and the ship. "What's happening here?" Bors asked no one in particular and received several incorrect responses ranging from "fire" to a "Fenyir raid."

  The Red Guard thundered onto the pier, a half-dozen horsemen followed by scores of footmen carrying long, steel-tipped spears, all wearing the thigh-high padded red gambesons of the guard. The men on horseback, Red Guard officers, no doubt, sat their prancing mounts along the cobblestoned street next to the covered wagon. The spearmen rushed onto the cargo ship, and the fighting stopped in moments, with the overwhelmed dockworkers throwing down their weapons and trying to surrender. They seemed truly surprised when the sailors they had just been trying to kill attacked the now-defenseless men instead. Surrender was a tricky matter when the blood surged, hard to get right and difficult to practice.

  Bors saw the one-eyed man dragged by two guardsmen before a rider. The officer, a tall man with long red hair tied in a braid that hung down his back, leaned over his mount, questioning the one-eyed man. When he stood high in his stirrups, scanning the crowd, Bors froze, the hairs prickling on his skin. Stupid, Bors, this is what comes from hanging around to watch.

  He had learned as a boy when hunting fowl with his father that the birds that bolted were the ones that drew the hunter's arrow. He forced himself to remain in place. When the rider's gaze swept over him, he seemed to pause, staring directly at Bors. A vague feeling of recognition gnawed at Bors. He tensed, preparing to bolt, but then the guards began yelling, and a dark shape dropped from the side of the ship to hit the waters with a splash. Someone had just jumped overboard. The officer screamed at his men, who surged forward along the pier near where the figure had hit the water.

  Bors slipped back, disappearing into the night.

  4

  "I have nothing for you," the dockmaster told Bors.

  "Will you have something later?" Bors asked.

  The dockmaster glanced over his shoulder at the other laborers waiting for their work assignments. Although it was early, the sun still beat down upon them. He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "The Red Guard was here earlier. They seek a foreigner."

  "Not me," insisted Bors.

  "I have no love for the ancestors-damned Red Guards," whispered the dockmaster, "but there's no work for you here—not today."

  Not ever, mused Bors. Time to leave this city.

  He slipped away, noting several of the other workers staring at him. He had been here for months now, but Garos had been the only man he had come close to calling a friend. These men would turn him in without a second thought.

  He strolled through the market district, mulling his options. The vendors had already set up their booths, and the air carried the aroma of hot bread and yesterday's catch. Just ahead, a pair of Red Guard watchmen in their bright-red gambesons questioned a foreign sailor. Bors slipped away down a side street.

  He needed to get out of the city. While it was possible the guards were looking for someone else, it seemed unlikely. The more he considered it, the more certain he became that the one-eyed man had blamed him for last night. Matron's blessing, what kind of fool attacks a moored ship in a trade city? The Merchant Guild would be livid right now. No wonder the Red Guard were so stirred up; they'd need to find the culprits and make an example of them.

  This was now a very bad city in which to be a stranger.

  Sly Tor—First Master in Port Talos's underworld Shadow Guild—was having a shit day. There had been entirely too many of those lately, and all of them the fault of the same dark-eyed Master of Docktown—Long Tam. A single roll of parchment lay unfurled on his desk. He crumpled the paper in a fist. "Ancestors, damn that desert bitch!"

  "You sure it was her?" said Fast Bran, leaning back against the opened window of Sly Tor's office on the upper level of his private warehouse. A tall Ascari native with long limbs and an easy gait, Fast Bran had earned his guild name years earlier by running whores in Port Talos's Temple District. Whenever a girl fled, Fast Bran would run her down fast and kill her slowly. He was a thoroughly frightening man—his long brown hair was tied in dreadlocks, in the Ascari fashion, with bits of bone weaved in amongst them, and his face bore a long scar beneath his right eye. "I hear the Red Guards took prisoners—including Kamanth Kul's man, the old pit-fighter. If Kul is involved, we shouldn't be. I want no business with the sorcerer."

  Sly Tor sighed and rubbed his palms against his eyes. "If it were just Kul, I'd let First Councilor Hitori Davros deal with him, and stay out of it. But according to Davros"—Sly Tor held the crumpled parchment up—"Kul betrayed him, making a play for the relic last night himself."

  "Not our business, then."

  "It is because it was Long Tam that took it, not Kul's men. While the dockworkers attacked the ship's crew, she sneaked away with the artifact—and that is exactly her style."

  Fast Bran's right eye twitched, as it often did whenever the subject of Long Tam came up. Fast Bran's scar had been a gift of Long Tam's, from the only knife fight he had ever lost. Had Long Tam not been forced to flee, she'd have taken his life as well. "So she took it. It's a challenge then, plain and simple."

  "It
's anything but simple. Davros paid me to make sure nothing happened to his ship and its priceless cargo. Now this…"

  "And?"

  "And he wants his prize back. He's threatening to bring the Red Guard down upon us, scour us from the city."

  "It'll never happen. Shadow Guild's been here forever."

  "Maybe, but maybe the other masters will just give up you and me instead."

  "Do you think she knows you kept Davros's payment?"

  "Of course she knows."

  "Some say she's a witch, that she has … powers."

  Sly Tor jabbed a finger at Fast Bran. "Don’t start with that shit again! She has no tribal magic."

  Fast Bran's eye twitched. "Then kill her."

  "I can’t just kill her."

  "Why not?"

  "'Cause she hasn't broken any of the guild's rules! The ship wasn't under official guild protection—not when I kept all of Davros's silver. So if I act against her, I'll be in violation of the charter. The other guild masters will vote me out. And we both know which desert bitch they'd elect in my place."

  "Kill them, too."

  Sly Tor had been about to snap at his enforcer, when he paused, staring at him instead. Slow in thought sometimes, Fast Bran did possess an uncluttered—if bloody—view of the world, but then, most of Fast Bran's enemies were dead. Is he right? Could I win a war?

  He pushed himself away from his desk, crossed the office, and closed the window shutters next to Fast Bran. Placing his forehead against the shutters, he closed his eyes and listened to the pounding of his heart. Possibilities cascaded about his skull like clinking dice.

  Dare I roll those dice?

  When he opened his eyes, he had made his decision. He gripped the back of Fast Bran's neck and placed his lips beside his enforcer's ear. "She'll have a spy among the men, if not several, so only use those you absolutely trust—but tell them nothing, not until it's too late."

  "What will you have me do?" Fast Bran whispered.

  "The guild's grown too large. We're going to cull the herd."

  Bran grinned, his eyes shining.

  "She'll try and fence the relic fast, tonight if possible," said Sly Tor, thinking it through.

  "Fat Alicia?"

  "She's the only one that could move such an artifact. Those who help us can take what they want from her establishment. Greed will motivate those who are … queasy."

  "Long Tam won't come alone. She's not that stupid."

  The trace of a smile curled Sly Tor's lips. "She's already demonstrated the contempt she has for us. She'd never expect boldness on our part, and the Red Guard won't interfere in the Narrows. We kill Long Tam and her bodyguards, Fat Alicia, and the other masters in their beds this night. If we're lucky, by sunrise we'll have the relic back and Port Talos will have a much more manageable Shadow Guild."

  "We'll never get all her people, not in a single night."

  "Doesn't matter, if she's dead. Stragglers can run all they want. Afterward, we can take our time to clean up, decide who we can trust and who has to die. If the knives in our hands are steady, we can end this in one night of blood. And guess what, my friend. You get to kill Long Tam yourself."

  Fast Bran smiled a gap-toothed grin. For once, his right eye had stopped twitching.

  "It would be best if it were messy," said Sly Tor. "Something people will remember and talk about for a long time."

  "I have just the tool."

  Sly Tor's eyes fell upon the crumpled parchment on his desk. Approaching it, he smoothed it out again, staring at it. "I wonder," he mused softly.

  "What?"

  "If Kul was willing to betray the First Councilor to get his hands on the relic, how much would he pay to get it back?"

  "Davros will—"

  "Blame Long Tam," Sly Tor said. "She stole it, not me."

  "And she'll be dead."

  Sly Tor smiled.

  5

  Bors watched from behind a wagon filled with cages of squawking fowl as the procession of travelers and merchants waited to go through the city's Elephant Gate, its western exit. The line crept far too slowly, eliciting grumbling from those standing under the bright sun. Bors slipped forward to join a gaggle of temple chanters waving bowls of smoky incense as they danced past the line. As he came alongside the arched gateway, he saw a merchant pulling open his tunic, baring his chest for a guard's scrutiny. Bors felt a sinking sensation in his gut and spun away, moving quickly in the opposite direction.

  They were looking for him. But how had they known about the tattoo?

  There were other gates, but each would have the same scrutiny. He couldn’t stay in the city. Even if he could find work, eventually the guards would find him, or more likely, someone would turn him in for a reward. What had been aboard that ship to provoke so much attention? There was something very wrong here, and he had learned a long time ago that what you didn't know would get you killed.

  As he wandered the backstreets, he thought back to last night, wracking his memory. That Red Guard officer, the one with the red hair, his face had been familiar. He had an aptitude for remembering names and faces—such little details carried great weight among the men—but try as he might, he couldn't place the red-haired man.

  Before realizing where he had been headed, he found himself back near the docks. Of all the city's districts, he knew this area best. He had no silver to book passage, but he might be able to sneak aboard an outgoing ship. While stowaways were likely to be tossed overboard when caught, his chances were still better than remaining here.

  When the two guardsmen in the red gambesons pushed through a group of fishmongers just ahead of him, Bors's heart spiked wildly. He darted into an adjacent alley, rushing past a sleeping beggar who smelled as if he had just shit himself. A voice cried out in challenge from behind, and Bors began to run, sprinting for the far end of the alley. He'd move north for several blocks, past the temple district, and then turn about again and make his way back to the docks once he was sure he was clear. Then he could hide until nightfall, when he had the best chance to slip aboard a ship.

  It was a good plan—only ruined by the second set of guardsmen who stepped into the alley, blocking his path.

  He staggered to a halt and spun about just as the first set of guards came up behind him, their spears leveled at his back. His hopes sunk, he raised his hands. He could fight, but these men were just following orders. They took his axe and small knife and clapped irons on his wrists. Then one of them pulled his tunic open, exposing his tattoo. "That's the one," the guard said with a note of triumph.

  "I've done nothing. You've the wrong man."

  "Right, must be another Lyrian mercenary attacking ships."

  They dragged him down the alley, leading him onto the busy street, past crowds of gawking Hishtari citizens and to a waiting wagon with an iron cage on its bed. Once they had secured Bors inside the cage, the men climbed aboard the wagon's bench and set the horses moving down the crowded streets.

  The wagon took them to one of the bridges across the Sun Horn, the estuary that split the city. In the middle of the waterway, connected to both sides of the city by bridges, was Citadel Island, the fort that housed the Red Guard and city’s jail. Will they hang me outright, or give me a trial before declaring me guilty? He watched the face of a small boy staring at him as they rode past. It seemed wrong to die here, so far from home, like an animal in a cage.

  Maybe it was exactly what he deserved.

  The wagon rattled over the bridge, stopping before the gates of the Citadel, a large stone fort with crenellated towers and a tall, thick curtain wall. If a conquering army ever took the city, even a small force could hold out on this island. Of course, then they'd be trapped and surrounded by enemies who had already taken the city, making the defense of the fort pointless, but again, it wasn't Bors's place to tell the Hishtari how to fight.

  The guards spoke briefly to the sentries at the gate, and a moment later, the wagon was rolling forward into the
courtyard. Inside, a group of men stood about, laughing and wasting time, as soldiers do when they're avoiding work. He missed that solidarity, even missed campaigning. These men worked long, dangerous hours for little pay, but it was honest work and the companionship true.

  The four guardsmen led him out of the cage, hustling him up into the keep's entrance. Inside the keep, the air was much cooler. They led him down dark stone corridors, past other guards and civil servants. He smelled food, stew most likely. His mouth watered, and he wondered if they'd feed him before killing him. That would be the polite thing to do.

  A guard stood at the end of the corridor before a flight of steps leading down. The man moved aside for them, and Bors's fear began to spike. Where were they taking him? When he hesitated, a guard shoved him forward. He began to regret not fighting back when he had the chance. Hanging was one thing, but nothing good could come of going underground.

  That was where torture chambers were kept.

  A torchlit tunnel stood at the bottom of a long flight of stairs. They pushed him forward down the tunnel. When he heard a muffled scream, Bors paused again. "I've had no trial."

  One of the men shoved him, and he almost fell. "Tell it to the Night Commander."

  At the far end of the tunnel, another guard stood before a black door. When he saw them coming, he pushed the door open and slipped through. Bors heard the scream again, like a wounded horse, coming from the other side of the door. One of the guards placed his hand on Bors's shoulder and held him in place.

  A foot-long length of chain connected the cuffs on his wrists. He wouldn't be able to fight, but if he was fast enough, he might be able to loop the chain over a guard's neck and force the others to kill him.

  The guard reappeared. "Bring him in."

  It took all five of them to drag Bors forward. Once inside, they threw him down, and he fell upon his knees, his pulse racing. The stench of blood and shit nearly made his head reel. Rusty metal instruments, claws and whips, and other tools of cruelty sat about on worktables, some glistening with fresh blood. Three other men were in the wide torture chamber. The torturer, a fat, hairy brute with the dim, empty eyes of the sun-touched stood beside a winch that controlled a series of ropes and pulleys. The ropes held aloft a bound naked man, his buttocks suspended only inches above the blood- and shit-streaked point of a three-foot-high wooden pyramid set directly beneath him, the winch constructed so that when it was lowered, the man's own weight would drive the point deep into his rectum. The man, Bors saw with horror, was Ilgrad, the dockworker who had organized the others for last night's assault upon the ship. Ilgrad's bulbous eyes were wild with suffering, a cloth gag rammed in his mouth.