The Inquisitives [4] The Darkwood Mask

by Jeff LaSala

  “I appreciate your concern, Soneste,” the prince interrupted, his expression dark, “but I am choosing to save my sister. I require your assistance in this.”

  Soneste merely stared at him for a moment. She’d probably never seen him before today, but he represented the Brelish crown. She had no choice but to obey.

  And now we’re going to rescue a princess, Tallis thought. If it weren’t so bloody serious, he would have laughed.

  “Of course, Your Highness,” Soneste said firmly.

  “Something is coming,” Aegis announced, pointing to the doorway where they’d entered. The stench of death rolled out from the dark passage like a living force, stronger than that which already pervaded the charnel pit.

  “Get the other door open, now!” Tallis ordered the warforged, readying his own weapon for the coming enemies.

  A figure shuffled into the room, stumbling over the wreckage of the door, followed by another.

  And another. A total of six men, clad in the tailored leather suits of Charoth’s sentries—the very ones Tallis had put down outside the wizard’s estate. Each man moved with the preternatural strength of the animate dead, the wounds that had killed them all too prominent, yet their skin was loose and discolored, as if advanced in the grave by weeks of exposure. Where bones jutted through ripped flesh, Tallis noted a metallic sheen. Mova’s work. The atrocity in the lead met his gaze with raw malignance—a gift from its creator’s magic.

  Tallis heard the door open behind him. “Get them out, Aegis. Now.”

  He’d faced many zombies before, but these were not the intelligent, sinister visages of Karrnath’s elite dead—alchemically preserved and fused with the aggressive spirit of their nation. His instincts told him these had been bolstered by various necromantic spells. For one brief moment he thought he saw Valna’s face again, grinning in the madness of foul magic.

  Tallis fell into a deadly, insensate calm and advanced.

  Interlude

  He’d been moved. No longer in his private room, the man now sat within a new chair of hard, smooth glass. It was less comfortable, but he didn’t notice. Sweat beaded ever so sleightly at his brow, his heart racing within him. The man’s mind was terrified.

  Lord Charoth’s face darkens—he doesn’t abide threats—but I notice he lowers his wand. The schema in my assistant’s hand is a priceless artifact entrusted to the director by Baron Starrin himself. As patriarch of the house, there can be no greater honor or responsibility.

  “If you seek leverage, you have erred,” Lord Charoth says coldly.

  “I do not,” Sverak answers. His sapphire eyes stare back without fear. Have I misjudged him? My own creation?

  My superior steps closer, ready with his wand. I fear that if he does strike, the schema will be damaged. He knows the risk.

  Sverak tosses the golden rod into the air near the railing. Lord Charoth rushes forward, faster than I would have thought him capable. He reaches for the schema with desperate fingers—

  “Now,” Sverak says in a loud, instructive voice.

  The titan’s raised arm comes down.

  I watch, horrified, as Lord Charoth catches hold of the schema in both hands, letting his wand drop. A half-moment later, the granite slab of the titan’s hand strikes him from above.

  I hear the crack of bone as the weight hammers him to the ground.

  I hear his cry of agony, the gasp of the workers nearby.

  “Again,” Sverak says.

  The granite hammer lifts and comes down again.

  Chapter

  TWENTY-NINE

  Reflections of Undeath

  Wir, the 11th of Sypheros, 998 YK

  In her mind, Soneste could still see the madness that had overtaken him when the undead had surged into the charnel room. Tallis had insisted they go on without him, had insisted on taking the undead on alone. She’d lingered in the threshold of the door, ready to help yet repulsed by the foul creatures. She’d watched Tallis with a mixture of concern and awe as he battled them alone. Despite their enhanced speed and preternatural resilience, he’d struck them all down in short order. He’d cut them apart and set fire to the corpses that remained, kicking them into the pit. Tallis had rejoined them then, his eyes wet. She’d said nothing then.

  Tallis slipped a ring on his finger, discreetly, but Soneste noticed. It was the black opal ring of the Order of Rekkenmark. Evidently he always carried it with him, but she felt he hadn’t worn it for a very long time. There was a crisis of identity raging within this man. Soneste wanted to help.

  “Tallis,” Soneste said at last, the first to break the silence after many long minutes.

  After a long silence, he glanced back at her.

  “What happened back there?” she asked. When he didn’t answer, she spoke again, “Tallis?”

  “We’re somewhere below the Commerce Ward. Far below.” He looked back at her for a moment, shaking his head. “It’s nothing. Just another war story. We all have them.”

  “Tell me.”

  Soneste could sense Halix paying close attention. The prince remained quiet, his thoughts no doubt consumed by their predicament and concern for his sister. She could hardly digest the fact that King Boranel’s youngest son was in her charge.

  At the end of the corridor, they found a stone staircase spiraling up into the dark. Tallis stared up. “I led a mission into Thrane, but you know that already, don’t you? I was court-martialed for turning on my own men.

  “Well, I didn’t. At least, not living men. My unit was five good soldiers, the finest I’d ever known, but by some cruel joke, Warlord Dehjdan had insisted a rot squad be assigned to us.”

  Soneste shook her head. “I don’t know what that is.”

  “The animate dead,” he said. “Sons and daughters of Karrnath, given the ‘glory’ to fight for their nation again. The undead legions kept us alive early in the war, and we all owe Kaius the First and his cursed arrangement with the Blood of Vol for saving us. I hate it, but it’s true. I’ve never denied that much.

  “Most undead companies consist of the mindless sort, fit only for following basic orders—like those who were guarding Prince Halix—not as adaptable in combat, but much easier for necromancers to raise. Those, in turn, are led by more intelligent commanders, skeletons and zombies augmented with stronger magic and alchemical compounds. I couldn’t tell you how they do it.

  “We called units of the intelligent dead rot squads. I had one of them assigned to me on this mission, and I had my orders to complete. When I lost every living man and woman under my command to a Thrane’s fireball, aborting the mission was not an option. It was too important, so I continued on. My days and nights were spent in the company of Marshal Serror, an undead officer, and his rot squad.”

  Soneste imagined herself traversing a battle-scarred terrain, looking right and left, seeing figures of armor and bone marching tirelessly behind her, and each one lusted for bloodshed, sought it out like rats seek food.

  “I kept my distance as much as I was able. I spoke to Serror only when I had no other choice. I did not address his … subordinates. I despised them. One night his group captured some Thranes, a soldier and his family, refugees.”

  Tallis grew quiet again.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Until that night, I’d never seen what the undead were capable of when unchaperoned by the living. I was the mission commander, but I had no authority over the specific actions of Serror and his squad unless it pertained directly to the mission—and I tested those limits. That night, I watched as they tortured the Thranes for ‘information.’ When they’d learned what they needed, they … just didn’t stop. They enjoyed it.”

  “Gods,” Soneste muttered.

  “I tried to get away, tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. I needed them to complete my mission. One man alone couldn’t hope to survive where we were going, but I couldn’t stand by and just watch. At last I returned, commanded the marshal to relent, to end
the Thranes’ torment. He refused. I looked, really looked, at them … the zombies of Serror’s squad, standing there in the regalia of my nation, flaying the skin from their living victims. Out of sheer … entertainment.

  “I lost it. I turned on them, all of them. My mission ended there, with the destruction of Marshal Serror, his subordinates, and the Thrane captives. I’d do it again.”

  Soneste could not find the words to follow this. She wanted to reach out her hand, offer some comfort, but this wasn’t the time. She remained silent for a moment, leaving him to his memory, though a question had been gnawing at her for some time.

  “Tallis,” she asked, her voice low, “when I was searching the Ministry’s archives, I found the record of a Captain Tallis, slain in a battle near Scion’s Sound.” She fished through her pockets and pulled out the faded Sentinel article. “This battle. Were you—”

  “Recruit number 966-5-1372,” the Karrn answered softly without glancing at the clipping. “My sister. Captain Valna Tallis.”

  Tallis smiled sadly and looked back at Soneste. “I worshipped her. She was the only true flying arrow in my family. Good in a team, dreamed of becoming an oathbound. Said she even would someday join the Conquering Fist or the Iron Band, but she died in 974, five years before I joined the army myself.”

  Tallis’s eyes drifted. There was a darkness there, of deep-rooted fury barely held in check. “I saw her again, Soneste. She was one of those serving under Marshal Serror on my mission, an elite daughter of Karrnath given the … ‘honor’ of reanimation.”

  Soneste’s blood grew cold. She couldn’t imagine that, didn’t want to try.

  “Some Karrns see their slain loved ones again, raised by magic to serve their country, as I saw my sister’s face again that day—the dead remains of her beautiful face, frozen by some necromancer’s alchemy. I saw Valna’s … joy as she joined the others in their torture of the Thrane captives. My sister.”

  Rhazan never liked waiting, but in his line of work he’d had to get used to it, especially working for Lord Charoth, who’d pulled him out of a very delicate situation back home in Droaam. The man had a frigid patience like no human he’d ever known. Rhazan didn’t like the smell of the factory either—the stink of human industry—but he’d grown used to that too. His master spent nearly every waking hour here, and that was a lot. The man had stamina beyond his age.

  It was Rhazan’s job to guard Lord Charoth and had been for years. The bugbear sometimes missed his home in the Great Crag, but he lived better than any tribal chief in the Byeshk Mountains. To Khyber with all of them. Lord Charoth treated him with respect, recognized his skills, called him “Master Rhazan.”

  He wrinkled his nose for the thousandth time and pushed his bulk back into the shadows behind one of the heating tanks. It was unusual for his master to order him to do anything but protect him directly, but tonight he’d ordered Rhazan to mingle with the priestess’s rancid minions.

  So here he was, crouched in the shadows with the Night Shift. Although the largest of these was punier than he, Rhazan was not comfortable around them. He knew neither their battle strategies nor their priorities, and they smelled wrong.

  “The Night Shift will attack at your command,” his master had instructed, “but do not attack until you have surrounded them. None are to escape, not even the prince. Death first, Master Rhazan. I will not be interrupted.”

  One thought excited him, however: facing Tallis in hand-to-hand combat. When his master had tried to hire Tallis for “mutual protection” some time ago, Rhazan had wanted nothing more than to cave the half-elf’s head in and drink from his empty skull. The bodyguard job was his alone, and he wasn’t going to share it. When Tallis turned down the offer, Rhazan’s job was secure again—but the incident had rankled him. Worse, Tallis had killed the feral yowler—Rhazan’s only companion from back home.

  He’d wanted this opportunity for a long time. Tallis, the undefeated. Tallis, the ghost man who walked on the fringes of the Low District, untouchable. If he died, everyone would learn who’d done it.

  Charoth had given him permission to kill Tallis at last.

  So Rhazan waited.

  The increasing temperature and muffled drone had been suspicious, but they made sense when Tallis picked the lock and pushed the final door open. An unpleasant and vaguely familiar tang polluted the air. He beckoned the others to follow, pressing a finger to his lips, and stepped out of the stairwell into the chamber beyond.

  The room that opened before him now could hardly be called a room at all. Its exits, niches, and devices were myriad—beyond counting. Larger than any cavern he’d seen, the vast space was filled from floor to ceiling with monstrous engines of industry, divided only by aisles and connected by catwalks. Sparse wisplights perched along the balcony that circled the hall, illuminating only enough to light a path from one apparatus to another. A massive furnace bathed the far end with orange light, pulsing like the mechanical heart of the room. There were a thousand hiding places, and every flickering shadow was a threat. It was not a room; it was a trap.

  Tallis had been here once before, a year ago when Charoth had given him a private tour. During the night hours, just like this. Of course, back then he’d entered through the front door.

  “The factory,” Soneste said as she joined him. Halix and Aegis followed, taking in the scene in silence.

  Through the rumbling ambience, Tallis detected the murmur of voices—somewhere further in the room. Of course, there would be a night staff. The factory could not simply close down when the daylight hours ended, lest the molten glass harden and shut the entire operation down.

  Tallis eyed the two cylindrical tanks at the far end, where chutes from the wall fed in raw materials. Within each, glass was heated and maintained in a liquid state until ready for shaping. Such maintenance required manpower at all hours.

  The factory room had too many variables. Charoth’s men could be many, and in a space this big they were sure to use ranged weaponry. Tallis pulled two potion vials from his pack, pressing them into Soneste’s and Halix’s hands. “Drink these now. They’ll keep you alive while you get in close. Once we’re discovered, it’s going to get tricky in here.” He looked to Aegis. “Sorry, I only have two.”

  “It is well, Tallis,” Aegis said, lifting the shield on his arm.

  “Good man,” he said with a smile of camaraderie. Tallis wished he’d known more warforged like Aegis.

  “And you?” Soneste asked.

  “I’ll be fine. Stay here until I call for you.”

  She nodded, seeming uncertain, and Tallis set out across the room. He kept to the shadows as much as possible.

  After five minutes had passed without any sign from Tallis, Prince Halix bristled.

  “I’m not waiting for him,” he said, drawing his sword.

  Soneste nodded. “We go together then, Your Highness. Aegis, please take the lead.”

  “Of course.”

  The warforged strode forward with loud, echoing steps, eliciting a wince from Halix. Soneste didn’t want to make the prince a target, so she kept him in front of her where she could keep an eye on him, and followed cautiously.

  When they neared the far end of the great room, she spied Tallis and a handful of men, most of whom lay unmoving on the ground. Only three remained. Dressed like the glassworkers she’d seen earlier in the day—Host, had that been today? she thought—they surrounded Tallis with brandished weapons. She glanced at the stairs that led up nearly fifteen feet from the factory floor to the glass door of Charoth’s office.

  One of the glassworkers spotted her. He turned to face her and pointed a wand at her. Soneste hadn’t seen the bolt coming, had no time at all to decide which direction to try and dodge. She gasped as the missile struck her in the chest. She felt an unpleasant stab of pressure and winced at the splintering smack, but she felt no pain. When she realized she was still alive and unhurt, she smiled.

  I need to get myself more of those p
otions, she thought.

  Soneste looked up in time to see the same man loose another bolt—this one aimed for Halix—and felt her inhibitions drain away. She drew her crysteel blade, ran close enough for a throw, and sent it through the air. The glassworker threw up his arm and watched in horror as the blade sank to the hilt in the flesh of his forearm. He screamed—

  And the hooked end of Tallis’s hammer caught him at the back of the neck, dropping him to the ground.

  Halix engaged another glassworker, a man who wielded both a Karrnathi scimitar and a mace. Sword clashed against mace repeatedly as the prince’s face lit with delight. He was utterly unafraid, using speed and precision against the man’s wilder attacks. Soneste moved to flank the man, but the glassworker pivoted hard and slapped the rapier from her hand with his scimitar.

  “Unholy Six!” she swore.

  Aegis could not hit his new opponent, who labored for breath. Face flushed as he worked to dodge every one of the warforged’s heavy swings, the man did not see Tallis place one of his magic rods in the air at knee level behind the man. When he stepped away, the Karrn pointed with his hammer at the glass door at the top of the metal stairs.

  “Something’s going on up there,” he told her. Soneste nodded, turning to retrieve her dagger.

  When Aegis’s man stumbled over the floating rod, the warforged sank Haedrun’s blade to the hilt in his exposed stomach. He withdrew the sword and ended the man’s suffering with a second, careful stroke. Tallis retrieved his rod.

  Soneste and Tallis both turned to help Halix, only to see him slip the Rekkenmark blade beneath his opponent’s arm. With a scream of fury, the prince ran him through. The glassworker dropped to the ground as his blood welled beneath him.

  Seven bodies lay around them, unmoving.

  Mounting the metal stair, Tallis crouched when he neared the top. Soneste joined him, aware that a glass wall would allow those within the room to look out just as easily as looking in. Tallis’s expression was one of revulsion.