The Wizard's Mask (pathfinder tales)

by Ed Greenwood

  He raised a second finger to join the first. "And less talked-of, but as grave: as we fight them, doing what we must to survive, how much are we slowly changed to become what we are fighting against? To become more like Molthuni and less and less like what we're fighting to preserve?"

  The old Nirmathi commander leaned forward, eyes kindling with interest. "We don't talk about the first. Despair is easy, and talk of numbers aids the enemy. But the second is something we should speak of. Many of us fight because our homes or kin are attacked, it's true. But this war isn't about revenge. It's about freedom. The freedom to-"

  Narandur broke off as sudden tumult arose under the trees. Swords clashed and clanged, someone shouted, someone else danced in agony and then fell with an arrow through him-and suddenly Nirmathi were charging from behind seemingly every tree, blades ready.

  Men standing in the ring rushed to kindle torches in the fire, swords rang against swords in deafening earnest, and Tarram and Tantaerra stood up to watch-only to feel Narandur's iron-hard grip above the elbows of their sword-arms, seeking to drag them back down.

  Yet already the bladework was slackening, as angry shouts abounded.

  "Fools!"

  "'Twas all a mistake! A mistake!"

  Men were hurrying to Narandur now, to report. It seemed the attackers were Nirmathi, a warband insisting they'd been told Molthuni invaders posing as Nirmathi were to be found encamped here-a force led by two spies sent from Braganza in Molthune, a female halfling shorter than most, and a masked man who was her constant companion.

  More than one of the Nirmathi hastening to the fire found themselves looking at Tantaerra and then at Tarram, frowning hard.

  "Sit," Narandur commanded curtly, doing so himself and dragging Tarram down with him, "and answer me this: are you two from Molthune?"

  Luraumadar, the mask said gleefully, in the back of Tarram's mind.

  "No," he said simply, giving the Nirmathi commander a level look. Then he looked across the fire at the growing row of angry Nirmathi faces and asked, "Just who told you all these lies? This is no band of undercloak Molthuni, and we aren't from Molthune. Who told you otherwise?"

  Faces turned to look at one of the men, a leader of the attacking warband.

  Who gave Tarram a hard glare and said, "Orivin Voyvik. Yes, that Orivin Voyvik. The war hero."

  Murmurs arose in the darkness, and a ring of sword points suddenly gleamed all around Tarram and Tantaerra.

  "Suppose," Narandur said grimly, squinting up at them from where he sat, his own blade back in his hand, "you both tell us again your names, heritage, and business in Nirmathas-right here and now."

  It was not a suggestion.

  Luraumadar?

  It was the first time the mask had sounded quite that uncertain.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Tantaerra lay on her back and looked up at the few stars she could see through the thick leaves overhead. Certain death had been averted yet again, and with surprising ease. This time.

  Not that there weren't watchful sentries between her and the open forest-sentries who looked her way from time to time and not just out into the wild night. Yet she and The Masked weren't bound or even disarmed, let alone dying in agony.

  Which meant, all in all, it had gone rather well.

  They'd given their names and the backstories they'd decided on, and as for right here and now, they'd claimed to be seeking Tantaerra's mother and aunt, who'd fled their homes in Graybanks-a small Nirmathi village not far from the Inkwater that they knew had been utterly destroyed in the war-to resettle in the ancestral family farm, hard by the ruins of Hurlandrun.

  "Where the Shattered Tomb stands," one older Nirmathi had said grimly. "That's all monster-prowled country, that is."

  "Well, that settles it," another had put in. "No Molthuni spy would be wanting to go thereabouts. Unless they want spend their last handful of days fighting monsters, that is."

  "That settles it if that's where they're really headed," a third and younger Nirmathi had pointed out sharply. "We have only their word for that."

  "Go with us and guide us," The Masked had snapped back, "and you'll not have to trust our word. You'll know."

  That eagerness had decided Narandur, saving their necks. For now.

  Three tall, strong young Nirmathi had agreed to guide The Masked and Tantaerra.

  She hadn't been pleased at having hale and unfamiliar companions who just might be slayers in league with Voyvik, but saw-still saw-no real alternative but to accept their guidance.

  Before lying down on the far side of the dying fire with his drawn sword in his hand, the grizzled old Nirmathi commander had handed them a sack that held a wheel of cheese, two round loaves of hardbread, and the bowl-like half of someone's recently shattered helm that could serve as a water-scoop, and gruffly told them to be on their way to Hurlandrun "by dawn on the morrow." The three guides had settled down just beyond him with their swords drawn, too.

  Tantaerra wondered how long it would be before Voyvik's attacks killed one or all of them. Or if they'd join him against The Masked and herself, when the Nirmathi dreamer's next attack came.

  She fell asleep wondering about that.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Tantaerra winced. Again.

  "Urgh!" The Masked snarled, lifting one boot out of muck that bubbled and reached to his boot tops. Its reek was almost visible, and had already set Tantaerra gagging. What sort of foul decay could make such a smell?

  The three young Nirmathi were all backing away, yellow-faced and retching.

  "This is not," Armistrade told them, "what I meant by 'deeper in Nirmathas,' really it wasn't!"

  "Har har," Tantaerra observed, heading away from him as fast as she could.

  "Don't come close to me!" the fair-haired guide-Raldon-warned, almost falling in his haste to retreat farther. "That's …that's just evil!"

  He thrust his sword into the ground and used that hand to grab for his nose and pinch it shut.

  Raldon was so distracted that he never saw the dagger that flashed out of the trees to slice open his throat. It bit deep, and he stumbled two choking steps and fell, his clutching fingers doing little to stop the blood spurting in all directions.

  "Down!" the largest guide roared, but rather than heed his own command, he charged into the trees, heading for where the dagger had been hurled from.

  "Nesker, come back!" the other guide shouted. "You'll only-"

  There was a heavy crash, through a tangle of dead branches, and Nesker came staggering back, his face now more green than yellow. His skin was an ugly purple low on his neck, where blood trickled from an open gash.

  "Behind you!" The Masked shouted, throwing one of his own daggers. The figure looming up just behind the wounded guide ducked down and to one side as fast as any darting night bird, and the hurled dagger missed him.

  The Masked ran after the assassin. They were all running now, converging …

  "Surround him!" Tantaerra cried. "Don't let him get away!"

  "He's a …man in a mask," Nesker panted, lumbering along and quickly falling behind. "Just as Voyvik …warned …"

  "He is Voyvik," The Masked told him sternly-just as a crash in the distance marked their quarry's heavy fall.

  Voyvik came up out of another reeking, sucking bog to whirl and face them, breathing hard, his mask gone and blood on his forehead. He'd obviously stumbled in the muck and slammed into a fallen tree he'd been about to leap over-and, as the four survivors closed in warily around him, he just as obviously had no intention of surrendering. Daggers glinted in both of his hands as he looked swiftly from target to target.

  "Out of poisoned daggers yet?" The Masked snapped. "Just how many Nirmathi are going to die for your dream for Nirmathas, Voyvik?"

  The only reply he got was a snarl-and a dagger flashing at his face.

  The Masked flung himself down and then up again instantly to sprint at Voyvik, bellowing, "Shall I use the mask on you?"

  The
cornered man flung a frightened look at him, then turned and threw his second dagger into Nesker's face, following right behind and slamming into the other man.

  Nesker fell heavily under that trampling, rolled over, and went still. Voyvik ran on into the forest.

  The last guide, Farstrel, gave chase for a few panting strides, then gave up and returned to where The Masked and Tantaerra were turning Nesker over.

  "You scared Voyvik right proper," she muttered. "Just what can the mask do to him?"

  Her masked companion merely shrugged.

  The big Nirmathi was already dead, unseeing eyes staring. There was foam around his mouth, and his face had gone all bone-white and purple.

  "Poisoned," The Masked told Farstrel grimly. "You'll find Raldon was, too. We should find those daggers and lose them in one of the bogs, before we move on. Voyvik doesn't want anyone but us to reach Hurlandrun, or alive to spread word of our journey to it."

  Tantaerra met her masked companion's gaze, and knew he was thinking precisely what she was. That they'd not seen the last of Orivin Voyvik.

  He'd be waiting for them in or near the Shattered Tomb. With more poisoned knives, no doubt.

  They took the time to find the poisoned daggers and drop them in the bog that The Masked had blundered into. Then they took food, weapons, and belt-lanterns from the sprawled and already fly-surrounded heaps of Raldon and Nesker, and turned away.

  "We leave the dead unburied here," Farstrel said bleakly. "It keeps the wolves from coming for the rest of us."

  He led them north rather than west.

  "Friend," The Masked warned him, "Hurlandrun is west from here. Is it not?"

  Farstrel stopped, turned, and looked at them both. "You can trust me," he replied gently. "The question is, can I trust you?"

  Without waiting for a reply, he turned and went on. The Masked looked at Tantaerra, then west, then back at her.

  She shrugged, then started after the Nirmathi. The Masked followed suit.

  Soon they saw scattered bones. Human bones. Then a sprawled body that was more or less intact, if they overlooked the gaping ribcage where prowling beasts had gnawed.

  Beyond, the trees were fewer, and they could see what looked like the remnants of a trail. It was only when they spotted a leaning stone wall that they realized they were walking into an overgrown, long-abandoned Nirmathi village.

  "That body was recent," The Masked commented, "where this is not."

  "The wounded and dying seek home, even if home is no more," the guide replied bleakly. "Beasts dine on what they find, wherever they find it."

  "Do wolves and worse lair in the Shattered Tomb?" Tantaerra asked him. "And prowl out from it?"

  Farstrel looked at her. "The Tomb is one of too many haunted places in our land that sane Nirmathi shun. Many dweomercats prowl there-and something worse."

  "What's a dweomercat?" The Masked asked.

  "And what's worse?" Tantaerra added.

  "Dweomercats-most dweomercats-are small. Forgive me, lady, but …as you are small. And blue. But fast and sleek. Betimes their pelts glow. Yellow eyes, big fangs, and they swarm. Magic draws them, so they stray not far from the Tomb. They are many."

  Farstrel shrugged. "As for what's worse, I know not truth, just wild tales. Many Nirmathi and Molthuni bands have tried to plunder the tomb-it's said to hold mighty battle magic-but all failed. And died. Now, folk foolish enough to try it are few indeed."

  He smiled, and looked from one of them to the other. "These last three seasons, just you-and you."

  Farstrel had stopped on a mound that had once been a home. Now he held up a spread and open hand, bidding them stop and stay where they were.

  And drew his sword and dagger.

  Tantaerra tensed, and knew The Masked was doing just what she was. Reaching for daggers to throw.

  Then their Nirmathi guide tossed his weapons to the dirt at their feet.

  He drew a second, hidden dagger from somewhere down his back, and dropped it to join them.

  "The truth, now," he said quietly, eyeing them both as he spread empty hands. "You're after the magics in the Tomb. Are you from Molthune?"

  Silence fell.

  Tantaerra and The Masked both looked at the man. She tried to show nothing at all on her face. Her partner's mask gave him an advantage in that regard.

  Her partner. Well, that's what he was, wasn't it?

  "Word came of three sent out from Braganza, who should be helped to reach the Tomb," Farstrel told them carefully. "Telcanor word."

  The Masked and Tantaerra looked at each other, then back at the guide-and nodded.

  Farstrel relaxed visibly. "This one who tried to slay us, was he the third?"

  "He was," The Masked confirmed.

  "So now you know. What will you do about that?" Tantaerra asked the guide pointedly. She had quietly gotten out her smallest knife and was holding it ready to throw.

  The guide only smiled and began retrieving and sheathing his weapons. "Nothing. I work for the Telcanors. Raldon was a bright, perceptive Nirmathi who was all too suspicious of me. and stuck to me like my own shadow. Now that he's dead, I can go back to trying to carry out my work, here in what was Molthune and will be again."

  Abruptly he darted away from them, behind what was left of a wall. From the far side of it, he told them, "Go straight on, the way you're facing now. What's left of Hurlandrun is right over the next hill. May you taste success. My guiding is done, and I must be elsewhere."

  A brief scrabbling followed, then the sounds of dislodged stones clacking and rolling …and then silence.

  When they went up to peer around the ruined wall, there was no sign of Farstrel.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Hurlandrun was right where their vanished guide had promised it would be.

  Or at least its ruins were, stretching across the land below them. Fallen roofs, overgrown streets, and tall trees thrusting up through heaved and buckled stones here, there, and everywhere.

  A domed building at the heart of it all caught the eye. It was far larger than anything else-almost certainly either a temple, or the Shattered Tomb. Perhaps it had been built as a temple, and later made over into the tomb of Mahalagris.

  Its thick dome was cracked right across, with a huge gap between the two halves where they'd sagged apart over the years. It looked as if the walls that held up one half had started to lean, and so torn the dome asunder.

  "Behold the Shattered Tomb," the halfling murmured. "Or shattered something, at least."

  "Some proud herald you'd make," Tarram told her with a smile, and glanced up at the sun. It was late afternoon, and they had only the small, battered belt-lantern they'd taken from Nesker-a glorified oil lamp with a windshield cage, brim-full. "So, do we go down?"

  Tantaerra nodded. "I suspect you've as little taste as I have for camping and awaiting morning. Given whatever beasts may prowl hereabouts-and Voyvik, who's certainly lurking near."

  "Probably watching us right now," he agreed.

  They headed cautiously down into the ruins, and soon saw bones. Lots of bones, gnawed and strewn widely. Cracked open and yellow-brown with age…and including more human skulls than either of them cared to count.

  Then they saw the wolves.

  A score or more, streaming down tumbled stones to lope quickly and fearlessly in their direction.

  "Oh, dung," the halfling spat. "Too far to run."

  "The wall," Tarram replied, scooping her up one-handed with more haste than regard for her dignity. "Perhaps …just perhaps …"

  He ran, whooping for breath, the wolves bounding to meet them with jaws swinging wide and eyes gleaming with eager hunger …

  Then something huge, green-scaled, and winged surged up from between two roofless houses, for all the world like a shark leaping from the waves of the Inner Sea, and pounced, skidding across the ground in a cloud of churned-up dust, great fanged jaws agape. Startled and yipping wolves tumbled into that dark maw and were torn apart.
/>
  The immense beast ripped through the yelping, scattering pack, biting and gulping. Then batlike wings beat once, the forest drake's long serpentine body and tail undulated, and it plunged down a hole behind a tumbled building, into unseen depths below.

  Tarram looked at Tantaerra, still cradled in his arms, and said a word much harsher and nastier than "dung."

  Then his running feet tripped and stumbled, and he fought wildly for balance as human skulls rolled and crunched underfoot.

  The wall he'd been running so desperately for loomed up, ahead, and they could see a trio of human skeletons rising from behind it like warriors staging an ambush, reaching out with rusted blades-

  Tarram ran right through one of them, not slowing. Bones clattered and cartwheeled in the air.

  He drew what had been Nesker's sword and hacked. Tantaerra, still under his other arm, hammered with her dagger-pommel at reaching, raking skeletal fingers-and then they were past the skeletons, with new skulls rolling on the ground in their wake.

  They turned a corner, beyond the wall, to step at last into the streets of abandoned Hurlandrun.

  Streets that suddenly filled with a new and larger pack, streaming toward them. Not wolves this time, but tiny blue tigers or panthers, each about a foot long, plus another foot of tail. Scores of gleaming golden eyes, with grinning fangs beneath, and long, swept-back ears. In the distance, prowling unhurriedly to join their smaller brethren, strode a few larger ones. And a handful of much larger ones.

  "Hunters of magic," Tarram announced, a little wearily. "Dweomercats."

  "Lots of dweomercats," Tantaerra agreed. "Jaws and fangs and no doubt a propensity to regard us as dinner. And keen noses that can sniff out anything magical." She sighed, then pointed at a particular large, low rectangular stone building. It had an impressively ornate arched doorway, but no windows at all-and far more importantly, climbing one outside wall … "Stone stair, still a roof at the top!"