The Wizard's Mask Read online

  The man who'd been a statue was up on his feet as swiftly as an eel slipping out of a fishmonger's grasp, and crouching with drawn daggers in both hands to await the charging soldiers behind the many-speared shelter of Osturr's body. As the soldiers parted to stream around those spears, he ducked back between the statues, slicing a man viciously behind the knee. Then he lashed out at the face of the next one, parrying a sword-slash so hard that sparks flew, and driving the dagger in his other hand deep in under the edge of a helm. That soldier spasmed and shrieked, running on blindly across the roof and right over the edge—and by then the statue-man was in among the Molthuni soldiers like a flitting shadow, slaying at every breath.

  The first soldier he'd wounded was swearing as he hopped and hacked savagely at Tantaerra, keeping her too busy to watch the statue-man closely. By the time his wounded leg collapsed and she managed to stab him in the throat, the roof was strewn with dead men and the statue-man had just dragged his long needle-sword out of the Lord Investigator's neck—Osturr's head almost coming with it—and was disappearing through the doorway.

  A brief, abruptly cut-off scream rang out inside the temple, lower down the stair. And then another.

  Smiling grimly as it occurred to her how many empty beds there'd be in the soldiers' barracks by morning, Tantaerra promptly pounced on Osturr's body.

  He was dead, all right. Her little knife wasn't needed to make sure of that. So she planted it ready in the roof beside her and swiftly plundered the man's body. The first thing she took was the forearm sheath for that needle-dirk, though it was too big for her to use as a leg-sheath, and would have to go to The Masked.

  An underarm purse held only papers, one of them a commission from the General Lords that might prove useful, if anyone could be fooled into thinking Tarram Armistrade was really Ammarand Osturr, but his left boot held not just a wicked poniard better than any knife she owned, but had a hollow heel holding a neat stack of gold measures, proper Absalom minting.

  His right boot held what she'd really been hoping for. A flat, slender, dainty little glass vial sheltered in its own steel sheath against breakage. The sheath bore an etched sun. A healing potion.

  She almost slipped it into her neck-sack out of habit, but reluctantly turned to The Masked, lying so still behind her.

  He groaned as she stepped over him, his eyes flicking back and forth behind the mask, and she took hold of its lower edge, below his chin, and peeled it back to see his face.

  Then froze, wishing she hadn't.

  He had no chin. Or nose. Just two eyes, blinking blearily up at her out of a smooth whorl of flesh, as if everything had flowed from his forehead down to his throat. A mouth that was a lipless slit. Something out of a nightmare ...

  Her gorge rose. Swallowing hastily, she snatched the mask back down into place, and bent to look at his leg.

  His hand rose weakly to pat at his face. No, at his mask. He was trying to make sure the mask was still in place.

  No wonder.

  Setting her teeth, Tantaerra tried to forget what she'd seen by poking her nose into the more mundane terror of his wound.

  There was a lot of blood, dark and sticky and drenching the roof under him. The bolt had torn right through his thigh.

  She didn't have to roll him, thankfully, to see the warhead, sticking out on the far side. She drew the sharpest of her knives, the one she kept sheathed high on the inside of her thigh, and sawed at the shaft of the bolt. He groaned, but Tantaerra kept grimly at it until she'd shorn through it and could pull the shaft back out of him.

  Fresh blood gouted, and he roared in pain and slammed a fist down on the rooftop.

  "Quiet," she hissed into his ear. "And drink this."

  She thrust the mask back again with firm fingers, used her fingers to find and pry open his mouth, and fed the healing potion into the side of it. Within, he had a full set of teeth, in better shape than most she'd seen, and ...and he was fully awake now, looking up at her sidelong.

  He relaxed with a great shudder as the pain ebbed. The magic worked fast.

  "Do they have food in temples?" she asked, looking at the blood he'd leaked all over the roof.

  "Shrine, this, not temple," he muttered, "so I don't know. And I thank you, Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra."

  She shrugged. "We're not out of this yet, Tarram. The forest is just over there, but might as well be half of Golarion away, for all the chance we have of reaching it. With all these buildings ablaze and the streets full of soldiers who've had time to find and load their crossbows, now. The whole village is awake and watching."

  "What happened?" He was sitting up and looking around the corpse-littered roof, at the Lord Investigator and all his spears in particular. "Did you—?"

  "No. There was someone else up here, hiding among the statues. He killed Osturr and all those behind him, too, then fought his way back down the stair." Tantaerra gave him a long look, trying to read his masked face but seeing only that vividly remembered glimpse of his ruined flesh. "Think you can walk yet, to follow him?"

  The masked man shrugged. "One way to find out. I feel better, that's for sure." He rolled away from her, up to his knees, then crawled to the nearest statue and hauled himself upright. He clung carefully to carved divine limbs as he put just a little weight on his wounded foot, winced, and took a step with it, arms outstretched to grab the next statue along. Then, limping, he went right past that statue, turned, and announced, "I'll live. Let's get gone from this place. Before—"

  "Before it becomes our shared dead ending," she interrupted him. "Help me harvest any purses we can find off these bodies, will you? Quickly!"

  The Masked chuckled. "Someone's feeling victorious."

  "Someone's feeling practical. The one who isn't a sword-swinging, get-himself-killed, heroic dolt."

  He ducked his head. "Well said. Just purses, or are you still collecting daggers?"

  "Only very good ones. And put on this bracer. It's a sheath for that needle-blade—"

  "That the Hound tried to kill me with. All right."

  He was still buckling it onto his forearm when Tantaerra slid the blade it had been fashioned to carry firmly into place, moved her hand down to his elbow, and tugged.

  "Come on. Those soldiers won't stand around down there forever."

  She hustled him off the roof and down the stairs. Aside from a stiffness and obvious ache, he could walk well enough, and went down the steps in a warrior's half-crouch, the best salvaged soldier's sword ready in his hand.

  Tantaerra blinked. If she'd thought they'd turned the roof into a charnel house ...

  There were dead soldiers on the steps, and the main room of the shrine was awash in them. That statue-man must be even more impressive than she'd thought. There was no sign of the old priest, and no one alive in the place to challenge them, though when she skulked close to the door to peer out without showing herself, there were more than a few soldiers outside, spears or crossbows in hand, watching the shrine warily from a good distance back.

  "Ready bows outside," she reported tersely. The Masked merely nodded. He had already plucked a burning log from the central fire, shielding it from eyes outside the door with his body, and started back into the rear chambers.

  "Seeking a back door?" Tantaerra hissed.

  "After I look for more healing, of the sort you gave me. That old man was more than a back-village priest, by his robe. He was once a high temple healer. So he should have some vials hidden away back here somewhere ...ah!"

  He'd been feeling his way along the side lip of a thick-topped table, and something had just shifted under his fingers. Tarram felt for a catch, failed to find it, and in exasperation drew his dagger and slammed its pommel against the wood. Twice, thrice—and the fourth time a carving broke off and fell away, allowing his fingers into a hidden recess hollowed out of the edge of the tabletop. A deep groove, really. He used his dagger point to move three vials out into Tantaerra's waiting hands before the hiding place was empty.r />
  "He probably won't have much more than that—not that we could find without spending the rest of the night in here. And as I see no sign of food ..."

  "Let's be going," Tantaerra agreed. Then she spotted something dark in a corner of the next room. "Bring your brand over here."

  What she'd seen proved to be a wet-weather overrobe with a cowl. A trifle short for Tarram, but quite different from what he'd been seen wearing around Halidon up until now, so he donned it, and they went looking for a back door.

  It proved to be right where they'd expected it to be, which meant it would open out onto a close-up view of the still-blazing warehouses.

  "Ready to get a bit warm?" Tarram asked.

  "Being as the other way is straight into bowfire," Tantaerra replied, "yes. But let me borrow some boots first."

  "They'll be far too large—"

  "And I'll kick them off the moment we're not walking through flames and coals," she snapped. "If I stumble, catch me. You do want the other five silver weights, don't you?"

  The Masked nodded, then carefully opened the door, keeping behind it.

  Onto a view of crackling, dying flames wreathing blackened spars that were starting to lean perilously—but no shouts or hurled spears.

  He stayed where he was until Tantaerra came back to him with a pair of oversized boots in her hands, and murmured, "When I was moving around well back, yonder, I could see that way, out the door. There're four or five soldiers over thereabouts, far left where we can't see them from here. They're watching the shrine, but it doesn't look like they've seen us. Yet."

  "What d'you think of the fire, right ahead? Think we can make it through what's left of this nearest warehouse?"

  Tantaerra looked up at him. "We'll have to, won't we?"

  The Masked's blank visage somehow seemed to be smiling. "Ready?"

  When she nodded, he put out one arm to bar her way and said, "Don't run. We stroll as if we've every right to be out walking, until they start shouting. Then you can start stumbling in those boots."

  "And who are you to be giving orders, faceless man?" she asked him softly.

  He stiffened, let his arm drop, and said gruffly, "The one you hired to help you escape, little Lady Daggertongue."

  Tantaerra took a step away from him—and promptly stumbled in her loose boots.

  They stared at each other for a long moment, as flames crackled outside and soldiers shouted far away down the south end of the village.

  Then they both, more or less in unison, blurted out apologies. Tarram waved at the door with a courtier's grand flourish.

  So Tantaerra lifted her chin, plucked up a dead soldier's short sword she'd decided to use as a walking stick, and set out on a stroll into the waiting flames.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Eight slow strides, his thigh aching a little but seemingly as strong as if he'd never been wounded, nine ...had the bloodcoats gone blind? Eleven, twelve, and still no—

  "Hoy! Hayyah! You! Over in the burning! Halt! I said halt!"

  Striding through fallen beams and embers, Tarram raised his arm, half-turned toward the bellowing soldier, and made the flat-hand-waving-at-the-ground Molthuni military sign for "Be stealthy."

  It wasn't a ruse likely to work, but if it bought them even a few moments more before some hoghead fired his crossbow ...

  There were barrels ahead. Blackened and smoldering, yet a barrier against anyone aiming crossbows at them, even if they'd become brittle charcoal. And if they held liquid, they just might still be a lot sturdier than that.

  Tarram tried to quicken his pace. Beside him, Tantaerra almost fell for the third time, hissed a curse, and kicked off one of her boots.

  Only to promptly step on an ember and hiss a much louder curse. Words that came wreathed in a sharp, unpleasant reek of burning hair. Tarram wrinkled his nose. He'd heard the old saying many times, that roasting humans smelled like roast boar. But he lacked the words for what burnt halfling hair smelled like.

  "Who are you?"

  The shouting soldier again. Well, that signal had bought them more time than he'd thought it would ...

  Tarram shouted something incoherent back, making his voice sound irritated and clipped, like a high-ranking officer making a reply he didn't think he should need to give. Like the Lord Investigator.

  And kept right on walking, in behind the barrels now. He didn't have to look to know that Tantaerra was right beside him. She'd found it impossible to walk in just one oversized boot, had abandoned it, and was now cursing constantly under her breath. As the smell of scorched halfling grew steadily stronger.

  There were real flames right ahead, leaping up like a huge campfire, over a heap of ashes that marked the corner of the warehouse. Two steps to the right to go around it, and two more to get past it, and they were through it and into a cooler area beyond, the street between this burned warehouse and the next one.

  "Come on!" he hissed.

  "You, too!" the halfling hissed back at him, from somewhere beneath his right elbow. "Down this street back into Halidon, yes?"

  "Yes!"

  They sprinted, and with every step the night grew darker. There were still lanterns, of course, but if luck stayed with them ...

  It did. A lantern guttered out ahead, to the accompaniment of curses, and they were plunged into pitch darkness.

  They shuffled forward, gently passing their swords back and forth in front of themselves to avoid running onto the points of any unseen spears.

  The voice, when it spoke, was startlingly close. "That you, Thrykon?"

  "No, soldier!" Tarram snapped, without hesitation, trying to remember the exact pitch and tone of the Lord Investigator but settling for sounding as rudely imperious as he remembered the man being. "I am Lord Investigator Osturr, and I have had about enough of the shoddy, shocking lack of discipline here in Halidon! Are you soldiers of Molthune or not? Who assigned you here? Right here, I mean! You should be over there, where the lanterns are! Can no one follow simple orders around here?"

  "I—sorry, sir. I'll—sorry!" They heard the chastened bloodcoat hurry off.

  "I can follow simple orders," a new and nasal voice spoke up, "and mine were to stay right here and stop anyone passing me, until Morthus himself relieved me. And being as he hasn't, and as he gave me those orders himself, I'm staying right here."

  "And what, soldier, might your name be?" Tarram inquired icily, edging forward but keeping well to the left of that voice. He felt Tantaerra's hand touch his knee and stay there, so she could move with him.

  And then, just as suddenly as it had vanished, the moon came sailing serenely out from behind the clouds, bathing all Halidon in its pale glow. Stars twinkled around it in a largely empty silver sky.

  Tarram and a truculent short-bearded soldier found themselves facing each other across a space that was largely filled by the spear in the bloodcoat's hand.

  A spear he promptly raised menacingly, falling back a step so Tarram couldn't grab at the spear shaft.

  Smiling tightly, Tarram bounded forward, ducking past the spearhead, and grabbed the shaft anyway.

  The soldier snarled and tried to jerk it free—and Tarram let it go, so he could lean in and slam his fist down on the man's nearest hand, where it was gripping the spear. The man shouted in pain and swung the spear away to try to keep hold of it—and Tarram punched him in the throat, then locked his arm around the soldier's neck and hauled the man down backward, slamming the back of the Molthuni's neck hard onto his waiting knee. The man convulsed in a brief frenzy of waving arms and hands clutching air ...then went limp. The fallen spear bounced and rattled.

  "Stop amusing yourself and come on!" Tantaerra snapped, tugging at Tarram's arm. "The forest's only just there! Come on, you bloodthirsty boarbrain!"

  Hearing pounding hooves ahead along the last street across their path, Tarram put on a gasping burst of speed and caught up to his client. Burying his fingers in her hair, he lifted her off the ground at a full run and hauled
her to the left, hard.

  She shrieked and spun around in his grasp with daggers flashing in both hands—so he let go, flinging her into a handy horse trough and then diving after her.

  He landed beside the trough in a rich layer of fresh horse manure, reached into the heart of the splashing, grabbed hold of her, and snatched her out again. Slamming her hard against his chest to drive the wind out of her and quell any shouts before she made them, he rolled under a wagon.

  There was a long, long line of carts and wagons drawn up down this last street. The forest they'd been trying for was an enticing four strides or so away, across the muddy road, but the soldiers of Molthune were determined to catch the two fugitives, and were even now thundering past the wagon.

  "That way! Make sure they don't get past you!" a bloodcoat shouted. "Hrandel, bide here in case they're behind one of these doors and try to dart out later! The rest of you, with me!"

  More hooves, the main din moving on along the street and away into the distance.

  Lying on his back trying not to pant loudly, holding his client very gently now and trying to ignore the fire in the glare she was giving him, Tarram listened hard. If they thought to bend down and look ...

  "What an idiot," a rough voice said disgustedly, before spitting into the dirt not a hand-width away from Tarram's leg.

  "Aye," another bloodcoat agreed. "Some stupid mother wasted a lot of time and food on that one. Always galloping after glory, all shouting this and ordering that and look at me, I'm so important ..."

  "They're gone, those two. A halfling and a masked man, still hiding in Halidon? I think not. Six streets one way and four the other, and the moon showing us every roof; where does he think they're hiding?"

  "He hasn't got to thinking yet. He's too busy being all shocked that the two of them murdered the Lord Investigator."

  "Which means we have to hunt them down and kill them, mind—because once word reaches Canorate that their precious investigator's been killed, it'll be our necks if we haven't brought down his slayers."