Mistress of Masks

by C. Greenwood

  That was when Orrick was certain on what ground he stood. There could not be two such islands near the Morta den 'Cairn. Whether through accident or fate, Orrick had reached exactly the place where Fenric had instructed him to flee. The Isle of Bones. Once a burial place for the ancients, the island was now a dumping ground where the keepers of the Morta den 'Cairn rowed over and deposited the corpses of dead prisoners. Knowledge of the hundreds or thousands of corpses decomposing beneath his feet and all around him made the death stench more pronounced to his nostrils.

  For the first time, he smelled something else too. A strange mingling of scents that belonged to neither man nor beast but held hints of both. A surreptitious glance suggested he was alone, but Orrick was in the habit of trusting his nose before his eyes. The latter was more easily deceived. Without betraying his awareness that he was watched, he walked on. If his stalker did not wish to be seen, he would allow them the false security of concealment.

  Reaching one of the sunken paths snaking between the mounds, he discovered fresh footprints in the earth. Someone had been here recently. A gravedigger transporting a dead body? Or something more threatening? But the tread of the bootprints were short and narrow, like those of a woman or a large child. He took note and moved on.

  A heap of ornate stones rose up ahead. This mausoleum must have belonged to some respected personage in ancient times. Certainly it wasn’t built for the sort of carcasses being laid to rest on the island these days. Orrick paused to lean against the tomb’s wall and catch his breath. This hilly terrain was hard on legs weakened by too many months sitting in a prison cell. Lack of food and his recent struggle in the ocean hadn’t done him any favors either.

  A scratching sound came from above, and a stream of pebbles trickled down from the roof of the mausoleum. Instantly alert, Orrick demanded, “Who’s up there? Show yourself!”

  He was answered with silence. Moving away from the stone wall, he craned his neck and was rewarded with a fleeting glimpse of a narrow green boot dangling over the edge. Before he could see who it belonged to, something struck him hard across the back of his shoulders. The attack came, not from the roof, but from behind. Carried down by the weight of his attacker, he hit the ground, twisting beneath a snarling mass of fangs and fur. The face looming over him was that of a wild creature with the bulging eyes of a man but the claws of a bear and the fangs of a wolf.

  The monster lunged at Orrick’s throat, and he instinctively raised an arm to block the onslaught. Sharp teeth sank into his forearm, tearing a yell of pain from him even as the beast’s claws scored his unprotected chest. His scrabbling hand found a rock on the ground, and he brought it up with all his strength, smashing it again and again into the creature’s head. A curtain of blood rained down, temporarily blinding him. Feeling the beast’s hold slacken, he struggled free of its weight.

  He had a good look at his adversary now—a creature with the size and form of a man but with the matted and patchy fur of a wild animal covering its naked body and stretching the length of its muscular arms and legs. Stubby horns sprang from its forehead, and its wolflike snout extended over a wide mouth with wicked-looking fangs. A crimson stream ran from the beast’s injuries, coating one side of its face. But the protruding eyes behind the veil of blood were startlingly intelligent. And enraged. The man-beast loosed a howl of pain and fury.

  Out of habit, Orrick’s hand shot to where a sword would have hung at his hip in the old days. But there was none there. The creature charged. Orrick had no weapon but his bare hands. So he used them, grabbing hold of the monster’s head and giving it a sharp twist. There was an audible snapping sound as he wrenched its neck, and then the man-beast went limp. Orrick released his grip and allowed the dead thing to slump to the ground.

  Heart thudding, adrenaline surging, he stood over his kill and swiped a grimy forearm across his brow. His eyes stung with sweat and the salty blood of the man-beast.

  “Not badly done,” came an unexpected voice from above.

  Orrick whirled, ready for another attack. But none came. Instead, he found himself staring up at a pair of green leather boots attached to slim feminine legs dangling over the edge of the mausoleum roof. Above these was a lean, angular face framed by flame-red hair that clashed with keen blue eyes.

  The first word that leapt to Orrick’s mind as he looked at the unfamiliar young woman was “sharp.” He couldn’t decide if that was because of the intensity of her gaze or the prominence of her nose.

  “I’ve been stranded up here through the night and into the morning, waiting for that beast to go away,” she informed him. “After first light, he saw me up here but seemed reluctant to follow. Perhaps he can’t climb.”

  “You could have called down a warning to me,” Orrick said, watching her narrowly. Was she friend or foe?

  “If I had warned you, I wouldn’t have gotten the chance to watch you in action,” she responded unapologetically. “I wanted to see if you could best him.”

  He snorted. “A childish game to play with a man’s life. But then I see you aren’t much more than a child after all.”

  Her face flushed with indignation. “I’m twenty-one summers old,” she snapped, straightening to thrust out her unimpressive chest.

  “Sorry, Red,” he said. “But if that’s your proof, you don’t make a convincing argument.”

  Her eyes blazed, and she looked as if she would bite out a sharp retort. But then she visibly restrained herself. “I think we’re getting off on the wrong foot. Let’s start over. I appreciate that you’ve saved me from this creature, and in return I’d like to help you. My name’s Eydis, by the way.”

  He ignored her introduction. “What makes you think I’m in need of help?” he asked, scratching a flake of blood from his ear.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact you’re gaunt, bloodied, and half-naked in the cold.”

  He scowled. “Maybe I always go about like this. Cold is good for the circulation.”

  But she wasn’t listening. She was looking for a means down from her perch.

  He folded his arms to signal he had no intention of helping. But she didn’t ask, sliding lightly over the edge of the roof and picking her way deftly down the high wall. He had to admit she was agile, finding handholds and footholds in the shallowest crevices and smallest deformations in the rock. When he realized he was enjoying watching her ascent, he shook his head. Clearly he’d been in prison far too long. Her limbs were long and lanky, her hips as narrow and shapeless as a boy’s. The crippled turnkey back in prison would have passed as beautiful before this sharp-boned, skinny-legged snipe.

  She broke into his thoughts, dropping nimbly to the ground. “I could at least bind up your cuts. You could get an infection. Who knows what sort of diseases that creature might have been carrying.”

  Orrick turned to examine the dead man-beast. He’d never seen anything like it.

  “Strange times when minohides visit these parts,” she said as if reading his thoughts. “This one must have come down from the mountains.”

  “Dwarf country?” Orrick frowned. “What would he be doing here? Travel from Arxus is scarce.”

  She lifted her shoulders. “Maybe hunger drove him to the lowlands. It happens.”

  “And he swam all the way to this island? Not likely.” Orrick looked around. “What I’d like to know is what brought him here. For that matter…” He turned his scrutiny on her, suspicion returning. “What boat brought you here? This is an island for the dead, not a place for casual travelers.”

  He took a step toward her, but she didn’t give ground. Either she had a clear conscience, or she lacked the sense to be afraid. “There’s no need to look at me like that,” she said, raising her chin defiantly. “I’m not your enemy. In fact, I’d like to give you some food and dry clothes.”

  He was thoughtful. “I could obtain both by killing you and taking what I need.”

  “Only if you want to dine on human flesh and cram yourself into w
omen’s clothing.” Despite her flippant tone, her eyes were wide, betraying her true feelings. Good. She had the wits to realize the precariousness of her position.

  Circling her, he thought aloud. “You must have food at hand or you wouldn’t have suggested it. Maybe in that belt pouch at your waist? As to clothing, your cloak would keep me a good deal warmer than I am right now. Your scrawny flesh you can keep.”

  She met his gaze levelly. “And without my aid, how do you intend getting off this island? And if you remain stranded here, how long do you think it will be before your enemies discover you?”

  Orrick stopped still. “What know you of my situation?” She opened her mouth, but he didn’t wait for an answer. He grabbed her roughly by the arm. “Who sent you to delay me? How do you know I’m an escapee?”

  She winced as he squeezed her elbow, but held on to a calm façade. “I have sent myself. As to your identity as a prisoner, that is not hard to discern. You are betrayed by your disheveled appearance, violent behavior, and the fact we are only three short miles from a prison. The Isle of Bones is the only stop between Morta den 'Cairn and the mainland.”

  “Maybe,” he admitted doubtfully. “But you’ve still seen me, and for that you’ll have to be silenced.”

  Her jaw dropped. “My only crime is to have crossed your path!”

  “That is your misfortune.”

  “But I’m on your side—truly! Didn’t Fenric explain about me?”

  “Fenric?” His eyes snapped to hers. And then, “You’re the one,” he realized. “The friend he spoke of. You were to meet me here with weapons and supplies.”

  “And so I have,” she said coolly, prying her arm from his grasp. He let her go and tried to orientate himself with this new turn of events.

  She went on. “I went to great trouble to find you because I’m in need of your aid. The world is in need of it. Surely Fenric explained as much. Where is Fenric anyway?” She looked around, as if realizing for the first time that the headsman was nowhere to be seen.

  Orrick tightened his jaw. “Fenric is dead. He sacrificed himself so I could escape in his place.”

  She looked stunned by the news. “Fenric dead?” she gasped. “I-I don’t understand.” But then she did. He saw the moment when realization dawned in her eyes. She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat bobbing up and down. “This is what he planned all along,” she murmured, blinking eyes that were suddenly glistening.

  Orrick shifted uncomfortably. “He made his choice—crazy though it was.”

  “It wasn’t crazy,” she said softly. “He gave his life because he trusted the oracle and believed in my foretelling.”

  He stared. “In your what?”

  She said, “I’ve had a vision warning of the destruction of Earth Realm, beginning with the fall of a certain seclusionary. But there are a few catalysts who can alter these events. The oracle of Silverwood Grove has decided you are one of them and sent me to search you out.”

  He gave a mirthless laugh, saying, “A moment ago I thought you were annoying and naïve. Now I know you’re a lunatic.”

  “And were you mad when you saw Fenric wearing your face?” she demanded. “It was my magic that masked him! I have powers the likes of which you cannot imagine.”

  His doubt dissolved to be replaced by discomfort. “I make it a point not to involve myself with the business of sorcerers,” he said. “You’re an untrustworthy bunch.”

  But he began to pace back and forth, fingering the religious medallion around his neck. Curse this lunatic wench and the dead Fenric for putting him into this position. It had been a long time since he had been indebted to anyone, and he’d forgotten how much he hated the feeling. Better to be free of responsibility for any fate but his own.

  That decided him. “I didn’t ask that headsman friend of yours to do what he did for me,” he told her. “Nor did I ask you to get involved. But now that I’ve got my freedom, I’ve unfinished business to attend to. So I won’t be joining you on your mad little quest to save the world.”

  And he walked away, leaving her sputtering in protest.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Eydis

  Eydis tried to think what to say or do. This was all going horribly wrong. If only the oracle were here. She would handle things so much better. She wouldn’t be so easily dismissed by some worthless, nameless barbarian.

  Spurred by the thought, Eydis ran along in the Kroadian’s wake.

  “This isn’t fair,” she called after him. “You owe me your life.”

  “I owe you nothing.” He didn’t look back.

  It was time to lay her highest card on the table. She licked her lips and asked, “Why do you seek the man called Arik the One-Eyed?”

  Her question stopped him sharply in his tracks. He turned. “Arik? Where did you hear that name?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

  Good. She had his interest. She said, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  She shrugged. “Knowledge of this person came to me in a vision as I meditated in the Pool of Tears in Silverwood Grove. The First Mother whispered many things in my ear while I floated in that pool. Information about you. Information about this man you seek.”

  “You’re right. I don’t believe you.” But the flicker of interest hadn’t left his eyes. “Are you truly a seer?”

  “Do you doubt my powers after what you’ve seen of them?” she asked, sidestepping the question. Let him think she was a great oracle. Let him think she was the First Mother reincarnated if it’d win him to her aid.

  He said, “It’s not your powers I doubt, but your intentions. If you know of my interest in the One-Eyed, then you know also how desperately I search for him. Yet you would stand in my way?”

  She thought quickly. “I’m not in your way, but neither am I going out of mine to share information with you. You said yourself we owe one another nothing.”

  Anger flashed across his features, and as he took a step toward her, it was all Eydis could do not to reach for the knife at her belt.

  “This is no game, witch,” he said. “Arik is the one man alive who can clear my name of the charge of treachery and remove the death sentence hanging over my head. Until he speaks out, I’m a wanted man, a traitor to my people and to yours. I have to find him and force him to tell the truth about the battle at Endguard. Where is he?”

  She kept her face still. Confident. He wouldn’t be fool enough to hurt her. Not when she alone held the answer he so obviously wanted.

  “Help me with the first leg of my quest,” she bargained. “Come to Asincourt. There’s a seclusionary in the baselands at the foot of the mountains. The place is about to fall under the attack of an evil army. Help me save the seclusionary and its innocent inhabitants from their doom, and I will personally lead you to the man you seek.”

  She sensed he was weighing, considering, and she knew a moment of panic. What if he didn’t take the bait? What if he guessed that half her vaunted knowledge was bluster?

  He appeared to come to a sudden decision. “It is an oath in the sight of your First Couple,” he said firmly, taking hold of her forearm with a large grimy hand.

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Eydis hid her consternation and forced herself to return the clasp that would seal the deal. Doubtless even this pagan knew that an oath in the sight of the First Couple was sacred to her, as a Lythnian. If she failed to fulfill her end of the bargain, creed would demand she take her own life.

  * * *

  “That’s it?” the Kroadian demanded, on seeing the rowboat in the distance, beached along the shore. “That leaky heap of scrap lumber is going to carry us to the mainland?”

  “It’s only a few miles from here,” she pointed out with forced patience, wiping a damp tendril of hair from her eyes and stepping around a tombstone in her path. The relentless fog curled around her boots as she walked, but the chill in the air was welcome as, panting, she struggled to keep pace with the long-legge
d barbarian.

  He didn’t have the consideration to slow down for her, and she would drop dead from exhaustion before she would ask.

  She tried to make conversation as they traveled. “You still haven’t given me your name,” she said. “I’ve shared mine already.”

  Instead of answering, he responded with a question, “What about provisions? Have we food or not?”

  “Waiting in the boat,” she gritted, narrowly avoiding a shallow hole that would have snapped her ankle if she’d stumbled into it. The sunken path was disappearing as more graves and stone markers closed in around them. These weren’t the newer, poorer additions but the ancient headstones with ornate inscriptions and sculpted detailing. Whatever bodies lay beneath these markers, they had been people of importance at one time. It seemed a shame they were now lost to memory.

  Her nameless companion was still grumbling. “And what about the weapons? I was promised a weapon by that dead Fenric fellow. But do I see any here? No, I don’t.”

  Eydis couldn’t hold her aggravation in check any longer. “You want a weapon, do you?” she snapped. “If it will silence your infernal grousing, I’ll give you a weapon, you ungrateful—”

  She ran up to a tall grave marker shaped like a winged messenger bearing a sword. Laying her hand on the arm of the statue, she funneled her anger into it, trying to remember how she had infused life into the dog statue at the temple. The stone grew soft and warm, gray rock melting into pale human flesh. As the messenger’s fingers loosened, she pried them free of the sword in their grip. When the heavy weapon dropped into her hand, she halted the magical process before the transformation reached beyond the statue’s shoulder. Into the weighty sword, she channeled another stream of altering magic until the weapon flared with a blaze of blue light. The flare died down quickly, and when it was gone, the sword had been changed from ancient stone to new steel.