The edges around his eyes chafed his sockets, while the slits that barely functioned as access points to his mouth and nose pressed back against his face providing the smallest windows of entry for air and other sustenance. He vaguely remembered the comment his twin had made about the lethality of his beard’s growth, and resigned himself to the eventuality of his fast-approaching demise.
“Death,” he called in a volume equal to his outbreak of the night before, and immediately regretted it as his own words seemed to echo within the skull that the combined mask and bone of his head had become. He stopped, pulled himself up short, and steeled himself for another round of beseeching the gods.
“Death,” he called in comfortable, hushed tones, “please take me now, and spare me the suffering of waiting.”
“I’m not death,” a voice interrupted from behind, “but if you don’t mind, I’d like to come in and set a spell. When you get to my age, tunnel crawling is hard work.”
Rassendyll quickly turned around, and saw the source of the voice.
An old dwarf, whose pure white hair and beard were as long as his entire body, was halfway through a hole in the wall that had been formed from the removal of one of the massive stone bricks that made up the foundation.
The young mage was speechless, but this didn’t stop the dwarf, who quickly regained his feet, strode over to the new prisoner, and introduced himself.
“Hi,” he said jovially, in a tone that was quite out of place for the dark dungeon. “I’m Hoffman, from the Seventh Dwarven Abbey. I’ve been a prisoner down here for I don’t know how long. What’s your story?”
A Weakened Retreat
Along the Road from Mulmaster to the Retreat:
After the feasting at the Traveler’s Cloak Inn was over, the festing began with a tour of some of the local hot spots such as the very popular Wave and Wink (nicknamed the W&W) and the Smashed Plate. Realizing that he had many days of work and research ahead of him, Volo took it fairly easy, managing to attract no attention to himself amidst the crowd of Mulmaster revellers. Passepout, on the other hand, gave free reign to all of his desires with all of the joie de vivre of the recently released prisoner that he was. His eyes and his appetites, however, were much larger and stronger than his strength and his stamina. By midevening, the chubby thespian was quite unconscious, and the master traveler had to enlist the help of three very strong young laborers and one extremely sturdy cart to get him back to their night’s lodgings.
The following morning, Volo rose before dawn, assembled his pack and scribbled down a hasty note assuring the stout thespian that he would return in a few days. He grabbed a fast breakfast, which Dela was more than willing to provide, and left the inn. The master traveler rented a horse from a nearby stable and set out for his next destination.
The sun was just inching over the horizon when the most famous gazetteer in all Faerûn passed Southroad Keep. Nodding to the city watch, who didn’t pay him much attention as they were more concerned about the apparent tardiness of their relief, he passed through the city gate, and was on his way.
The absence of the city walls and buildings removed all obstructions from the force of the wind, and Volo quickly drew up a spare blanket that he had packed just for this reason, and draped it around himself as if it were a cape. Fastening it in place with a clasp, and then placing one hand on his beret and one hand on the reins, he spurred on the steed with a quick kick and “giddy-yap.”
Volo looked around him as he rode, taking in the scenery, and mentally assembling descriptive passages and entries for the guide.
The mountains, he thought to himself, seem to create some sort of wind tunnel. The breezes off the Moonsea were magnified by the funnel effect as they roared through, making everything seem colder than it should be. I must remember, he noted, to include a cold weather warning and a warm clothing advisory in the book.
With the exception of the mountains themselves, the rising sun had very little to illuminate on the landscape through which the master traveler rode. Mulmaster was surrounded by rocky, barren lands which further magnified the gloom of the smokey industrial city. The sure-footed stallion had little problem making its way over the rugged and unforgiving ground, with only a minimal amount of direction from its well-traveled rider.
Even though the smoky fog of Mulmaster was far behind and out of sight in no time at all, the gloom and bleakness of the jagged terrain remained as Volo continued on his way. The skies were almost as uninhabited as the ground, with only the occasional bird of prey or vulture breaking up the grey monotony that reached upward as far as the eye could see.
The master traveler seemed oblivious to the lifelessness around him, and contented himself with putting together new and different phrases to describe the barren landscape. Occasionally he would pass an abandoned farmhouse or inn, and would wonder what ill-fortuned farmer or hostler was foolhardy enough to try to ply his trade there. Further on in his journey, he began to pass larger abandoned structures that almost resembled Southroad Keep. From the research notes that he had prepared prior to setting out on his journey, he knew that they were monasteries and habitats for contemplative orders that had long fallen by the wayside.
There must have been something about the austerity of the landscape itself that attracted the ascetic, introspective, hermit types that had the swelled the orders that had filled these citadels in years gone by. I guess they came looking for the meaning of life, didn’t find it, and left, leaving their monastic dwellings behind, he thought.
The great gazetteer smiled.
Maybe I’ll include something in the guide about these places being haunted to sort of make things more exciting. Local legends have to start somewhere, he surmised.
As Volo and his steed approached what remained of a stone arch that had in some earlier era provided egress for some now long bygone structure, the great gazetteer heard a scurrying like the scrambling of rats on a cellar floor. The master traveler smiled, and reached into the inner pocket of his cloak, the tips of his fingers caressing one of the numerous blades he had secreted on various parts of his person.
Company, he thought to himself.
Guiding the horse closer to the arch rubble, Volo allowed himself to slump down in the saddle as if he had fallen asleep, while tightening his hold on the reins to keep control of his steed in as inconspicuous a manner as possible.
Easy pickings, the master traveler thought to himself, usually leads to careless thieves.
He heard the scurrying on his left and above, and readied himself for the attack.
A last scratch of a scurry from above, followed by a grunt, clued Volo in on a moment’s notice that the outlaw who was stalking him was leaping down on to his not unsuspecting prey from above.
The master traveler quickly spurred his steed forward, upsetting the dim-witted brigand’s planned interception, causing him instead to go crashing to the hard stone ground below.
Once again at a moment’s notice, Volo reined in his steed with one hand, this time quickly turning his mount around to face the inept assailant, while flinging a throwing blade with his freed hand. The blade met its mark, passing through the shoulder fabric of the black haired brigand’s cloak, lodging its tip in the seam between the stones in the road, and staking him to the ground while barely scratching the less than deserving oaf.
Dazed and bewildered, the thief looked up and began to quake in his threadbare boots, beads of sweat trickling down his face from razor cut locks of ebony as he waited for another blade to make its mortal mark.
“What is your name, O inept felon?” Volo inquired.
“James,” the thief sputtered.
“Well, felonious James, or perhaps James Felonious since you do seem to be rather backward,” Volo blithely explained, “I’m afraid that business demands that I go this way, and since the authorities that I would have to turn you over to lie back from whence I came, I’m afraid that I will have to leave you behind.”
James the
Felon tried to get up but was still held in place by the blade-staked cloak.
“I can’t get up!” the bewildered and dense brigand cried, unaware that it was his own cloak that was holding him down.
“That’s right,” the master traveler replied. “I have cast a static cling spell that is causing the ground to grip you up against it.”
Volo spurred his steed again, and began to set off at a light trot.
“Don’t leave me here!” the thief cried. “I’ll starve!”
“The spell will wear off soon enough,” the master traveler assured, then added, “and when it does you better hightail it out of these parts. I’ll be passing back this way again soon, and I’d better not find you around.”
“What if someone should come upon me before it wears off? I’m helpless!” the thief cried louder.
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Volo replied jovially. “From what I’ve seen and heard, the brigands that favor these here parts are a rather inept bunch.”
After a few moments Volo looked back in the distance. From what he could make out the thief was still struggling on the ground. The master traveler allowed himself a chuckle, and continued onward.
Others might have passed through the area at a faster pace, but not Volo. This was in no way due to the potential speed of his steed, but rather by the personal choice of the rider himself. The master traveler was a stickler when it came to local flavor and color, and he had no desire to rush through it at the risk of missing something, even if the flavor of the landscape was bland and its color was gray.
I must remember to include a warning about brigands in the book, the master traveler noted. After all, not all travelers are as observant—or as adept at handling such situations—as myself.
Sometime past midday, the master traveler came in sight of his destination: the isolated monastery known as the Retreat. The leisurely pace with which he had traveled obviously caused him to arrive while the various hermits of the place were on their lunchtime break deep within the monastic walls, as no one was in sight in the fields around the old stronghold.
I guess I should have sent word to wait lunch on me, the master traveler reflected with a chuckle. Maybe if I can catch the eye of one of the members on watch, a place will already be set for me by the time I arrive.
A chill unlike the one caused by the Moonsea climatic conditions passed down the spine of the master traveler.
That’s odd, he thought. No one seems to be on watch. Even during meals there is always someone on watch.
Volo put his two fingers up to his mouth and let loose with a birdcall almost identical to that of the Bowl-headed Greenwood, a bird indigenous to Shadowdale. He repeated the call, listening carefully for a reply.
None came.
He immediately realized that something was not right. Where could they be? he thought to himself. The elders would always respond to a Harper signal of distress, even when it isn’t given by a Harper. The network of secret agents dedicated to preserving balance in Faerûn were longtime allies of the old mages therein. Surely the Harpers could never fall out of favor with them. Where could they all have gone, and why wasn’t anyone responding to his call?
Quickly reaching into his cloak to assure himself of the readiness of yet another blade, Volo urged the horse onward at a slower pace, eyes and ears wide open and ready for danger.
The gate of the Retreat had been left wide open, and though the rocky terrain obscured any tracks that might have otherwise been left, the dried spoor of numerous horses was still evident by the series of rails that were normally used for the tethering of steeds.
Volo dismounted, and, with reins still in hand in case he had to make a quick return to the saddle and an even faster egress, approached the evidential detritus, and stooped down to get a closer look at it. As I recall, the master gazetteer (who also considered himself to be a more than adequate detective) reflected, it rained just two days ago. Whatever caused the Retreat to be evacuated must have occurred since then, or else this fertilizer would have been washed away.
Righting himself and stepping carefully so as to avoid treading in the evidence at hand (or underfoot, as was the case), Volo approached the gate.
Before he had even gained entrance, he realized that he had been mistaken about the Retreat’s evacuation, for there, just inside the gate, was the not quite two-day-old corpse of the Thayan exile who had been known as Donal Loomis. As two rats were feasting in the orifices of the elder’s face, Volo saw no need to bend over for a closer examination. He knew the monk was dead and saw little reason to further turn his travel-worn stomach.
With a dagger in hand, the brave gazetteer stepped over the body, and ventured further into the stronghold that had been known as the Retreat. The further he went the more bodies he found, each gutted like a pig for a Mayday feast. The master traveler used his free hand to bring a neckerchief up to his nose and mouth to help fight back the gall that was rebelling in his stomach. Maintaining his composure, he tried to piece together what must have happened.
I would immediately jump to the conclusion that the Retreat had been attacked by some foreign force, he thought, but there seems to be no sign of a struggle. My second theory, he went on, would have been that they were the victims of a surprise attack, perhaps in the middle of the night, but all of the bodies are attired in their day wear, and the gate and stronghold walls show no signs of being breached, jimmied, or assailed. Whoever engineered this horrible bloodbath must have been granted entrance by the elders in broad daylight, and therefore were assumed by the elder on watch to have been either allies, or harmless. I guess the elder on watch was mistaken.
Scanning the residue of slaughter, Volo thought he recognized one of the corpses. He was about to stoop to get a closer look when he barely saw a moving blur out of the corner of his eye, and reacted in a second, raising his dagger to a defensive posture.
He was half a second too slow.
The master traveler felt the coolness of a steel blade against his windpipe, and heard an authoritative voice say, “Drop it, or breathe blood.”
Realizing he had no alternative if he wished to live long enough to get to the bottom of the bloodbath, and to eventually complete his guide to the Moonsea, Volo dropped his dagger, and prepared to do whatever the other visitor to the Retreat requested.
He felt the blade pressing harder against his throat.
In the High Blade’s study in the Tower of the Wyvern:
The High Blade rose late that morning, having spent a strenuous night with the Thayan serpent that months ago he had accepted as his wife. He sought out the privacy of his study as he wished to avoid all of the court, social, and political commitments that occurred whenever he and his consort were reunited. Though he was more than aware of the necessity of such obligations and functions, he nonetheless desired time to more adequately formulate his plans against his she-devil wife who had sought to neutralize him. Wishing a report on his most important prisoner, Selfaril sent for Rickman.
The captain of the Hawks responded immediately.
“You summoned, sire,” said the one-eyed Hawk.
“How is my brother?” the High Blade inquired, not making eye contact with his second in command.
“As you left him, my lord,” Rickman responded, surprised at Selfaril’s use of the moniker. “My man in the Cloaks informs me that, given normal circumstances, the mask should have dampened all of his magical abilities to non-existence by now. He is now no more of a mage than either you or I.”
“What a pity for him after all of those years of study,” Selfaril observed in an emotionless monotone.
“Of course, the mask also serves the other purpose of obscuring his identity from prying eyes, as you yourself planned, sire,” added Rickman.
“So that no one will ever know that I have a brother,” the High Blade interrupted, completing the thought of his right-hand man, and once again surprising the Hawk with his use of the fraternal label. Changing the su
bject, Selfaril said, “You know Rickman, for most people, family is their main source of comfort and survival. I, on the other hand, never knew my mother, killed my father, have imprisoned my brother, and am plotted against by my wife.”
“Most people are inferior pawns whose very existence is only validated for as long as they are useful to superior men such as yourself, High Blade,” Rickman asserted.
“Indeed,” Selfaril agreed absently.
Rickman remained in place, waiting for the High Blade to issue new orders, but Selfaril remained silent, as if preoccupied with other matters. Growing uncomfortable with his master’s prolonged silence, the captain of the Hawks hazarded a question.
“Your majesty,” Rickman inquired cautiously, “have you confronted the Tharchioness with your discovery of her conspiracy yet?”
“No,” Selfaril answered quickly, snapping out of his preoccupied malaise. “I haven’t finished planning how to turn it to my greatest advantage yet. Ideally I would like to use it to rid the city of all of those diplomatically immune wizards she has seen fit to bring here, exempting them from my control, while sending an occupational force to Eltabbar to exert our own battery of diplomatic influence. As you no doubt realize, this is more than just a wife wishing to kill her husband. This is war.”
Rickman was surprised at the recent amount of anger and emotion the High Blade had made evident. What had started out as a political chess game with what was initially considered to be a worthy opponent had quickly escalated into a ruthless shadow war. Rickman was in a quandary as to what he should offer to do next.
“Should I have some of my men arrange for the removal—permanent or locational—of the Tharchioness?” he inquired.
“Not just yet,” the High Blade answered. “We must play this situation very delicately.”
The Mage in the Iron Mask Page 5