The Mask of Storms
Blood and Honor (Book 1)
William Stacey
Copyright © 2017 by William Stacey
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover by Mirela Barbu Design
Contents
Reader Newsletter
Prologue
I. Blood on the Docks
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
II. Blood on the Streets
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
III. Blood on the Hill
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Review Request
William Stacey Reader Newsletter
About the Author
Also by William Stacey
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Prologue
Death was a cloud of dust behind the caravan, driving the small band of camel-mounted men deeper into the sun-baked sands of the Red Desert. In growing terror, the riders lashed at their mounts, cursing them in a futile attempt to gain distance, but surviving this day now seemed unlikely to the caravan leader, Petros Fel. Their mounts were already tired, while those of their pursuers were fresh. Sunlight glinted from the pursuers' lance points as they gained ground. Soon, Fel's own head would sit atop one of those lances.
This wasn't Fel's first caravan. He had successfully led scores of profitable ventures across the Red Desert. Nor was this his first encounter with danger. No man travelled the Hishtari sands without risk. But every other time bandits had threatened them, Fel had ordered a share of the camels cut loose, and the bandits had given up the chase, taking the easier plunder. This time, their pursuers had ridden right past the cargo-laden animals, coming for the men instead. The men behind them hunted blood, not silver, which could only mean one thing: desert tribesmen hunted them, not bandits. Some fool must have riled them up, insulted them in some way. Damn whoever it was!
The desert tribesmen were bloodthirsty beasts, torturing their prisoners; all men knew this. The tales of their cruelty were legendary. Fel's terror spiraled out of control, careening about him like a dust devil. I'm going to die out here in the wild after all, he realized, just as Narula always warned.
They had left behind the rolling, rocky foothills of the acacia-lined trade road for the shifting dunes and sandstone canyons of the desert, which stretched before them now. Water they had, but not nearly enough to cross these hellish sands. Fel shaded his eyes with his hand as he stood in his stirrups, seeking a path out of this disaster. To the east, a vast sandstone canyon shimmered with heat. High above, a pair of buzzards circled, and the wind whistled, caressing his cracked lips. Some leagues beyond the canyon, a curtain of brown stretched across the horizon, turning the bright-blue sky dark.
A sandstorm! Even tribesmen would avoid it.
"We go east!" he yelled to the others.
They had begun to descend into the canyon just minutes before the full brunt of the storm hit them. They dismounted, leading their exhausted and terrified camels on foot into the shrieking gray nothingness. Speech became nearly impossible in this tempest of stinging sand, and Fel could barely see his hand before his face, let alone a safe path down the canyon's bank. They wrapped scarves over their faces, but it did little to help. All any of them could do was to keep moving forward, praying they'd find shelter. If not, the winds would bury them, not even leaving behind their sun-bleached bones.
At least they wouldn't be tortured to death.
Fel's camel collapsed, throwing him forward to roll down the sand-covered slope. When he finally came to a stop, dust and sand in his throat, he stared in wide-eyed terror at the dark giant now looming over him. Fel scurried back, but the giant remained motionless, glaring down at him. Now, through the blowing sands, Fel saw it was no giant, but a statue carved from the rock face of the cavern wall. A second statue stood across from a set of weathered steps leading down into a dark tunnel opening. Centuries of blowing sand had weathered the faces of the statues smooth, erasing their features so that Fel couldn't tell if they were modeled after men or beasts. Dread filled his heart, but the opening into the canyon wall offered sanctuary.
"Here!" Fel yelled. "Shelter."
At first, he feared the others were too far away to hear him over the howling storm, but then a shape appeared, a man leading a camel. Fel rushed forward, recognizing the terrified face of his youngest nephew, Eld. Others struggled behind Eld, each pulling his camel through the sands. Fel screamed into his nephew's ear, "Get the camels down the steps!"
Eld stopped in place and stared at the stone sentries on either side of the steps. "What's down there?" he screamed.
"Safety. Move."
Eld hesitated a moment longer but then led his camel down the steps and into the tunnel. Fel urged the other men onward, counting each one as he passed. Eight, only eight. He squinted into the maelstrom, seeking stragglers. A dozen men had followed him into the sandstorm. He wanted to scream in frustration, to curse his ancestors, but with no other choice, he turned away and followed the others into the tunnel.
The tunnel opened into a wide antechamber, sheltered from the sand. They lit torches and secured the terrified camels. Fel stared about himself. Smooth black glasslike stones lined the walls of the chamber, fitting together so perfectly that Fel could just barely make out the seams of each individual stone.
Who builds like this?
Intricate black-and-white tiles in a geodesic pattern lined the floor of the chamber. Fel found himself staring at the mosaic, almost in a daze. He shook his head, moving on to examine the rest of the chamber. A faded mural took up the entirety of one of the walls. Painted with remarkable skill, the mural displayed throngs of worshippers with bizarre catlike eyes, praying before a sun rising in a cloudless blue sky. Unease rippled through Fel. This is not a place of men.
Scattered about the chamber were the rotted remains of ancient furnishings—broken stools and benches. At the rear of the antechamber, a second set of black steps led down, disappearing into darkness. Fel stood at the top of the steps, shivering with fear. Why build here? What is this place?
"Shouldn't be here," Eld whispered from beside him.
"The camels are tended, secured?" Fel asked, already knowing they were, having seen to it personally. As he stared down the dark steps, he inhaled deeply, his fingers drumming over the hilt of his scimitar.
"They are," Eld said softly, an undercurrent of fear in his voice. "But we should stay near the entrance … until the storm blows out."
"What is down there?" Fel asked, speaking mostly to himself.
"Uncle …" Eld whined.
One word repeated itself in Fel's fevered mind: Illthori.
These were Illthori ruins; they had to be. Only the Illthori could have crafted such a place, used stonework s
o flawlessly. And if true, that meant the possibility of great reward.
The Illthori, a long-dead race of magic-users, had created the most wonderful of relics. Even a non-magical item such as a broken piece of pottery would fetch a handsome price. But if a true Illthori relic—a magical one—could be recovered from this place, this ancient temple, it would make Fel one of the wealthiest men in the empire. Perhaps his ancestors had led him through the sandstorm to this place for a reason. He pulled on his thick black beard, as he often did when given to bouts of uncertainty. Then, his mind made up, he gripped Eld's shoulder. "I'm going to take a quick look."
None came with him, not even Eld—cowards! He'd share nothing with such men.
With one hand holding a flickering torch and the other his scimitar, Fel descended the steps, setting each foot carefully. The steps descended far deeper than he would have thought possible. Rivulets of sweat trickled down his spine, an unfamiliar sensation in the desert, where sweat always dried in a moment.
After what seemed like an eternity, the steps ended, opening up onto a long arched corridor lined with the same black glasslike stones. Then, impossibly, he heard the distinct sound of rainfall echoing down the tunnel. Even if he weren't in the Red Desert—which almost never saw rain—he must have been hundreds of feet underground by now. He froze, fearing he had somehow passed through a magical barrier into another world. His fear spiked, and the torch in his grip trembled, casting moving shadows over the smooth black walls.
He forced himself to breathe, to become calm. It can't be rain. Stop shaking like a child. You shame yourself and your ancestors. The Illthori have been dust for centuries.
He took a step and then another. With each pace, the sound of rainfall grew. He could even smell the moisture in the air. When he came to the end of the corridor, his breath caught in his throat, and he stood staring in wonder.
Extending before him as far as he could see was a vast natural cavern lit up by the eerie blue glow of lichen that crawled over the walls. From the roof of the cavern, hundreds of paces above him, hung thousands of daggers of stone, some as large as wagons. Water dripped inexorably from the tips of each dagger, falling into a vast black pool that filled the surface of the cavern entirely. Where the drops hit the water, they created ripples that cascaded and intermingled, spreading outward in every direction, distorting the blue glow of the lichen. In the center of the black pool, dominating the cavern, stood a stone pyramid a hundred feet high, its sides lined with patterns and carvings of animal heads. Steps built into the side of the pyramid led up to a smooth summit, upon which stood a vast dark shape, a monstrous winged beast. A shudder of terror coursed through Fel, almost driving him to his knees. Ancestors, help me!
Moments later, when the beast remained in place, Fel realized it was just another statue, albeit a horrifying one.
He remained near the entrance to the cavern for some time, gazing in wonder at the pyramid. Eventually, his greed overcame his fear, and Fel stepped out into the cavern. He moved closer to the edge of the pool, wondering how deep it went.
He stepped into the water, the cold shocking, and began to push his way deeper toward the base of the pyramid. The stones beneath his feet were slick and treacherous, and he slipped, falling backward into the cold waters, dropping both torch and scimitar. Panic welled within him, but a moment later, he realized he didn't need the torch after all. The glowing blue lichen provided more than enough light by which to see.
He squatted down, groping about in the dark waters for his weapon. When his fingers brushed over a slimy sticklike object, he gripped it and pulled it free, staring at it in confusion for several moments until he realized with disgust that it was a bone, a thighbone. Age-blackened and rocklike, it was also twice as long as any bone should have been. He cast it from him in disgust. He reached beneath the waters again, his fingers now trailing over bones everywhere. His revulsion rose. The entire bottom of the pool must be lined with bones. How is such a thing possible? When he found his scimitar, he rose, pushing forward as fast as he could, desperate to climb out of these foul waters. The dark waters reached only as high as his chest before he pulled himself out onto the steps of the pyramid, breathing heavily.
"Grip your courage, man," he told himself, his voice echoing unnaturally within the chamber. "Whatever evil happened here took place long before you were born."
When he thought himself capable again, he began to climb the steps. As he came up onto the top, he nearly fouled himself at his first up-close view of the winged statue he had seen from the entrance.
Unlike those weathered by the elements outside, this one was in perfect condition, flawlessly carved, but the source of nightmares. All black, it was a giant winged demon, possessing a scaled reptilian body with monstrous bat wings swept forward about its bestial form. Its snakelike head sported two twisting horns and an open jaw lined with finger-long fangs. The demon's reptilian arms extended toward Fel, the clawed hands placed together, palms up in supplication. Sitting atop the cupped claws was a white porcelain mask.
He edged closer, dripping slimy water onto the steps. That the mask had been of immense value to the Illthori was obvious—holy even—but was it magical as well? The features on the mask resembled those of a woman, or a child, but the scale was wrong, the eyeholes too far apart and too wide. Bizarre symbols reminding Fel of Fenyir runes were etched along its edges. It was hard to be certain under the glow of the lichen, but the runes seemed to be filled with a glittering substance—gold perhaps? For the first time since entering this underground temple, a surge of satisfaction coursed through Fel. The mask was breathtakingly beautiful. Even if it were entirely mundane—which seemed very unlikely—its value would make a man's fortune for life—for the lives of his children and his children's children.
He tentatively reached a hand toward the mask, keeping a wary eye on the demon's snarling visage. His fingers trailed over it.
Nothing happened.
He lifted the mask away, his fingers trembling.
The stone demon did nothing.
Fel smiled, now chiding himself for his foolishness. The Illthori are long vanished. This treasure is mine.
The mask, light and clearly fragile, felt unremarkable. There was no tingling of ancient magic, no trembling in the earth around him. The mask was no different from any other piece of porcelain he had ever held … well, other than its immense worth. He turned it over, examining its shiny black interior, lacquered perhaps. The two oversized feline eyeholes allowed one to see while wearing it, but the wearer would have to hold it in place. Before he even realized what he was doing, he lifted the mask to his face.
His world shifted.
The temple complex, the pyramid, the cavern … all disappeared. He now found himself soaring over the desert like a hawk—no, he realized, not a hawk, he had no substance—he was the wind, soaring and dipping and devoid of the limitations of flesh. The sensation was beyond exhilarating. No man had ever experienced this before.
Is this what it's like to be a god?
Below him, the sandstorm continued to rage, brown and violent.
He was tired of it, weary of its menace. The storm was an affront to his new divine presence, so he willed it gone. And just like that, the sandstorm began to break up, to ebb and calm. Power and joy surged through Fel.
Hours later, it was his nephew Eld and two others who found Petros Fel. Eld stared at his uncle, who sat cross-legged atop the pyramid, beneath the outstretched wings of the horrifying stone demon, as if it guarded him. Fel seemed unaware they were there, even when they called out to him, merely whispering fervently to himself. Drool ran down the side of his mouth, into a beard now whiter than salt. In his lap, in gnarled hands covered with liver spots, he held a beautiful porcelain mask. Eld stood before his uncle, his mind reeling. Petros Fel, a man in his late thirties with a wife and young children, was now older than any man Eld had ever seen, his skin lined with deep craters, like sun-baked earth, his eyes clouded over
by cataracts.
Eld knelt beside his uncle, his heart hammering as he leaned in closer to make out the man's soft, incessant whispers. "Uncle, what happened?"
"I'm a god," Petros Fel whispered. "A god, a god, a god."
Part I
Blood on the Docks
1
Bors grunted as he lifted the heavy bag of grain from the deck of the cargo ship, letting its contents settle over his shoulders before turning and making his way back across the creaking gangplank. He tossed the sack atop the pile of others on the pier and squinted up at the sun as it began to drop behind the brightly colored rooftop tiles of the city's skyline. Although still hotter than a blacksmith's forge, the desert air would cool when night fell over Port Talos. He groaned loudly, pushing against the small of his back and arching his spine, feeling every single one of his thirty-eight years today. He was too old and too tired for this type of backbreaking labor. His feet hurt, his shoulders hurt, and the sun baked his skull. But he still needed to eat.
"A man endures what must be endured," he whispered.
He had come to Port Talos looking for work as a caravan guard but hadn't found it. The Hishtari had been far more prejudiced and xenophobic than he had realized and wouldn't hire foreigners, let alone those without letters of backing. The only options available to such as he had been work as a dock laborer or starve to death.
The Mask of Storms (Blood and Honor Book 1) Page 1