She tried to speak, to convince him to remove the gag. She had yet to meet a man she couldn't sway—even if her looks were of no interest.
"I wouldn't expect any associate of Sly Tor to understand this honor, but I am Kamanth Kul, master of this tower and the arcane arts."
Merciful Lintara, the sorcerer!
She thrashed once again, her mind wild with panic. The sorcerer smiled, obviously pleased with her fear, and then began to paint her flesh once again. When she began to buck, he paused, his eyes hardening. "Stop that! If you make me make a mistake, I'll let my servant eat your fingers and toes—I don't need them for the ritual."
She forced herself to lie still, believing every word. Her heart continued to pound against her ribcage. Was Bors alive? Would he come for her?
No, of course not, you foolish woman, she told herself. You're a daughter of the First Sun Seer, not some helpless girl, and Bors—if he lives—is no hero. He'll run—as would you were your circumstances reversed. She closed her eyes and forced herself to be calm. Save yourself.
Kul grunted in satisfaction and closed up his vial. "It isn't quite … perfect, but it will have to do. Besides, as I said, all that truly matters is the Tear of H'althos." He frowned. "Did I mention the Tear?"
Once again, she tried to talk through the gag, to get him to remove it, but he stepped away, returning a moment later with a foot-long blade seemingly constructed from black glass. He held its point near her eye. The edges seemed like razors. "This is the Tear of H'althos. Its purchase nearly beggared me, but I had to have it. I don't know exactly what its original purpose was, but I do know that if I use it to take your life, it should negate the effects of the curse placed upon the mask. At least that's what I've been able to decipher from ancient scrolls. If the scrolls are correct, all the Tear of H'althos needs is a trickle of magical energy channeled into it before use to activate it, followed by the wielder speaking the name of the item to be cleansed. I won't know for certain until after I shove it through your heart, but I can't imagine why it wouldn't work."
The mask! He thinks to use the mask. She thrashed and yelled into the gag, willing desperation into her eyes.
He patted her cheek. "You have until sunset. The hour shouldn't matter, either but … perfectionist." He smiled through his brown teeth before turning away. Moments later, she heard the sound of a door closing.
With Kul gone, the man-beetle monstrosity moved closer and stood at the end of the table, where it watched her hungrily, its mandibles dripping hot saliva onto her face and neck.
15
In complete darkness, Bors reached about him, feeling his way. Sly Tor's bolt-hole, a tunnel reinforced with wood, was just high enough for Bors to crawl on hands and knees. He couldn’t tell how far he had fallen, but the air was cool, meaning he was likely underground. He felt the ladder behind him but needed to go forward, not back. Sly Tor's men would be in the office by now. Perhaps they didn't know about the bolt-hole. Perhaps that man-insect demon had created so much destruction that the trapdoor was hidden. Bors didn't know, but he knew he couldn't stay here. At any moment, they were likely to find the ladder and him.
That demon had recognized him, Bors was certain of it. No, it may be a demon now, but it used to be that one-eyed bastard Grottle, I'm sure of it—and Grottle serves the sorcerer Kamanth Kul.
What had he gotten himself mixed up in?
His fingers trailed over the cold metal head of his axe, and he gripped it in one hand as he began to crawl in the dark. His skull pounded, and his hair was sticky with blood, but he didn't seem to be seriously injured; nothing was broken. How long had he been unconscious, and what of Long Tam? The woman had been alive, he was sure of it, but that didn't mean she lived now. If the monster was Grottle, then he … it ... likely brought her and the mask to Kamanth Kul, but why take her at all?
And what was he going to do?
Without the mask, Dar would kill him; that was certain.
Sly Tor's men in the Shadow Guild would love to kill him.
If the sorcerer and his pet monstrosity found him, they would kill him, too.
It had been a long time since he had been this unpopular.
What he needed to do, he knew, was to flee the city, take his chances as a stowaway. To remain even another day would almost certainly be his death. Long Tam was not his concern.
The tunnel began to slope up and soon came to a wooden barrier barring further progress—a hatch. Bright daylight bled through the edges of the hatch, and he groped about until his fingers touched a metal bolt holding the hatch closed. Placing an ear against the wood, he listened for several minutes, hearing the muted sounds of men laughing and conversing, reminding him of work parties. He drew the bolt back and pushed the hatch partially open to the sudden stench of garbage and urine. The hatch came out under a wooden scaffolding, around which grew thick desert scrubs. Sly Tor's tunnel came out in an alley, which made perfect sense for a hidden passage. Bors looked both ways but saw only a wild cat. He crawled out, and the cat hissed at him before bolting.
He moved down the alley, carefully approaching the street. Peering around the corner, he saw the tannery he and Long Tam had climbed the night before, as well as Sly Tor's warehouse. Armed toughs moved about its entrance, glaring at anyone who came too close, acting like angry hornets whose nest had been kicked.
The sounds of men at work came from the tannery, where, only a dozen paces away, a group of men unloaded barrels from a wagon. The men formed a line at the bed of the wagon, where each man would take his barrel, set it upon his shoulder, and then carry it inside the tannery. Sly Tor's men paid them no attention, clearly long accustomed to the activity.
He inhaled, put what he hoped was a bored expression on his face, and then strolled out into the street, heading for the wagon, expecting to hear angry shouts. No one challenged him, and he joined the others in line. When his turn came, he hoisted the sloshing barrel upon his shoulder, turned about so that the barrel obscured his face from Sly Tor's men, and entered the tannery. Once inside, he set the barrel down beside others and then slipped away, finding a back way out of the tannery. Again, no one challenged him.
Was his foul luck finally changing?
Minutes later, he was out on the street, heading out of the Narrows. A passerby stared at his arm, reminding Bors of the burnished silver armband he wore—an invitation to murder in such a place. He had been lucky Sly Tor's men hadn't seen it. He slipped the band off, holding it out of sight. Such a valuable could get him killed, but it would also barter for passage on any ship sailing from Port Talos, even for a man the Red Guard sought.
His luck had turned.
This city had never been his home. He owed no one anything.
So why was he so angry?
He stopped in the middle of the street, staring at the silver armband in his hand, remembering a young girl with fiery hair and freckles. Once, she had looked upon him as a hero. How would she look upon him today? And could he really just walk away and leave Long Tam to that demon?
"She's probably dead already, you damned stupid fool."
Several passersby stared at him as they walked around him, likely thinking him crazy.
They weren't wrong.
"You're just a man. You can't fight the supernatural. No one can. You wouldn't last…" He turned and stared behind him at Sly Tor's warehouse, its roof still visible over the other buildings. "Five heartbeats," he whispered.
He slipped the armband back in place over his bicep and eased his axe from his belt. "Well," he mused, "the hornets won't be expecting this."
16
Locating the sorcerer's home had been simple: the location of the Kul estate in the wealthy northern part of the city was no secret—avoiding the numerous Red Guard patrols in the district, though, had been an entirely different matter and had taken Bors hours to sneak his way here. Now, just before sunset, he found himself spying upon the entrance to the sorcerer's estate.
Brightly color
ed tiles forming a pattern of stars and moons decorated the high arched gate in the sandstone wall. Rising over the wall, ominous and menacing, was a single dark tower at least six stories high. He stared at that tower, feeling his unease grow. If Long Tam still lives, she'll be in there … with the sorcerer and his demon.
Two sentries stood before the gateway. The men, wearing the bored expression of those hired to stand about all day, leaned on polearms, a weapon sporting both a bladed spearhead and an axe.
Bors glanced at the setting sun. He could remain here until dark and then try to scale the wall, but he was no nimble wall-climbing thief. His skills lay in another direction. Besides, the longer he remained, the greater the chance someone would see him and bring the guard. There were times when careful planning and preparation were called for, and times when simplest served best.
He slipped his axe through his belt and stepped away from the corner, walking quickly but not alarmingly so toward the guards, his palms held outward in a non-menacing manner. They saw him immediately and glanced at one another in puzzlement. When Bors was within five paces, one of the men stepped forward, his polearm pointed too high above Bors's face. Bors frowned at him. Weapons should be held properly or not at all.
"What do you want?" the guard asked.
Bors smiled. "Hammer."
The guard's eyes narrowed. "What?"
Bors snapped out a kick between the man's legs, tapping his testicles just hard enough to get the result he wanted, knowing all too well that power was far less important than speed and accuracy. The man dropped, his mouth open, his polearm slipping from his fingers. Bors caught the weapon, slid forward, and assumed a ready stance, the polearm's point directly toward the second man, his weight evenly distributed on both feet.
The other guard hesitated and then made a half-hearted thrust with his polearm that likely would have missed all on its own. Combat was rarely about who was faster or stronger—although those traits did matter; more often than not, fighting was about overcoming the natural reluctance to hurt another human being. Most men needed to work themselves up to violence, shoving and making threats first. This was why drill and discipline were so important among soldiers. Drill overcame that reluctance.
Bors caught the man's clumsy thrust, pushing it to the side and breaking the man's balance. He then dropped his weight at the same time that he brought the flat axe head back against the man's skull. The guard dropped, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. Bors noted with relief the man still breathed.
He had killed enough men this night going back to Sly Tor's office.
He knelt beside the one he had kicked, now curled up into a ball and gasping for air. "When you can, take your friend and get away from here. Bring the Red Guard if you must, but you may need to find another job."
The man wheezed, and Bors rose, still holding the polearm as he entered the estate. As he walked, he reached into a pouch on his belt and drew forth a small object, relieved to find it still intact.
Long Tam's voice was raw and sore from screaming into the gag, but Kul hadn't paid her the slightest attention. He knelt cross-legged nearby, wearing only a loincloth and chanting incessantly. Against his scrawny chest, he held both the black glass dagger and the mask taken from Sly Tor's office. She recognized magic in the air, but it was a different magic from that taught by her Seer mother. This magic was dark and foul, bringing with it the presence of death. Overhead, the cracks in the ceiling grew dark as the sun fell. Any moment now, Kul would finish, rise, and kill her. Again, she strained at her bonds; again, it accomplished nothing. What use had been all those hours spent at her mother's side learning tribal magic if she was unable to use it now when she most needed it? The dark gods must be laughing at her. The man-beetle scuttled closer. Would Kul let it consume her corpse?
Lintara's tears, what an end.
The moment she feared came, and Kul ceased his chanting and rose to face her, a manic light in his eyes.
She was out of time.
Kul stood beside her and placed the razor-sharp point of the dagger against her flesh, just above her heart. The point of the dagger pricked her skin, and a trickle of blood ran between her breasts.
"The Mask of Storms," Kul cried out, tensing his arm to drive the blade through her heart.
The door to the chamber crashed open behind her.
17
Bors burst into the chamber, his breathing wild from running up all the stairs. The tower had been deserted, without even a single servant. Now, he confronted an old man in a loincloth, holding both the Mask of Storms and a black dagger over a bound Long Tam. The man-beetle demon that had been Grottle stood between Bors and Long Tam, not six paces away. The man, no doubt the sorcerer Kamanth Kul, turned to stare wide-eyed at Bors. "Kill him!"
The demon scuttled forward, intent on crushing Bors into a bloody smear. Bors dropped onto one knee, aiming the point of the polearm at the charging monster while holding the other end against the floor. The demon, unable to stop, slammed into the spearhead, punching its point through the armored plate on its chest. Bors rolled away as the wooden shaft shattered under the impact. Pushing himself as fast as ever he had, Bors was back on his feet, his axe raised over his head with both hands as he came around the demon. The sorcerer screamed in terror and bolted as Bors threw the axe overhead. It thudded into the table where Long Tam was bound, severing the ropes that held her wrists.
The demon ripped away the iron plate over its chest, taking with it the embedded spearhead and chunks of yellow flesh, ripping furrows from its torso. It shrieked and hurled the plate at Bors, who dropped to his belly as the heavy metal sheet whistled past. Bors rose, drawing his knife, little more than a tool. The blade, small in his hand, glistened. The monster advanced, watery yellow blood coursing down its chest. The flesh beneath the armor looked like the pale underbelly of a fish. It swung a massive pincer at Bors, but he ducked under it, rising and closing with the beast, thrusting his small knife all the way to the hilt in its exposed chest. Unfazed, the demon smashed an arm the size of a log against him, sending Bors flying back through the air to hit a wall so hard he felt his shoulder pop out of the socket. Fire coursed down his back as he staggered to his feet, his right arm hanging limp. The demon brushed the knife from its flesh and came on again. Bors, unarmed and helpless, bared his teeth in challenge, screaming in fury. The demon paused mid-step, its one good eye opening wide in surprise, just before it toppled forward, smashing into a bookshelf and sending parchment flying everywhere.
The demon lay still.
Long Tam had been right—it had taken less than five heartbeats for the Nitebiter poison he had coated his knife with to stop its heart.
Kamanth Kul stared in disbelief. This was impossible. One moment, he had been about to kill the woman, and the next, this grey-eyed fiend had burst in and killed his servant, an armored magical amalgam with the strength of a dozen men.
Now his life was at risk.
He gazed down at his hands, realizing that he had dropped the Tear of H'althos but still held on to the Mask of Storms. He stared at the mask, his hand trembling. According to his scrolls, the mask gave its wearer godlike powers, more than enough to deal with this interloper. But he hadn't been able to complete the ritual. If he put the mask on while the curse was still intact, it would age him.
He needed to run, to bring the watch. Kul spun about but found himself staring into the angry wine-colored eyes of the woman he had been about to sacrifice—and in her hand she held the Tear of H'althos.
How?
He stumbled back, soiling himself in his terror as he looked about wildly for a way past her. There was nothing. He was trapped in his own tower. "Wait!" Kul pleaded.
The woman advanced.
So be it! He lifted the mask to his face. He might die of old age, but he'd burn these fools to ashes with lightning first. Holding the mask in place, he anticipated the rush of occult power.
Nothing happened.
Then he sen
sed a trickle of magic coming from the woman, empowering the Tear of H'althos. How—
She pressed forward, wrapping an arm around his neck to hold him in place and whispered, "The Mask of Storms."
White-hot fire burned through his heart as she rammed the Tear of H'althos through it. He staggered back, the mask falling from nerveless fingers to shatter on the floor. His legs collapsed, and he fell beside the broken shards of the mask. Makes … no … sense.
He coughed up a mouthful of dark blood and died.
18
Long Tam helped Bors flee the sorcerer's tower. The Red Guard would be coming soon, she knew, and if they caught them, they'd torture them to death for killing a noble. As they stumbled from the estate, she heard the horns of the watch. But this was her city, and she could disappear into its cracks in moments. She did so now, leading Bors along back streets, remaining hidden until they were far from the estates of the wealthy. She brought him to another safe house, one with a large wooden bathing tub. While the water warmed over a flame in the fireplace, she tended to his wounds.
She sat back, considering the knots she had just tied in his scalp. She helped him remove his shirt and breeches, noting the numerous scars and old arrow punctures all over his body.
"You've done this before," he said, wincing at the pain in his shoulder.
"Such skills are necessary in Port Talos," she said then frowned in distaste when she came too near his armpit. "Lintara's tears, Bors, get into the bath."
He slowly lowered himself into the steaming water, sighing in pleasure. He had a swordsman's arms and powerful legs.
"Drink this," she said, handing him a small cup containing Conarckian plum brandy. He stared at it for a few moments and then sighed before taking it and sipping from it. Then she let him sit for a time, while the hot water softened his muscles for what was to come next. When she judged him ready, she stood next to his right side, took his arm, and gently placed his palm against her hip. She held his elbow and upper arm, meeting his gaze.
The Mask of Storms (Blood and Honor Book 1) Page 9