Unmasked (Rise of the Masks Book 1)

by Kaplan, EM

  Guyse didn't know. He didn't care just so long as he was able to rescue his daughter.

  In the end, he stood with nineteen trogs, who weakly raised themselves to accompany him. When he organized them loosely around himself, he shifted back to human form. Some of them were clearly discomfited by it, but he had to find Mel, and without his vocal chords, he wasn't sure how he was going to do it.

  "Do you understand my words?" he asked them harshly. He received no sign of acknowledgment as he slowly turned in a circle looking at his newly formed guard. He circled twice before he caught a curt nod out of the corner of his eye. He turned on the trog who had admitted to understanding him.

  "I'm here to retrieve my daughter," he said. "My offspring." The sole trog nodded again. Guyse continued, "She was captured in a cavern. Taken away from a group of us who came here to ask for peace."

  The trog's eyes suddenly grew wide. Then he nodded again, more rapidly. Another of Guyse's newly formed group began signaling rapidly. The trogs around him seemed to grow apprehensive. They conversed among themselves for a minute, arguing, and jostling each other aggressively, with probably as much force as a human man might strike another in anger. The trogs' punches and bumps seemed to punctuate their speech.

  "Enough," Guyse cut them off. "Take me to her. This is part of our agreement. I will help you come aboveground, but only when we retrieve my daughter." The trog grunted, stared at him a long time, and then seemed to submit to his terms.

  Guyse followed them as they shuffled single-file out of the room into one of the many tunnels that fed into it. Within minutes, they came to a set of rooms. He looked into them and cringed to see that they were sleeping quarters. They reeked of animals at close quarters—breath, sweat, and mating. Guyse seethed to think what might have happened to Mel. But the rooms were empty now.

  The trogs stopped, confused, and consulted among themselves. Guyse was the first to smell the blood. He turned his head and sniffed. Trog blood, he recognized. It was gamey and greasy-smelling. But there was human blood, too. Not a lot of it. But then, Mel was not a big person. Guyse cursed and pointed down the tunnel from which the smell was emanating. "That way," he said.

  Chapter 67

  Ott was going to need an army to get out of this hell hole. He'd been at the bottom of a trog dogpile, and it wasn't fun. He had the cracked ribs to prove it. Actually, not anymore. He rubbed a tentative hand down his dirty, blood-covered side but felt only manageable aches and bruises since Mel had . . . done whatever it was that she did. It felt like she had taken his guts and stirred him up inside—in a not altogether unpleasant way. It kind of made his spine buck and his toes tingle.

  But what he really needed right now was an army of strong fighters. What he wouldn't give to have Rob with him. And instead of one able-bodied trog, he had the equivalent of . . . well, a human. A trog librarian? Did they even have books? Well, the guy was an archivist of some sort, it turned out. Cave drawings or drawings on skins or some such thing. Ott shrugged internally. Eh, to each his own. And speaking of his own . . . he eyed Mel with admiration. Explosions. Healing. And, apparently, liquefaction, from what Rav was describing. Was there anything Mel couldn't do? She even made the sack cloth she was wearing look good. His eyes traveled the length of her slim legs.

  "Look, Ott," she was saying. "I know you've been close to dead . . . more than once today, but can you stand up? We have to get moving."

  "The faster we leave this place, the better," he agreed, bracing himself for the dizziness and inevitable room swirl when he stood. Good thing she was next to him, because he almost went down again. His hand on her shoulder helped balance him out. Plus, it gave him that warm feeling in the bottom of his stomach just touching her. Then his head cleared a little more and he looked at her. Really looked at her and noticed her clothes. Bruises on her legs and arms. Broken fingernails where she'd fought someone off. Red flooded his vision.

  "Are you hurt?" he asked, trying to unclench his jaw while he searched her face, his fingers reaching for her hand. He braced himself to do damage if she had been hurt. Skulls would be crushed. But she was already scanning the exits.

  "What?" she said, distractedly patting him on the lower back. She seemed ready to forge ahead. Maybe the momentum she felt wasn't something he should disturb. At some point, too, he would have to tell her that her parents were dead. He shoved the thought away for later, hoping for a better time and place to deliver the news.

  "I said, how are you going to get us out of this mess?" he said, changing tack.

  “Don't worry," she said, starting up again with that rhythmic, comforting patting. "I'll think of something." Her grime-covered face was knotted in concentration. He didn't know whether to be amused or insulted. He went with the one that took less energy because the rest of his effort was going toward simply remaining standing. And he kind of liked the patting. So, they shuffled their way toward Rav and her trog . . . trog scholar. They were in so much trouble.

  Heavy footsteps came their way down the tunnel. A herd, he decided, based on the thudding and raspy breathing. For the rest of his dying days, Ott would never forget that wheezy sound.

  "Lutra on a spit," Ott muttered to himself. Were they never going to catch a break? Probably not the direction they were headed. He turned, putting himself between Mel and the oncoming footsteps. He felt her warm hand on his arm. Not much good he was going to be able to do in the state he was in. No weapon. No armor. Nothing but exhaustion at this point. He wondered if he could at least give her a chance to run away. Though he didn't much want to think about where she could run.

  More than a dozen trogs entered the room from an opposite tunnel, but they weren't in much better shape than Ott. A few of them limped. Then, all the tension went out of Ott as he saw Guyse in their midst.

  "Mel. Thank God," the big man said, striding toward her. His furrowed brow pulled down deeper over his tightly closed eyes as he wrapped his arms around his daughter and held her close. Ott felt a weird pang of jealousy. Guyse pulled back from Mel and took her face between his two huge, paw-like hands. "Are you all right?" Guyse asked her.

  Mel nodded her head. Ott didn't hear if she said anything. He was standing off to the side, petulantly wondering when she'd come back to stand by him. He was being a child about it. Maybe he'd feel less needy after a hot meal, a warm bed, and five solid days of sleep. If they got out of here alive.

  "Mel," Guyse said. "Ana and Ley’Albaer are dead." Ott gaped at the man and his brusque delivery. It was cruel. She had already been through enough today. Ott had wanted to save her from the added shock and pain. Why had the man been so brutal about it? But straightforward, Ott realized. Like cutting away the dead part of a wound so it could begin to heal? And why hadn't Ott been brave enough to tell her himself? He should have been the one to hold her closely and comfort her.

  "What? No," Mel said, and then shook her head in denial, her hair hanging in dirty hanks, her widened eyes standing out in the grime on her face. "No. You're wrong." Guyse gently held her shoulders and nodded.

  "They died earlier. When you were taken."

  Mel frowned, trying to understand. Then she abruptly covered her face with her hand. Ott shifted backward more so he was against the cold, rough cave wall, hanging back nearly out of sight. Mel's grief was palpable, a pain that he could almost taste and feel in his chest. He stood still except for his fingers, which he couldn't control. They moved restlessly against his palms because he wanted so badly to go to her, to let her collapse against him if need be, to carry her weight for her.

  Guyse was whispering softly to her, describing the events in general terms. Now, the callous bastard was gentle. Ott heard his painting of the deaths of Mel's parents, and was surprised to remember very little of the details himself. Guyse lingered softly at the telling of Ana's death, and Ott knew suddenly that Guyse had loved her. That must have been hell, to have loved a woman who loved his brother.

  Archers? Ott's mind suddenly fixated on t
he memory of them. Archers from Col Rob. It had to be him. "Col Rob is a dead man," Ott said under his breath. Not surprisingly, Guyse's Mask-trained ears heard him.

  "Col Rob is a dead man," Guyse said, momentarily stunning all urges of vengeance out of Ott. "He died this evening in his bed chamber."

  I have to get to Rob. He's going to need me, Ott immediately thought.

  Then a sob broke from Mel's throat, and Ott found himself halfway to her before he realized it. Mel crossed the other half of the distance. He cradled her in his arms, wanting to wrap her up and to get her away from all of it. This is where I'm meant to be, he thought. Not the time, nor the place . . . but with her.

  The trogs were shuffling their feet and looking restless. They were recovering from the earlier blast that had debilitated them. If these trogs were perking up, the other less-friendly ones would be, too. The tunnels would be rife with them. Ott's pulse ticked up a notch with the growing sense of urgency and the wish to leave. If they only knew how far below ground they were, maybe he could dig their way up and out. He eyed the ceiling, but it looked like solid rock. They were probably a stone's throw from the middle of the earth, for all he knew.

  "What's your plan for getting out of here?" he asked Guyse over Mel's head. She, however, thought he was asking her. When she raised her face to him, he cringed, expecting her to rail at him or, even worse, to cry harder. Instead, she took a final deep breath in and set her shoulders, clearing her throat at the same time. Well, OK, then. Perhaps she had a plan.

  "We walk out," she said.

  Chapter 68

  They stumbled through the catacombs, bodies littering their path. Mel saw their raggedy group fall into a natural order. Ott took the lead with Rav's trog beside him. Mel came next. Then Rav followed behind her, with Guyse on guard at the rear of the humans, his twenty or so ailing trogs limping behind.

  Far too soon, the first trog came barreling down the tunnel at them. Mel barely saw it before it plowed into Rav's trog, knocking him back into Ott who, despite his ready stance, was thrown on his backside in the dust. Mel heard an inhuman snarl of rage and it was several more heartbeats before she could comprehend what she saw.

  The trog who had attacked them never reached her. Ott was a blur, moving with an astonishing fluidity that Mel had seen only in animals. He leaped at the trog, wrapping his big hands around its thick gray throat. Ott's body tucked in mid-air and his feet landed on the trog’s chest, from which he pushed off, at the same time wrenching and releasing its neck. The trog fell back, and Ott landed on his feet. Mel was fairly certain that only she and Guyse had the ability to see any of Ott's movements. And Guyse was behind them, partially blocked, focused on any attackers approaching from the rear. So, only she had witnessed Ott’s sheer power and inhuman strength.

  Mel swallowed and shuddered involuntarily. This was the man she'd held in her arms. He'd had his hands on her, all over her. The same hands that just snapped the neck of that creature. And it was stupid, she realized. Whatever he was . . . it was her fault because of whatever she had done to him by cleansing him. Now he was a killer. She took a breath. Yet, was she any better? Was she any less lethal? Would she do anything less to ensure his safety? She set her shoulders and tried to prepare herself for the next encounter. Ott stood ready, balanced on the balls of his feet. Rav's trog gestured for them to move, and they proceeded forward as a unit.

  The next attack brought three trogs. Ott dropped one of them with a noise of snapping bones that made Mel's stomach clench. The other two trogs broke through their ranks. Guyse leaped forward to take one of them. The remaining beast went for Rav. With a hoarse shout, Mel clenched her hands and stirred up that trog from the inside until its eyes rolled back in its head and it sank to the floor. She had to be careful. Concentrating her movements so as to avoid stirring the agamite inside Ott, she turned toward Guyse, and with a gesture, flicked the trog off him so it crashed back against the tunnel wall, making a wet trail when it slid to the floor.

  The others stared at it and then at Mel. She ran her hand over the lower part of her face, avoiding eye contact with them—especially with Ott. Hadn’t she just given him the same shudder? When she finally braved a glance at him, he looked pale and somewhat aghast. She was a killer, an unnatural . . . manipulator of agamite. Some kind of magician. A spellbinder. Certainly not human. She felt like an abomination, as much a creature of children’s tales as the ogres at her feet. She cringed, her stomach dropping, and a part of her shriveled with disgust and self-loathing. She was covered in dried gore and dirt and dressed in a cast-off filthy tunic; no amount of bathing was going to get her clean now. She tucked her chin down, and they moved on.

  Their strategy worked fine for now, with Ott taking the first wave each time the trogs came at them. He didn't seem to be tiring. Mel cast a glance at his bare back, where the muscles bunched, tense and covered with streaks of dirt and blood. She wasn't close enough to touch him, but her hands were filthy anyway. She wouldn't have touched him with her soiled hands for the world. She'd done enough as it was. He seemed even taller than when they had left the house that morning. Every time she touched him with her so-called healing, she changed him, she thought queasily. She didn't want to change him. She wanted him as he was, but unharmed. No broken bones. No hidden wounds or punctures inside. She had wanted only to heal the damage. She wasn’t sure she could go near him again with the amount of agamite sifting through his body.

  They reached another dimly-lit cavern, but this one was crowded with trogs. With raspy snarls, the creatures leapt to their feet and charged at Ott. He crouched, ready to grapple the first of them with his bare hands even though there were too many by far; they were horribly outnumbered once again. Then Guyse barked a warning as they were attacked from the rear. The trogs who traveled with them were felled left and right, and Mel feared they all might be finished for sure. Yet she concentrated and held herself back from blasting them with a frantic wave. Now, more than ever, she needed her Mask-trained control and she struggled to keep her wits about her. She carefully repelled some of the trogs coming from the side, pushing them one-by-one, away from Rav. She couldn’t panic now—anything she did to the trogs might affect Ott. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him plow through the gray forms, lost suddenly in a sea of them. Then the creatures surrounded Rav and her. She tried holding them off in a tight radius, but they broke through.

  Out of the ring around them, a trog lunged at Rav, grabbing her by the arm. Across the crowded chamber Rav's trog howled in rage, unable to protect her. But the trog who held Rav suddenly started and pulled back, his eyes opening white and wide in his gray, bristled face. He bellowed a hoarse cry that nearly blacked Mel’s vision from its volume; it stilled and silenced the chamber. Another trog's hand gripped Ott by the throat, but that hand loosened at the shout, and Ott rubbed his freed, raw neck. As the commotion around them slowed, the trogs roughly hit those who still fought until eventually the room quieted—and all watched Rav and the trog who had her by the arm. Mel tensed, ready to strike him down to protect her friend if need be. But the trog leaned in, his thick lips curling, and took a deep breath near Rav's neck, smelling her.

  Abruptly he dropped Rav's arm and started speaking to her in gestures. His huge paw-like hands with their yellowed nails flew, but Rav frowned and shook her head in confusion—he spoke too quickly for her. She looked for her trog, who was buried in the ranks of their attackers. He had been jostled and dismissed, pushed out of the way during the attack. He shoved his way back to Rav now and stood beside her.

  Rav’s trog and the other exchanged rapid hand movements while Rav watched, face tight in concentration as she tried to understand the interchange. Then suddenly the attacking trog fell back, a confounded expression on his gruesome face. He stared at Rav, and Mel caught how he looked at her belly. In Mel's ear, Guyse suddenly whispered, "Your friend carries a child by one of them?" Mel shook her head no. No child nestled in Rav’s womb; could this other trog see the
future? Had he seen what Mel had also seen? That there would be a human child one day? There was more to it than that, but she couldn't give even a shortened version here and now; she wasn’t even sure what she had seen.

  The trog speaking to Rav suddenly fell back a couple of steps. Then others followed his example. They stood at ease, watching her. Rav's eyes widened and she swallowed hard. Abruptly, a pathway was cleared between her and the doorway out of the cavern.

  "Who's the Great Mother now, my friend?" Mel muttered under her breath. She could tell Rav was thinking the same thing. And she was horrified.

  Mel stepped up behind her friend. Guyse fell in behind them. Then Ott wrenched himself away from the trogs whose hands were still lightly restraining him and came to stand with them. Together they stood in a tight grouping. And then, they walked out.

  Chapter 69

  Harro had been watching the pit, pacing the tent city like a dog that had fallen off a wagon and was waiting for his owner to return for him. The miners and their families were settling into the refugee camp in the great hall up at the house, displaced again, yet coping with typical northern stoicism. They didn't need his help up there. And frankly he felt so outside of himself thinking about Treyna he didn't know what to do.

  He had tucked Treyna's possessions away in his room at the big house, a fine sensitive mess for a former stableman. Her things were wrapped in a bundle in a wooden trunk that he kept at the base of his bed. It was imbecilic. But once he had her things in his coarse hands, he couldn't throw them away. Even if she weren’t coming back. He'd wandered around her shredded tent long enough to realize it now. He had not found her, though he had searched. Her body was not among the dead. She had been taken, whether alive or dead, by the trogs. Dead, he fervently hoped. But still, what if she weren’t?

  Survivors had hauled away the corpse of Jonas to the hastily-built pyre to prevent the trogs from taking more bodies for their grisly larder, so now the tent and surrounding ones were empty. Harro shuffled his feet carefully through the dirt, avoiding the worst patches of mud. He skirted the rest of the tents, the ruins of the half-constructed shelters, and the charred remains of the mess area where pots lay strewn on the ground. Pacing, keeping the motion of his feet moving forward though he walked in circles. The moon glinted above him, muted and silvered by clouds, reflecting in the shiny mud that was quickly freezing over.