Legends of the Dragonrealm: Volume 04

by Richard A. Knaak

  Yet, no sooner had the wizard delved a bit deeper than his heart skipped a beat. This was also source of the trace he had sensed both here and earlier. Despite the fragmentation, it was still much stronger than he had previously noted, enough that he finally recognized why it had seemed so familiar. Parts of the trace were akin to his own.

  The scorched bones were those of a Bedlam.

  THE JANUS MASK

  (Available in Trade & ebook)

  It was, G’Meni had to admit, a handsome enough face by present standards. The nose was perhaps just a tad too big as far as he was concerned and the mouth had a mocking cast to it that still unnerved him after more than a decade, but those very features were considered aristocratic by the standards of most, the type that leaders and lovers wore. Eyes of forest green and a head of stark black hair would have completed the picture of the man and soon they would again, now that the baron had chosen at last to make use of his greatest triumph.

  He opened the top of the small glass case and removed the face from its container.

  The mouth opened and closed once, a reflex that the squat, mustached alchemist was long used to seeing. All of the faces moved when one touched them. Sometimes the mouth worked or the nostrils flared. Once in a while, the eyelids opened, revealing the empty space behind them. G’Meni had made a long study of the properties of the dormant faces, determining what made one more mobile than another. He had come to the conclusion that it was the personality of the one from whom the face had been cast that dictated the random movements. The more vibrant the life, the more active the face.

  Ten years had done nothing to render this particular face passive-but then, Viktor Falsche had never been what one would have called passive. Bloodthirsty and impetuous, yes, but never passive.

  Still holding the face in his hands, G’Meni looked about the chamber, long oily mustache whirling wildly. “Where are they? They are late again! This will never do!”

  His view took in walls overburdened by half-completed experiments, notebooks, jars of samples, and, on one side, the special ceiling-high case, normally locked, from which the container holding the lifelike mask had been drawn. it was a pleasant enough place, to his mind, but it revealed no answer to his question. Before he could repeat his query, however, there came the sound of marching, boot-clad feet. The pace with which the newcomers moved indicated that they knew very well that they were late.

  G’Meni scratched the scarred wreckage that was all that remained of his nose, the end result of long ago leaning too close to one of his more explosive experiments, and chuckled at their evident fear. Their fear was a triumph, a major one, in his constant war of bickering with General Straas. To put fear into the minds of the general’s men was to put a trace of fear into their commander’s own mind, for were they not an extension of the bearded, arrogant soldier himself?

  Yes, indeed, they were. Very much so.

  There was a knock on the door. G’Meni rose to his full inch below five feet, used one hand to straighten his black robe, and tried to look as menacing as possible. “Enter and be damned quick about it, you slow-witted zombies!”

  The door swung open and a soldier clad in the blue and gray half-armor of the Guard stepped inside. He saluted. His pale features were rough-hewn and, save for the sleepiness hinted in his eyes, the clean-shaven face was that of a butcher, a methodical killer. But for the lack of a beard, he perfectly resembled General Straas as the general had looked some fifteen years earlier.

  A second soldier clad like the first entered. He, too, saluted. His features were identical to those of his companion. Only the color of their eyes differed, one man having blue and the other hazel.

  “Well? Did you bring the one I asked for? He must be just right for Baron Mandrol, you know! This is a special occasion.”

  “Someone put him in the wrong cell,” answered the first, in a tired drawl that was typical of his kind. “It took us several minutes to find out just which one, Master G’Meni.”

  The face in the alchemist’s hands began to twitch. “Well, don’t just dawdle, then, you idiots! Bring him in!”

  The first man snapped his fingers. Two more guardsmen, copies of the rest, entered the laboratory with a third, much abused figure stumbling between them.

  “Be careful with his arms, dolts! He won’t be much good if you break them just yet! Save that for the masque!”

  Looking rather chastened, the two soldiers loosened their hold a bit on the prisoner.

  G’Meni eyed the four members of the baron’s Guard. Perhaps it was time to ask the general for a new fitting. These men were becoming sloppy, not at all like the warrior whose visage they wore. It would require some work with the special acid he had prepared for such eventualities, but the wounds would be minor. He would broach the subject with the baron first. Straas was not going to be at all pleased to be forced to shave his beard after five years. He had grown it specifically to erase some of the unsettling resemblance between himself and his drone soldiers.

  “But that can wait,” the alchemist mumbled. With his chin, he indicated a long, angled platform fitted with manacles. “Put him on the table. Quickly, now! Your ineptitude means that I will be preparing him nearly up to the time of the masque!” He shook his head at the need for such rushing. G’Meni was a believer in quality workmanship where such a task was concerned. He wanted this to be the crowning masterpiece of his career, the focal point of the greatest of the baron’s masques.

  “And who better than you?” he whispered, gazing down at the flattened visage. The mouth worked again, followed almost immediately by a flaring of the nostrils. Eager for life again, Viktor Falsche? Enjoy it while it lasts! If you only knew of the revenge I have taken . . .

  “He is ready, Master G’Meni.”

  “Then step back so that I can take a look at this one.”

  The prisoner, some peasant from the cells, was of the right height and build and his hair was only slightly lighter than desired. A little dye would take care of that. The eyes were green, but more emerald than forest. Still, they would do, too. The man looked and stank of several days in the company of the other refuse that populated the baron’s dungeons, but a thorough cleaning would deal with that. The cleaning could take place after this part of the process.

  G’Meni blinked, leaned a little closer, and studied the battered countenance of the peasant. “Give me a little more light.”

  One of the guards seized a lit oil lamp and brought it forward. In the increased illumination, the prisoner’s features became clearer. The alchemist chuckled. He would have recognized those features anywhere. The long face, the broad, flat nose, the extended cheekbones . . .

  One of your earlier trysts, my baron? He has to be one of yours with a face like that. An idea formed, one that the bent figure quickly quashed. He dared not risk such a feat; it could very well undo all that he had accomplished these past several years.

  The guards would have noticed the resemblance to the baron, but they knew Mandrol’s feeling toward his bastards. The children were a symbol of mortality to him, a symbol that he, too, must pass. The baron did not like being reminded of that, and so such children were to be removed when discovered. No one in Viathos Keep would think it amiss to make use of this one for the coming masque. In fact, the more G’Meni thought about it, the more it would be the crowning touch to the event. Two birds with one stone, so to speak.

  He realized that the peasant was staring back at him, cold fear evident in those green eyes. “What is your name, my boy?”

  The “boy” was in his mid-twenties, a tad too young for G’Meni’s preference in this, but old enough to make do. He hesitated, as was not surprising in the presence of the baron’s most trusted adviser and the land of Medecia’s second most feared name, then finally croaked, “Emil.”

  “Emil.” Typically dull peasant name. “Well, dear Emil, you have been chosen for a great honor, you have. You are going to be a guest, a very special guest, at the baron’s gre
at ball tomorrow evening, isn’t that wonderful?”

  From the shudder that visibly coursed through the peasant’s rank body, G’Meni gathered that Emil knew some of the tales that surrounded the monthly masques held in the grand ballroom of the castle everyone still insisted on calling Viathos Keep. It was to be expected. Had he not received such a reaction from the peasant, then the alchemist would have truly been surprised.

  “Yes,” he continued, holding up the unsettling visage in his hands for the chosen one to see. “You are going to attend the ball just like the nobles and courtiers. You will

  even have a special place of honor, one reserved for only the greatest of the baron’s associates.”

  As if in response, the face twitched. The nose wrinkled and the mouth opened and closed. The chained prisoner could not help but be attracted by the movement. His eyes bulged as he watched the mask continue to make a pretense at life.

  G’Meni allowed him to gape for several seconds. “It is fascinating, is it not? You have heard stories about this, haven’t you?”

  The peasant managed to nod, his eyes still fixed on the horrific thing his captor held so gently.

  “I cannot take credit for the design, although I can take credit for the perfection. The baron himself is to be congratulated for this creation. It is, I can easily say, his crowning achievement.” All knew of the baron’s lifelong delving into sorcery and alchemy. “The synthesis of two astonishing schools! The power of magic and the knowledge of science combining to create this.”

  His audience did not seem as admiring of this marvel as G’Meni was. In fact, the peasant muttered something under his breath. At first the stooped figure could not make

  out what it was. He had the frightened Emil repeat the words, encouragement given in the form of a slap by one of the gauntleted hands of a guard.

  “Death . . . mask. . . the death mask . . .”

  The words were an offense to G’Meni. “Death mask, indeed! This is a symbol of the continuance of life, not death! This is, in its own way, an honor!" Balancing the face in one hand, G’Meni indicated the great case. “Each of those slots contains the perfect reproduction of the baron’s most worthy adversaries through the years. Each of those faces was taken with great care and respect from their dead or dying forms in such a way that there remains a reflection, a hint of personality, of the original! Do you know the intricacy involved in such a feat? All of our work through the years!” The alchemist shook his head at the sheer ignorance of the masses. “It is ever the fate of the learned to be misunderstood and misjudged by those who do not know better.”

  His audience did not seem convinced. G’Meni looked up at the guards and saw little more comprehension despite the fact that they of all people should have understood the complexities of what he and his patron had accomplished. He wondered why he always tried to explain to such obviously unfit audiences as this bastard son of the baron. Better to get on with the process. Time was already slipping past.

  Still, he could not help talking as he proceeded. It was the part of him, G’Meni always believed, that desired to educate and illuminate the ignorant despite their never seeming to appreciate his efforts that made him do it. That and his affection for the sound of his own voice.

  “The highlight of the ball is a morality play of sorts, you must understand. A retelling of events in the great life of our baron. You have been given the honor of portraying a central figure in that play, one who certainly has earned a place of respect in my heart.”

  The prisoner shook his head, his eyes unable to turn long from the otherworldly object resting in G’Meni’s palms.

  “You do not feel up to the role, I am sure.” The alchemist raised the wrinkled face to the horrified visage of his subject. “Rest assured, it will seem more like a dream. The mask will guide you. I believe you may even sleep through it. I’ve never been quite certain of the extent. Depends on the personality of the mask, you know.”

  “Mother of God . . .” the peasant was finally able to whisper. G’Meni already had the face mere inches from Emil’s own.

  “You will be Viktor Falsche, my loutish friend, and you will be as he was . . . until he died.”

  He pressed the underside of the mask against Emil’s countenance.

  There was a muffled scream that quickly faded. G’Meni paid little mind to the reaction save to note that it was part of the normal chain of events for the process. That pleased him; the mask had been waiting for so long that, reflex actions aside, he had still been a bit afraid that it had lost some of its potency. Should have known . . . Viktor Falsche was always so lively.

  The false face stretched and remolded, shaping so as to conform to the contours of the host and yet still retain the features with which it had been instilled. The alchemist watched the process take place with pride in his heart. The masks were as much his children as they were the baron’s.

  At last, the rippling and twisting of the features quieted, leaving in their wake what seemed an entirely different man. G’Meni noted that even unconscious, the figure

  chained to the platform shifted to a more defiant, arrogant position, as if ready to fight even in the land of dreams.

  “It has melded well,” he informed the guards. “Inform the baron that all will proceed on schedule. He shall have his special anniversary masque tomorrow and there he shall reaffirm his position with a replaying of his greatest triumph . . .the humiliation and death of Viktor Falsche, rival and pretender.”

  “Yes, Master G’Meni.” The identical soldiers departed, save for the first who had entered.

  It took G’Meni a moment to notice the presence of the remaining guard, so absorbed was he in examining the fine, almost invisible line revealing where the mask ended. “What is it? I am extremely busy!”

  The soldier indicated the prone form. “Is it safe to leave you alone with this one? I remember Falsche. I remember how---”

  “You remember nothing. Your general recalls, and that memory is of years past. Forget it. If this were truly Falsche and not simply a shadow mask of him, I would perhaps worry, but there is no reason to fear. This puppet is mine to lead, mine to direct. He will play his role and then he will die. is that too much to understand?”

  “No.” Despite the response, there was still a hint of unease in the face. Even the eyes looked less sleepy.

  G’Meni waved him away. “Your concern is noted. You may depart now.”

  The soldier saluted, then disappeared through the doorway.

  When he was finally alone, the squat alchemist delved once more into his Work. There was so much to do. The guards no doubt believed that once the face was in place, the rest was simple, but that was not how G’Meni saw it. He was a perfectionist, an artisan, when it came to the process, and that meant that he had to put the ensorcelled figure through a series of tests in order to ascertain just what level of possession had been attained. This Viktor Falsche had to be perfect, save for the flaw that would lead to his downfall tomorrow.

  “You shall need a washing, too.” He sniffed, looking over the figure. That would be the first test. A full head-to-toe cleansing would require extensive physical activity, which would inform G’Meni as to the strength of the link between the mask and the host. “Then, I have a special series of experiments designed just for you.”

  He paused then, noting something amiss just before the left ear. A crease. There should have been no creases, but there it was. “This will never do, you know! We cannot have you losing face before the climax!”

  Chuckling at his own jest, the robed figure turned away to search for the adhesive he had created for just such emergencies. It was not as permanent as the liquid that was applied to the faces of Straas’s drone soldiers, but it would hold for the length of the morrow’s ball.

  “No, indeed.” He chuckled again, still very much amused at his humor. “We want you just perfect tomorrow when you face Baron Mandrol and the Lady Lilaith DuPrise.”

  As he finished speaki
ng, a chill coursed through him, nearly causing him to drop the container he had just picked up. Not knowing why he did so, G’Meni whirled around and stared at the figure on the platform.

  The prisoner had not moved. He still lay as the alchemist had seen him last, sleeping the slumber of the deeply entranced.

  Master G’Meni’s mouth curled slightly upward into a rueful smile. “Only you could do that to me after ten years of death, Falsche! Hmmph! I wonder how you will affect the Lady DuPrise.”

  He turned back to the table and the container and began measuring out a proper amount of the adhesive. Too much would be almost as detrimental as too little.

  Behind him, the eyelids of the figure slowly opened, stared momentarily at the alchemist’s hunched back, and then slowly closed again.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Richard A. Knaak is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of The Legend of Huma, WoW: Stormrage, and nearly fifty other novels and numerous short stories, including works in such series as Warcraft, Diablo, Dragonlance, Age of Conan, and his own Dragonrealm. He has scripted a number of Warcraft manga with Tokyopop, such as the top-selling Sunwell trilogy, and has also written background material for games. His works have been published worldwide in many languages.

  His most recent releases include Shade --- a brand-new Dragonrealm novel featuring the tragic sorcerer --- Wolfheart --- the latest in the bestselling World of Warcraft series, and the third collection in his Legends of the Dragonrealm series. He is presently at work on several other projects, among them Dawn of the Aspects for World of Warcraft and a new Dragonrealm saga concerning The Turning War, which fans can find out more about on his website.