FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Elu felt the old urge to explore, and this time it forced its incontestable will upon him such that he could no longer ignore it. He sought a list of materials from the maskmaker that he still required, and the man gave it, though not without a squinted eye and a warning tongue. With the satchel at his side and the apprentice’s mask at his face he set out, but stopped at the inn first.

  He strode in with his head held high, for since it had become more common knowledge that he was indeed the maskmaker’s apprentice and not just his servant the people gave him a little more distance. The innkeeper’s wife glowered at him from behind the counter as she dried a clay cup. He saw Thora sweeping cobwebs out of the corners and approached her.

  “Come with me. I go to explore the lands west. It will be for us as it was.”

  She demurred, and continued sweeping.

  “Thora? Will you not come with me?”

  “I must not. If I do, the innkeeper will become angry again.”

  “Don’t bother with him. He won’t dare harm you if you come at my request. Not now.”

  “I think he holds you in less esteem than you guess. But no. I must not go with you.”

  “I will not leave without you, Thora,” he said.

  She stopped sweeping and regarded him. Her arm was bruised, from what Elu couldn’t tell, and her hands looked worn and ragged, probably from the ceaseless washing that the innkeeper set before her.

  “Elu, if I am to make a life for myself, I must heed my master and mistress and do my work. I cannot continually leave with you to wander, as much as my heart desires it.”

  He snatched the broom from her hands and laid it on a table. He let the hint of a smile extend past the edge of his mask. Thinking of the carefree Thora he once knew while exploring the village in the mountains, he crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out from the mouth-hole of the mask. She stared at him for a moment, and her face smiled as well.

  “Very well. Just for a few hours, then I must return before the evening when customers come,” she said, taking the broom again and laying it in the corner.

  “I knew I could convince you.”

  They left the town with the stares of idle folk following them, and approached the hills to the west. Elu directed them more to the south, until once again they came near to the forbidden barrows. Thora stopped when she saw them rising in the distance.

  “No, not there. Let us go further west. I have never been that way.”

  “Are you afraid of the barrows?”

  She locked him in her fierce gaze and said defiantly, “I fear no man.”

  “There are no men there. Just the dead. And their spirits.”

  “I have no fear, but I just want to—”

  “To what? I think you’re afraid. The people of the town fear the barrows and the presbyter forbids entry, but I want to see them. And you’re just like them. Afraid of the unknown.”

  Calmly raising her arm in motion to the barrows, she said, “Lead on, then.”

  A mysterious air hung around the entrance, really just a series of low openings into a network of caves. Tall cairns of stones topped the hills of the barrow—a warning to all to stay away.

  They entered one of the caves, Elu cautiously, until he saw Thora fearlessly descend the sloping passageway without looking back. Not eager for her to detect any hesitancy on his part he summoned his courage and caught up to her, walking side by side. Every now and then the roof gave way to sky, bathing parts of the dank cave in a brilliant light, but leaving most of it gray or in darkness.

  As time passed, Elu noticed wrapped bodies ensconced in the walls, resting on their backs in timeless sleep. He shuddered. But he knew their spirits had left. They had flown to that other world, leaving parts of themselves in the masks they inhabited in life. They could not harm him here. He repeated it to himself. They could not harm him here.

  For ages it seemed they descended lower and lower, the shafts of daylight becoming fewer and more distant in the heights above them. Finally, they came up against a dead end. A wall stood before them, inscribed with runes and words.

  “What does it say?” said Thora.

  “I am not lettered. But my master has taught me the runes of maskmaking and many of the ancient words of that trade.”

  He studied the wall, running his fingers over the symbols caught in the golden light of the sun, now high in the sky shining through a deep crevice in the roof above.

  “This one here is Tarkund’s rune. He was one of the great maskmakers among the ancients. My master told me of them. There were five of them. Men and women of great craft and skill, and powerful magic.”

  “Magic? The first maskmakers were wizards then?”

  “Of sorts. We are all wizards—so says my master. Our masks give us power, after our own kind and abilities, allowing us to fulfill the measure of our creation. The ancient maskmakers were the first among men to clothe our naked faces, before which we were stupid and innocent. Like children.”

  “Like children,” repeated Thora, running her own fingers along other runes, one depicting a child pointing.

  Elu studied more of the inscriptions. He pointed at the top of the wall. “There. There’s Eldrin’s rune.”

  “Eldrin? The first?”

  “Yes. He spoke the words of power that masked the sky, for it was too blindingly bright. And there is Sipora, she who masked the barren earth with grass, trees, and water.”

  “Your master teaches you much,” she said. Then she added a bit wistfully, “That sounds wonderful.”

  He nodded, not knowing quite what to say. He pitied her station in life. Unmarriable—closed off from the main avenue of advancement and joy for women, and of such shy and awkward disposition as to make her virtually unemployable as an apprentice. The people of the town feared her—Elu had found that most knew of her ugly disfigurement, and though it was mostly covered people avoided looking at her. And that which you cannot bear to look at—even through a mask—you fear.

  “Look here. These words talk of masks. I don’t understand all of it. But this part here tells of Tarkund creating his masks, always two at a time, each the companion of the other. I remember my master telling me of him, and his sister, Ria the Elder. She looked on his creations with jealousy, and made masks of her own.”

  “Of what sort?” She asked. She wandered down the length of the wall, touching it here and there when a drawing or a word caught her eye.

  “I don’t know. My master is a man of few words when he works, and he is always working. They were masks of great power, that much I know.”

  “What is this?” She called, motioning with her hand to the wall.

  He approached her and looked at what she indicated. It was an indentation in the wall. A face. A mask, but the wall itself was the mask. Elu examined it, and as he studied, his mask whispered words to him but he could not quite catch their meaning. He reached out to the indentation, studying it as a maskmaker, and saw it through new eyes. The spirit of the stone spoke to his mask and he grew to an understanding.

  “Look over there, on the other end of the wall,” he said, pointing, without even looking for he still studied the indentation. She searched the wall at the other end and called out.

  “Yes. There is another here. What are they?”

  “I’m not sure. But I think I know what we are to do. And it is fortunate there are two of us. Remove your mask and press your face into the wall while I do the same over here.”

  “Remove my mask? Not with you here,” she said, sounding shocked at the impropriety of his suggestion.

  “Thora, just do it. I won’t look. I just—I just feel like it is what happens here. In this place.” He looked around at their surroundings: what before looked like normal cave walls seemed now to him as a cacophony of spirits, a chorus of silent voices parading about them, shouting, laughing, calling, pointing, screaming, crying, threatening, smiling. The unease he felt before now climbed to genuine fear. But he could not show Thora his fear.
She seemed perfectly at ease now, except for her annoyance at his suggestion of mask removal.

  “Very well. But you keep your eyes to yourself,” she said. Out the corner of his eye he saw her remove the mask and place her face into the small indentation in the wall, and he did likewise. For a moment nothing happened.

  Then the silent spirits were silent no more. With a violence of sound and force they released their pent-up energy and desire, and the center of the wall in between them cracked wide open, the large splinters of stone falling backward behind the wall and in front, though they were both well out of the way to come to harm.

  Elu yelled, then feeling ashamed, quickly replaced his mask before the dust cleared. Thora, still bare faced, calmly watched the last of the rocks fall before looking back up at him. He shuddered at the sight of her, the craggy, burnt flesh where her nose should have been. Her left eye now black, as if it had been struck. She came to herself and also replaced her mask.

  Not quite believing what had happened, they helped each other over the fallen rocks, some nearly as big as they, and made their way into the chamber beyond the wall.

  Two raised stone platforms occupied the center of the space, reminiscent of altars, with intricate designs ringing the bottoms. And on top of both rested linen-wrapped figures, though the cloth was yellowed and decayed, revealing ancient bone and dried skin and hair underneath.

  Faint light from high above shone down, barely illuminating the shrouds. They approached, cautiously, hesitantly—Elu did not wish to approach, but he was not willing to allow Thora to know his fear. Thora pressed forward, driven by curiosity—for as long as she was away from the dull confines of her life she might find something of beauty or goodness, or at the very least, something interesting.

  On the heads of the figures lay masks, and such masks neither of them had ever seen. Elu at once recognized them as masks of great power from the descriptions his master had given him, but they seemed more than that. They were ancient. A thick layer of dust covered them both. He blew on one of them, revealing yellow and white gold underneath. A single priceless emerald was fixed on the brow, and platinum wings inlaid into the sides. The mouth was broad, indicating the power of words this mask wielded, and the eyes wide, suggesting the need to see danger coming. The emerald seemed to be set into what looked like an image of a shield. A faint smile adorned its face, but with a touch of sadness. Regret.

  He studied it for several minutes, held in complete awe of the object and art before him. This was far above the craft of his master, or his master’s master. Or even of the great maskmaker of the palace of Hartree, of whom his master spoke with marked reverence.

  He touched it. And he heard his own mask whisper to him. He looked at the artifact with a maskmaker’s eyes and knew: this was not his. At least not now. Not yet? Could he take it? How wonderful it would be to have such a mask. He would be the wonder of the town. No. The wonder of the kingdom. The wonder of all of Terremar. All would behold him and rejoice. They would praise him and herald him. He should have it. But he could not. He saw it in its face. It served a very distinct and special purpose. A dangerous, awful purpose. But a great one. An honored one.

  “Are you going to take what is yours or not, old friend?” A proud voice rang out behind him, and he jumped.

  “Who’s there?” he called.

  “No one’s here, you fool. Just me. As I have been since the beginning,” said the voice, mockingly. Teasingly.

  He turned around and saw Thora. She held her servant’s mask in her hands. One half in each, for she had broken it in two. He looked at her face, now covered by another glorious mask—an equal to the one he studied moments before. And as before, with the innkeeper, he saw into the mask, and into its bearer. They were properly matched, unlike the innkeeper and his ill-gotten mask. But the mask was … wrong. It was like a stew with too much salt. Like the sun, but like staring into it soon after waking. It nearly blinded him. He did not understand.

  “Why do you hesitate? Take up your mask!” she said. Elu heard her voice—and it was hers—but it too was wrong. It was loud. Distant. Proud. A terror sprung up within him.

  “It is on, sister.”

  “You have on but a child’s mask. And just as well”—she said with contempt—“for you are nothing more than a child.” And she strode away.

  “Thora!”

  A great force struck him in the chest and he stopped in his tracks, unable to follow her. He watched with horror as she suddenly disappeared, only to instantly reappear fifty or so paces up the slope of the cave. Over and over she jolted further up the slope, until within seconds she was out of sight.

  He grabbed the other mask, stuffed it into his satchel, and ran. He bolted up the passageway, stumbling over fallen rocks strewn over the floor. Out of the cave he flew, and ran east, trying to catch a glimpse of her. On and on he ran, thinking several times that he spotted her but each time realizing it was just a large animal prancing away, or a tree swaying in the buffeting wind. A storm approached.

  Up and down the gentle slopes of the hills he ran, until, bursting through a stand of trees, he stumbled into a wagon. He looked to his right. Several tall posts stood out of the ground, each with a prisoner tied to the base. Several of them wailed in terror at his approach.

  He looked around for the men but their tents were set afire. He ran to one of them to see if it contained a slaver, but he tripped over something.

  A slaver. Though he could hardly tell, from the state the mask was in. It was mostly burned, as if with the heat of a thousand fires—for it had fused to the man’s face, and the flesh was melted. His eyes were still open, a look of terror now eternally masked on his face. Elu quickly averted his eyes.

  The wails of the bound men called him back to the danger he was in. There were still at least three slavers in the camp somewhere and he had no intentions of ending up as a slave shipped off to some unknown kingdom.

  But he did not have to search far for them. Three more bodies lay near the first, all similarly afflicted. He touched the arm of the first. The flesh was hot, warmer than a normal body at midday in the sun. They were killed recently. Motion caught his eye and he looked up.

  Thora. She stared down at him, laughing.

  “Do you like it, brother?”

  He had no words. The terror from the cave returned, magnified now with the ghoulish faces of four dead men.

  “See, brother? I have feared these men since that day we stumbled upon them in the village all those years ago. And now there is nothing to fear,” she flashed a wicked smile just visible through her mask, “though the fear in their last moments was … delightful.”

  “Thora? What happened to you?”

  She strode over to where he stood, seized him by the shoulders, and lifted. He opened his mouth in silent shock as his feet dangled a finger’s length above the ground.

  “Happened? What has happened is that I am liberated! I am me again after all this time! So long have I waited. In the cold. The dark. And you too!” She released him and he crumpled at her feet. “Put your mask on! What are you waiting for? Ah yes …” she trailed off, regarding him coldly, “you think I am out of control again. Overzealous was the word you once used. You thought you could harness me. Constrain me. Well—” she stared at him and Elu could sense immense power coming from the spirits within the mask. The wave hit him and he flew back several paces, landing next to the cowering prisoners. “—not this time, brother.”

  She vanished. He caught sight of her a hundred paces off, facing north toward Gheb, and presently she vanished again.

  Chapter V

  The Terror

  AFTER UNTYING THE PRISONERS ELU ran as quickly as he could back to Gheb. Visions of the ravaged faces of the slavers stained his thoughts and he ran faster, imagining the same horror coming upon his mother or brothers. As he approached the outskirts of town he saw a crumpled figure on the road. He knelt down and vaguely recognized the town’s cooper, his simple leathe
r mask burnt to a crisp. The man groaned, his face terribly burned, but he appeared otherwise out of danger.

  He flew to the center of town, head turning left and right looking for evidence of Thora’s trail. He hadn’t the slightest idea of what he would do once he found her, but he had to do something. He had unleashed her, had brought her to the horrible mask now on her face, and so it was his responsibility to stop her. Somehow.

  A thought crossed his mind and he changed direction. He barged into the maskmaker’s hut and called out for his master.

  “What? Why are you yelling like a crazed lunatic?” the flustered man said. Raw materials and a new, jeweled mask cluttered the table before him.

  “Master. I have erred greatly. I have caused great harm. She’s loose. She’s out there. Men are dead! I don’t … I don’t know what to do.”

  The maskmaker sprang to his feet.

  “What have you done?” he whispered.

  “I … I went to the forbidden barrows. I took Thora with me. She didn’t want to go but I insisted….”

  He trailed off. Shame and embarrassment welled up within and he could not go on.

  “Go on. Show it all to me,” the master said.

  Elu took a deep breath.

  “We found masks there. They looked beautiful, and she took one, and—”

  “The Terror,” said the man bluntly, and he dashed out the door.

  Elu followed close behind, shouting, “What do you mean, master?”

  “You have unleashed the Terror. A mask of legend of unspeakable power. Ages ago, before the time of the kings when Tarkund and his brethren made the masks of legend, one of them was stolen. The servant girl who took it did not please its spirits and they corrupted her, and she them. She was only stopped after much … difficulty. Come. There may still be time.”

  Elu did not understand how the maskmaker knew where to go, but he headed straight for the inn. The old man burst through the door and immediately began mumbling a strange chant in the old tongue of maskmaking of which Elu had learned very little.