The Wizard's Mask (pathfinder tales)

by Ed Greenwood

  Cringing away from her fury, The Masked muttered, "Sorry." Then he staggered to his feet and started across the hollow, stumbling amid the rotting battle-dead.

  As they picked their way up out of the hollow into the last band of trees, and the gurgling of the rushing Inkwater grew louder, there was a crashing and crackling behind them, no doubt loud enough to bring Nirmathi with ready weapons.

  Looking back, Tantaerra saw fearless golden eyes. The foremost dweomercats were padding out of the trees. Stalking them.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The Inkwater was icy cold, of course. Tantaerra couldn't suppress a gasp, but needn't have bothered worrying about the noise she made. The Masked, beside her, sounded like a startled horse.

  At least he hadn't gone in with a mighty splash. No, they'd both slipped rather gingerly into the water, and hopefully-

  Hope died abruptly, as a rather rough male voice from very close by muttered, "Someone …no, two people. Two people in the river. Permission to feather them, sir?"

  The Masked gave her an urgent look and pushed off from the bank, more sideways than out into the river, across her path. He was eyeball-deep in the water, and glaring at her. Tantaerra swam to the right to keep out of his way, and abandoned all worry about splashings. They had to get out and away from the bank, fast, or-

  "No. You heard the orders as well as I did. We leave the dweomercats alone."

  "But sir, these aren't dweomercats, they're-"

  "The one that just almost stepped on me has fangs like a row of short swords, is larger than my horse, and smells like it's spent its life rolling in mud and rotting dead things and never bathing. You can argue what they are with me all you like, but do not use your bow!"

  "But-"

  "If someone's leading this herd of beasts-see? Half a dozen now, and still more on the way-they're probably some priest or other, and I'm not risking the anger of the gods by killing holy men. So neither are you, Willum!"

  "But-"

  "Even if they are Nirmathi, and a-bristle with bright blades from haunch to chittlins, just two of them aren't going to do much against the army we have camped within horn-hail, lad! There're sentries posted that side of the river too, y'know!"

  "But-urrreeeagh!"

  "Willum? Willum? Hah! So, a dweomercat found you, did it? Idiot! Didn't believe me, hey? Well-"

  Then the fast-running Inkwater carried Tantaerra and her masked companion out of earshot, past gurglings coming from half-submerged fallen trees standing like stones against the strong flow. No crossbow bolts had come, but Tantaerra couldn't help but be swept against The Masked's shoulder. He was fighting hard to get across the river before it took them a long way downstream-or its numbing cold robbed them of their strength, and they became helpless, exhausted floating things.

  Abruptly, there were dark things ahead of them, looming up out of the water, and a rotting reek, and shade.

  Dead trees beyond counting, toppled into the river. Swept against them, The Masked caught hold of one and clawed Tantaerra out of the water and up onto it.

  "H-hang on!" he snapped at her, through chattering teeth. Tantaerra tried.

  They were in a little swamp on the Molthuni side of the river. Stinking muck was everywhere, foul green floating weeds and dead trees thrusting up out of the water like the dark fingers of drowned giants.

  "Faugh!" Tantaerra spat, shivering.

  "Don't complain," The Masked snarled up at her. "Means the water's slower ahead of us. See any trees we can crawl along, and get ashore? I'm about done…this cold …"

  "T-there," Tantaerra gasped, pointing, and her partner snatched her off her slippery black-barked perch and back into the icy water without a word, struggling on through the water like a weary bull. When they got to the tree she'd chosen, it took The Masked three tries to get her up onto it. He clung to it like a man carrying a rolled carpet, clawing his way hand over hand along it.

  Tantaerra got to the firm soil first, somewhere under the tangled long grass and shorethorns, but they collapsed more or less in unison, and sank down into darkness.

  Sodden, shivering darkness.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The pain awakened Tantaerra. She was stiff and weak and sore, the stump of her missing hand throbbing with a slow but insistent ache. The stink of the swamp was strong, and the Inkwater was still rushing endlessly past, but somehow, during the night, its sound had changed. The swamp reek was subtly different, too. More musky.

  Why? How?

  She opened her eyes, risked lifting her head to look around-and froze.

  Golden eyes were staring solemnly back into hers. During the night, dweomercats must have swum the river and stolen up to them in velvet silence. Now the beasts were all around, crowded so thickly around the trees that branches had sagged down under the water beneath their massed weight. What had been thick green swamp water last night was now hidden under a shaggy sea of dweomercat backs.

  "Tarram," she hissed, poking her partner, "wake up."

  The Masked gave another of his growling groans, but didn't move or do anything more, so she poked him again.

  "What?" he snapped crossly.

  "Look around you," she told him softly. "No sudden moves, just look."

  He gave her a less than pleased glare, then did as he'd been told.

  "Dung," he remarked softly. "Any sign of-?"

  "Not yet," Tantaerra told him darkly. "We'd better be moving on."

  "Yes," The Masked agreed wearily. "Let me get up. I need to stretch."

  "Rouse the battered body and tackle another day?" Tantaerra asked mockingly.

  The reply she got was a growl that would have done credit to a wolf.

  Tarram Armistrade grunted a few times, winced, then rubbed at his left shoulder and said thoughtfully, "You know, we could sprint across the backs of these dweomercats and run right out of this swamp."

  "West, into Molthune. Open, rolling grasslands, as I recall," Tantaerra replied. "Run parallel to each other, so we can avoid being cat-swarmed by throwing the gauntlet back and forth, again?"

  Her partner nodded. "So, let's decide on a route." He peered at the dweomercats to the west of them, where the land rose into drier Molthune. The dweomercats stared right back.

  "Tarram," Tantaerra said warningly, bringing his head around to see what she was watching.

  Behind them, to the east, more dweomercats were slowly swimming the Inkwater, heading for the swamp.

  The dweomercats were swimming so slowly because they were keeping in a tight ring around a larger, darker bulk. One with tentacles.

  Their pursuer now trailed dark blood, a stain on the water around it. Half a dozen spears and arrows were protruding from it, but it clutched the Whispering Sword on high.

  "Dung," Tantaerra agreed wearily.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  There'd been no sign of riders from Braganza or anywhere else, but they were trudging through grass so tall now that they'd certainly feel and hear hooves before they saw anyone, mounted or afoot. They'd been trudging most of the day.

  The sun was getting low in the sky, and Tantaerra was hungry and thirsty, the Fearsome Gauntlet heavy in her bodice. Not that there was anything much to eat except grass. She'd tried chewing some, as she and The Masked continued staggering deeper into Molthune.

  They'd headed for any tallish or tangled trees they caught sight of, in hopes of finding places they could climb up to, to rest without being crushed or suffocated by crowding dweomercats, but time after time they found no suitable perches. The trees were too spindly, or rooted in loose ground so a swarm of dweomercats would probably topple them. Nowhere was there cover enough to hide them from passing Molthuni.

  So they kept trudging onward.

  They'd not seen the tentacled monster since they'd fled the swamp. It was probably moving so slowly that they'd left it far behind.

  There was a slim chance that the cold river waters had finished it or swept it far downstream before it could reach the Molthuni si
de of the Inkwater, but she and Tarram doubted it was dead. If Mahalagris had chased them this far, he wouldn't abandon the pursuit of them so long as his host lived and could still move, however feebly.

  Neither she nor Tarram were in any shape to take on any foe. Unless Holy Desna saw fit to send them some mighty priests of healing, and maybe a movable fortress to shelter in at night, it was unlikely-given all the Molthuni military marching or riding about in these grasslands-they'd make it to Braganza alive.

  "If we had horses …" The Masked muttered.

  "We don't," Tantaerra reminded him sharply. "Nor do we have an army dedicated to defending us. If you're going to dream, dream big, man. Or can that gauntlet make us fly?"

  "It can, I think, but not to Braganza or anywhere far. Just a little hop-over a wall or up to a window, or down from one without dashing your bones to splinters. But for the wearer only."

  "Which means, sooner or later," Tantaerra said glumly, "we're going to meet up with Molthuni on patrol, and there'll be a fight we can't hope to win, even blasting away with the gauntlet."

  "Yes."

  A few trudging steps later, he added, "Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra, I …I have enjoyed your company on this escapade. You're better than a halfling princess."

  "You're not so bad yourself, masked man. For a human."

  Armistrade looked down at her. After so long traveling together, she almost felt that she could read the expressions behind that mask. If so, he was smiling now. "I make few friends, and manage to keep fewer," he said. "I'm glad to call you friend."

  "Likewise," Tantaerra told him.

  Then she lifted the stump where her hand had been, and said grimly, "And before I die, I'll get back at Krzonstal Telcanor. Somehow."

  "Somehow," The Masked agreed-and then stopped walking, held up his hand for silence, and cocked his head.

  Tantaerra felt it more than heard it: the pounding of distant hooves. Getting nearer quickly.

  "I can't see the length of a spear in this grass," she snarled. "Who is it? More than one rider, it sounds like, but not much more …"

  "Well counted," Armistrade replied, sounding amused. "Two riders. Telcanors who rode with Zreem when we were taken out of Braganza to begin this little jaunt. Full plate armor, riding hard right at us."

  "Here they are!" a man shouted, and the foremost Telcanor appeared over the sea of grass, as he slowed his mount and veered aside to look down at them. "It's them, all right!"

  "Good," the other rider called back, reining in his horse so hard it reared, bugling in protest. As it bucked and tossed its head, he grabbed up the crossbow hooked to his saddle.

  "What're you doing?" the first rider asked incredulously. "We're supposed to capture them for questioning!"

  "My orders are to the contrary," the second Braganzan replied. "Dead men tell priests and their speaking-spells no lies." He aimed his crossbow at his fellow Telcanor. "Any objections?"

  The other soldier shook his head frantically, face pale.

  Smiling tightly, the Braganzan with the crossbow settled a bolt into his weapon.

  Smiling tightly right back at him, Tantaerra yanked the Fearsome Gauntlet onto her hand.

  The world exploded, leaving her staggering, moaning, and tasting blood from her bitten lip. Visions crashed into her brain and each other, overwhelming her in a deluge of vivid overlapping scenes of the wielding of this or that gauntlet power. The simple, invisible fist-like ramming ability underlay the rest, so she seized upon it, fighting through the blinding chaos-and the moment she could see the Molthuni bowman, she let fly.

  The invisible blow shattered the crossbow, at least one of the hands holding it, and the bowman's jaw as it smashed him clear out of his saddle. Teeth flew.

  The other Telcanor stared at his fellow Molthuni, bouncing senseless in the grass, cast a look of wild-eyed fear at them, and wheeled his mount to frantically gallop away.

  "Blast him down!" Tarram shouted.

  Tantaerra let her gauntlet-clad arm fall.

  "Blast him!"

  Tantaerra shook her head. "No," she said sullenly.

  "He'll report us, and come back with an army!" The Masked snarled.

  "I've killed enough on this trip," she snapped back at him. "Watchguards, soldiers of both sides-I don't see that I had much choice, but I'm sick of it. Now catch that horse, before it decides to follow the other one!"

  The Masked shot her a furious look, then sprinted to the snorting, head-tossing horse, caught its reins, and started to murmur soothing sounds to it. It shook itself and lashed out only once, but when he let it trot away, it circled back to him, then stopped and let him catch the reins again.

  Still soothing the horse, The Masked swung himself into the saddle, circled to where Tantaerra stood watching, and plucked her up, a little less than gently, to join him.

  The horse promptly snorted and tossed its head again, so Tarram kept it to a walk, and turned its head south. The sun would be setting soon.

  Tantaerra kept quiet for some time, to give him time to master his temper, before saying, "I can't help but notice that we're heading east instead of south."

  "Yes," The Masked snapped.

  After riding in silence for a time, he added more gently, "No, I'm not thinking of trying to ride to Canorate, or right out of Molthune. I'm thinking we can't catch that Telcanor, so it'll be wiser to circle around to Braganza rather than heading straight for it-being as anyone he brings back to seek us will look first between Braganza and where you took such good care of our murderous friend with the crossbow."

  "Sensible," Tantaerra agreed.

  "Thank you. Now, being as you're smaller and lighter, and so shouldn't upset the horse as much as I would, I'm going to move you behind me, so you can go through those saddlebags. I don't know about you, but I'm ravenous-and parched, too."

  "Humans," Tantaerra teased, as he twisted in the saddle and swung her less than gracefully around to rest against the saddle's high back. "If you didn't carry around all that unnecessary weight, maybe you wouldn't need to eat so-" Her voice died away.

  Tarram must have felt her stiffen. "What?" he asked sharply. "What's wrong?"

  She pointed, off across the rolling hills behind him, then remembered he couldn't see without turning.

  "We're being followed," she told him quietly. "A lot of riders-armored, by the way they glint and flash in the sun-and coming fast."

  The Masked sighed. "Of course we are. What else would make this day complete? Are any of them waving tentacles?"

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  "Got a good firm hold on me?" The Masked asked.

  Tantaerra sighed, thrust the stay-peg through the saddlebag flap she'd just managed to get open, and made sure she had a good grip on her partner. "Yes," she told him tersely, knowing what was coming.

  "Good," he replied, as he bent low over the horse's neck and kicked it into a gallop.

  The mount seemed to want to buck for a moment, then stretched out its neck and raced forward, fairly leaping through the grass in a great rustling hiss, a hissing that went on and on as its hooves pounded up a hill.

  The Masked looked back, almost swinging her off.

  "Warn me when you're going to do that," she snarled at him through clenched teeth, shifting her grip to his belt-hand clutching it, and stump thrust through it. Now, if she fell off, his breeches would be coming with her. Being as they'd probably have a heavy man inside them who'd undoubtedly land on her, that was probably less than wise, but …

  No doubt their Molthuni pursuers were still right behind them, and probably gaining, too. It was only in bardic ballads that heroes ever outrode anyone.

  They veered around the next hill, The Masked forcing their mount up a little valley into rising land of more rolling hills and sharper ridges. It was almost sunset, but this was all open grasslands, halfway from here to Lake Encarthan. There was nowhere to hide-and no way in all wide Golarion that their horse would be able to outrun the Molthuni forever.

 
A mere moment later, that was proven true. Their mount stumbled on something, faltered-and they were flying through the air, hooves flashing past their ears in a welter of dust and screaming, thudding horse, as their mount fell and rolled past them.

  Tantaerra slammed into thankfully soft earth with teeth-jarring force, rolled over with her head swimming, and saw The Masked wincing and clambering back to his feet.

  Then she saw what he was staring at.

  The Molthuni were galloping right at them, a score of men or more, in full plate armor and with long lances lowered to spit them. Coming fast, the earth thundering now under the churning hooves, the horses snorting and tossing armored heads, the men snarling through their opened helms. Close enough now that they could make out individual faces.

  Tantaerra heard her partner chuckle bitterly. A moment later, she saw why.

  One rider had familiar face. It was the Mereir recruiter who'd confronted them in their room at the Hearth, back in Braganza.

  "Well, this is it, my little pacifist," The Masked growled. "Where we die valiantly." He cast a longing glance at the Fearsome Gauntlet on her hand, but rather than grabbing at it, he did something that astonished Tantaerra. He hooked his arm around her, pulled her close, and kissed her.

  His mouth was by no means as foul as she'd feared.

  "Well, now," she grinned at him, when their unhurried kiss ended, "we'll have to talk about your aggressive advances upon my person, after."

  "You think there's going to be an after?"

  "Oh, yes," she replied, holding up the gauntlet and awakening it with her will. It suddenly glowed from one end to the other-a glow that spilled into her eyes, making them literally blaze. "Yes, I do. I kill when I must."

  The Molthuni were almost upon them, the din deafening. She leveled her arm at them as if aiming a crossbow, pointing at that Mereir, and-

  Another band of mounted Molthuni burst into view over the crest of the ridge beside them, and spurred down the slope to crash into the first band of riders, swords out and hacking hard.