Mistress Of Masks (Book 1) (7 page)

She opened her mouth to call out to him but immediately thought better of it. One didn’t survive a childhood on the city streets without learning a degree of caution. She hadn’t lived within the safety of the seclusionary walls so long she had forgotten the habits learned during a rougher time. No, she would observe from a safe distance until she could ascertain whether this person was friend or foe. Only then would she announce her presence.

So she climbed down from the rise and trailed the dark shadow, mimicking his furtive movements, careful to keep a lengthy gap between them. Her progress was complicated by the occasional treacherousness of the marshy ground. At one point she sank into a mire, covering her boots and ankles in mud. In the process of wading free, she discovered the pale stick she grabbed for support was actually a bone. Possibly human. Dropping it with a shudder, she reassessed her surroundings. What was this place? A vast graveyard?

The rocks seemed to support this theory, for many of the shapes she had first took for boulders turned out on closer inspection to be manmade markers. The inscriptions were so weathered they would have been unreadable, even in better light. But she could make out enough to see they contained no familiar letters. Perhaps these were the runes of an ancient civilization. But there was no time to ponder that. She had to hurry on or she would lose sight of her quarry. The landscape was growing rockier and the ground firmer. Still, she knew now not to stray far from the path.

The moon scuttled behind a cloud, plunging the world into sudden darkness. Eydis froze where she stood, feeling exposed in the open, but unwilling to stumble on blindly. Though she strained her ears, the only sounds she picked up were the wind and the roar of the ocean waves tossing against the distant beach. Then there came a new sound. A blood-chilling howl she first mistook for that of a wild dog. But this wasn’t the cry of a beast, any more than it was the scream of a man. It was more like an uneasy combination of the two. And it was very near. Surely it hadn’t come from the man she was trailing?

Afraid of being caught in the open, she dropped to her belly, so when the moonlight returned it found her hugging the ground. She saw it then, a stark silhouette only yards away. The figure she’d been following was no man after all, and despite being covered with patches of mangy hair, it was no animal either.

“A minohide,” Eydis breathed, recognizing the half man, half beast commonly described in children’s stories. She had known the monsters were real but never expected to encounter one in person.

This one, although standing upright, possessed a bearlike snout and jaws. Its eyes glinted in the half-light like those of a wolf. For one breathless instant, those eyes seemed fixed on Eydis. But then they passed on. The creature lifted its snout, sniffing the air. Eydis saw it stiffen, growing suddenly alert, and she feared it detected her scent. When it pounced instead on something that moved in the brush at its feet, she dared to breathe again. The creature had captured a rabbit or a large rat and was devouring it on the spot.

Thinking fast, Eydis used this opportunity to make for cover, scrambling to her feet and running in a low crouch to duck behind the nearest screen. It was a stone structure of some sort—an oblong building about twice the height of a man. Considering her previous discoveries, she suspected its purpose could be the housing of a corpse. Whatever its intended use, it was the only place at hand for concealment. There was little hope of returning to the beach and the waiting boat without attracting the notice of the beast, and she wouldn’t have wagered much on her ability to outrun it. The best option was hiding and waiting for the beast to move on.

Exploring the rough surface of the stone, she found fissures in the rock that would serve adequately as hand and toeholds. Cautiously, she scaled the side of the tomb and dragged herself onto the roof. There she lay flat, watching from above as the minohide finished its scanty meal and resumed its prowling. How long would she have to lie up here? If she remained trapped until dawn, what would happen when first light revealed her hiding place? She tried not to think about that. Tried also not to wonder what was delaying the man she had come here to find.

For a long time Orrick had heard nothing but the incessant dripping of water and the scratching sounds of rats’ feet scurrying along the walls. That was why his ears perked up at the tread of two approaching pairs of feet echoing down the corridor.

One set of steps was uneven. Irregular. The familiar tread of the big-bellied prison guard who always walked with a limp. He had no name to Orrick—none of the guards did. They were just the hands that fed him, the mouths that spit on him, and the fists that beat him when he retaliated.

But the other footsteps, those were new. Those were feet he’d never heard within these walls. The tread was heavy, like that of a large man, but it came without the accompanying ring of boots. Not another guard then.

Curiosity stirred despite himself, Orrick sniffed the air. His nostrils were met by the scent of decay. Stale air, moldy straw, the feces of humans and rats, and rotting fish guts. All the smells you’d expect in a water-bound prison like the Morta den’Cairn. Orrick had had plenty of time to get to know these smells.

But now there was something new added to the stench. Fear sweat. Of all the kinds of sweat Orrick was acquainted with, fear was the most common in here. The fear of the prisoners who were dumped into cells to rot. The fear of their keepers when the occasional prisoner attempted escape.

Fear was not new. Thus it wasn’t worth his interest.

He settled against the damp wall again and returned to picking his teeth with a rat bone, the last remnant of his most recent meal. Capturing the bold rodent was the closest thing he’d had to a good fight in months. If only he could get this bone shank into the neck of a prison guard, now that would be a satisfying victory. Far more fulfilling than the brief pleasure of a full belly…

Outside, the footsteps stopped before the thick door of his cell. Muffled voices followed, their conversation too low to make out.

Once Orrick might have gone and poked his face between the sturdy bars of the small window at the top, to see what was happening. But not anymore. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of watching him peer like an animal out the bars of his cage or of hearing him call out questions that usually went unanswered. No, if this business had anything to do with him, he’d know soon enough.

There was a light grating sound as a key turned in the lock, and then the door swung open.

So they
were
coming for him. Orrick smiled and fingered the shank.

“Watch this one. He’s mean as a fire asp and would as soon crush your windpipe as look at you.” The words penetrated the cell, but the guard who spoke them remained outside. Smart fellow. The last time he’d stuck his hand into the cell to deliver the swill that passed for food in this place, Orrick had bit off one of his fingers. And been whipped for it. But it was worth the punishment to have his first taste in weeks of any flesh besides fish.

“Thank you for the warning,” said a second voice. “But in my line of work I’m used to dealing with this sort. Murderers, thieves, traitors… All of them roar like lions but go out like lambs. The loss of his head brings about a remarkable change in any criminal’s disposition.”

That was enough to get Orrick’s attention. For the first time he looked up, through hanks of greasy hair, to examine his visitor.

“So you’re the one they call the Betrayer of Blood,” said the unknown newcomer. He pushed the door shut, leaving the guard outside.

He was a big man, broad shouldered and fair bearded, his face hidden within the deep shadows of his hooded cloak. From the flickering torchlight filtering through the bars from the corridor, the glint of his eyes was just visible. His scent was less ambiguous. Sharp and clear at this distance, it smelled of unease. Despite his bold stance and steady tone, despite the heavy, double-headed axe he carried, this stranger was worried about something.

“My name’s Orrick, and I’m no betrayer,” Orrick told him, “although there’s some that call me such.”

“Your innocence or guilt doesn’t concern me,” said the stranger. “Only that you are the man I seek, the one charged with the betrayal of Endguard.”

Now it made sense. “You’re here for the execution,” Orrick realized. “And that means they’ve decided not to give me a trial. So much for the famous justice of the Lythnians.” He laughed bitterly.

“I’m an executioner, yes,” the stranger said. “But I haven’t come to take your head today. That event is planned for two days hence and is set to occur at a more public place—the market square of Shoretown. You’ll know when the hour arrives because there’ll be a cleric in attendance.”

“I have no use for your religion, headsman. In case you haven’t heard, I’m not of your race. I’ll leave this world the same way I came into it, a heathen from the Kroadian wilds.”

He watched for a reaction, but the other man showed no anger. That was disappointing.

“What have you come for anyway?” Orrick growled. “If my day hasn’t come, why are you here?”

The headsman glanced toward the door, where the turnkey hovered on the other side of the barred window. “It’s my custom to visit the condemned before they fall under my axe. I accept their gifts and explain to them what to expect on the day. Sometimes the prisoner wishes to practice, ensuring all comes off cleanly at the final event…”

“Gifts?” Orrick cut him off with a scowl. “You expect me to bribe you to do a decent job of killing me?”

“What I expect,” the headsman said, “is for you to shut up and listen.” He dropped his voice and eyed the door again, where the shadow of the turnkey was no longer visible. “Your time to exit this earthly realm may not approach as soon as you think, Betrayer. Not if you act quickly and follow my every instruction.”

“Call me by that name again, and I’ll rip your throat out,” Orrick responded. But his attention was captured. “What instructions are you talking about?”

“I speak of a plan,” the headsman said. “I speak of escape.”

Orrick straightened.

“I’m listening.”

The executioner said, “Everything has been arranged for your removal from this place. The boat that brought me to this prison waits in the level below.”

“Where they take in supplies and fresh prisoners?” Orrick asked, vaguely remembering the layout of the place he had passed through on arrival so many months ago.

The headsman said, “All you need do is get down to that boat without alerting the guards to your escape from this cell. The oarsman has been paid for his silence, and once the Morta den’Cairn is behind you, he’ll take you where you need to go—to the Isle of Bones. There a friend will be waiting with supplies and weapons for you. Do you understand?”

“Sure, I understand,” Orrick said rising. “But I do have one question.”

“Yes?”

In a flash Orrick leapt at the man, grabbing him roughly and spinning him around so that his forearm was pressed hard across the headsman’s throat.

“Who are you really?” he growled.

The executioner swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath Orrick’s grip, but his voice remained calm. “I’ve told you the truth. I’m the headsman employed for your execution. My name is Fenric.”

“Fenric may be your name,” Orrick interrupted, “but what sort of executioner helps a prisoner escape? Someone has sent you to ensnare me. But to what purpose?”

Fenric coughed as Orrick’s arm tightened to cut off his breath. “I swear by the First Father I’m here to help.”

“And why should I believe you?”

“I’ll give you reason if you’ll only look me in the face.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Just do it!”

If nothing else, this Fenric’s determination was sincere.

Orrick hesitated. “If you so much as squeal, I’ll kill you before the guard can get in,” he warned, releasing his hold.

“Understood.” Facing him, Fenric pulled back his cowl.

“By my greatmother!” Orrick gaped. The face exposed to him was a mirror image of his own, from thick slanted brows over ice blue eyes to the crooked nose above tight lips and an unkempt blond beard. Even the shallow scar cutting across one eyebrow was identical.

“What foul sorcery is this?” Orrick demanded.

“Not foul. The magic was worked by a friend, one gifted with the talent of changing faces,” Fenric answered. “Beneath the enchantment she cast over me, I bear only passing resemblance to the man you see before you. She helped me appear more exact.”

“She? She who?”

“There is no time to explain, even if I knew all there was to tell. I’m only one cog in the wheel. But when you meet this young woman, she will answer your questions.”

Orrick struggled to grasp the situation. “At least tell me who you serve. Whose forces are working to free me?”

Instead of answering, the executioner began to disrobe.

“Take this and put it on,” he instructed, tossing his hooded cloak to Orrick.

Ignoring Orrick’s protests, Fenric worked quickly, not pausing until the switch was complete and he was fully dressed in Orrick’s clothing and Orrick in his.

“There. It is done,” the headsman said, shoving his heavy axe into Orrick’s hands and stepping back to survey the transformation.

“What is done?” Orrick scowled. “If you plan what I think you do, you’re mad. Only in stories does this trick work.”

“Have faith, Orrick of Kroad,” Fenric said. “It will not be your fate to die within these walls. I do not know exactly what is planned for you, but I’m told yours is a great destiny. I’m only here to help you on your way.”

And suddenly, before Orrick could react, a dagger appeared from nowhere in the headsman’s hands and he plunged it into his own belly.

Orrick caught him before he could collapse noisily to the floor and lowered him carefully, mindful of the guard outside the door.

Fenric was pale and trembling but still alive. Curse the fool for thinking he would die instantly from a belly wound. He was trying to speak but Orrick couldn’t make out his garbled words. He leaned his ear to the dying man’s lips.