The Mage in the Iron Mask (31 page)

In the Dungeon of
Southroad Keep:

“So these are the two aliens that we have been looking for,” stated Rickman as he looked into the dark and dank cell that housed Volo and Passepout.

“Yes, Captain,” the guard replied. “The fat one has been here before.”

“Then he must be the vagrant Passepout,” Rickman
said. “Are they alone in there?”

“I believe so, captain,” the guard answered.

“You
believe
so?” Rickman replied, on the verge of rage. “What do you mean ‘you
believe
so?’ ”

“Well you see, captain,” the guard explained, “the cell has been vacant for a few weeks, but the last prisoner we left in it was never found.”

“Did he escape?”

“No, captain, we believe an unusual fungus ate him. There is something growing in the back darkness and, as best we can determine, it is carnivorous. The last we heard from the previous inhabitant was a scream in the darkness. By the time we got some torches to investigate, all that was left in the cell were his boots … and that fungus.”

“How amusing,” Rickman commented.

“Captain,” the guard inquired as the captain of the Hawks turned to leave, “should I warn them to stay away from the dark parts of the cell?”

“Don’t bother,” Rickman instructed, not even bothering to turn around. “It will just mean less work for the torturer tomorrow, that’s all.”

“Did you hear that?” Passepout whispered frantically to his friend.

“Indeed I did,” Volo replied, apparently unperturbed by the fungoid threat that lurked in the darkness.

“I thought I noticed some mushrooms back there, and was just about to treat myself to some for dinner.”

“Well, then,” the master traveler offered cheerily, “it’s a good thing you didn’t. A mushroom meal is what you wanted, not to be a meal
for
a mushroom.”

Volo heard a nervous titter of laughter from the
unamused thespian, who moved as close as possible to the door, as both prisoners sat and waited for their rescue.

The Reception Hall

in the Tower of the Wyvern:

Fullstaff and Rassendyll had just reached the end of the receiving line to greet the High Blade and First Princess when a herald announced that the affair was coming to an abrupt end.

Honor tapped the shoulder of one of the guards in attendance, and asked him what was going on.

“Golly, I’m really not sure, sir,” the guard replied, recognizing the decorations on Honor’s tabard as belonging to a veteran of the Hawks. “Both the High Blade and the First Princess seemed rather preoccupied to begin with. You know, as if they would rather be doing something else.”

“Imagine that,” Honor muttered, trying to mask his concern over the change in plans.

“Then Captain Rickman arrived and told the High Blade that two wanted criminals had been captured, and that they were scheduled to be tortured tomorrow.”

Honor heard Rassendyll draw in his breath.

“And then the High Blade seized the opportunity to leave, and announced that he would take care of all of the arrangements himself.”

“Did the High Blade, perchance, mention when he planned on doing this?” Honor asked.

“I think he is on his way over there now,” the loquacious guard added. “Captain Rickman said that he was otherwise engaged, but the High Blade didn’t
seem to be concerned, and left muttering something about if you want something done right, you might as well do it yourself.”

“I see,” Honor replied, keeping a firm grip on Rassendyll’s arm to keep the disguised twin from panicking. “Thank you for all of your assistance. What is your name so that I can put in a good word for you with the High Blade.”

“Well, golly,” the guard drawled. “That would be mighty nice of you.”

“Not at all,” Honor replied quickly, getting ready to turn and leave.

“The name is Nabors,” the guard answered, “but my friends call me by first name which is GoMar.”

“Indeed,” Honor replied, shaking the young man’s hand, and then quickly turning to usher himself and Rassendyll out of the Reception Hall.

“We will have to move fast,” the blind swordmaster instructed, as they hastened down the corridor. “We’re just lucky that I know a shortcut.”

In the Staffs Quarters
of Southroad Keep:

Mason McKern knocked on the door to his brother’s apartment and was instantly alarmed as the door swung open, apparently unlatched.

How odd, the senior Cloak thought. Normally my brother is a stickler for security.

The appearance of the room was even more unsettling. Even to the least observant visitor, it was obvious that the room had not been occupied for at least a day. The pallet had not been slept on, the hearth was left untended, and a half-eaten meal that looked
as if its diner had been disturbed in midbreakfast had crusted over. Next to the meal’s bowls and plates was a book of some kind which Mason assumed was his brother’s spellbook or personal journal. In reality it was both.

Mason was about to open it when a voice from behind him called.

“You there! What do you think you’re doing?”

Mason turned around to confront the interloper who immediately recognized him.

It was Dwight Wrenfield, Southroad Keep’s custodian.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir,” Dwight apologized. “I didn’t know it was you.”

“My apologies,” Mason said calmly, “I should have stopped by your cell to let you know that I was here.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Dwight replied, “I was just collecting spiders before dinner, and saw that the door was ajar, so I decided to check things out. I assume you are here to pick up your brother’s personal effects.”

“Uh, yes,” Mason answered guardedly, picking up the volume that lay open on the table.

“It was a shame about his accident and all,” the wide-eyed and slow-witted caretaker consoled.

Mason’s heart sank. Something must have happened to his brother, but since time was of the essence he would have to wait to find out what happened.

“Uh, yes,” Mason said softly, as he hurried to his prearranged meeting place. “I will have to return later to attend to the other matters at hand.”

“No problem, sir,” Dwight replied. “You and your brother always treated me like gentlemen. I will …

Mason McKern chose not to hear the last words of the custodian as they formed a cacophony with the pit-pat of his own steps on the stone floor.

Fungus
,
Fugitives
,
& Fencing

In the Dungeon of
Southroad Keep:

Volo heard the approach of guards, their boots making a distinctive military sound on the stone floor. He nudged Passepout into consciousness.

“What?” the groggy thespian inquired.

“Either our rescuers are coming in disguise,” Volo whispered, “or something has gone very wrong.”

The master traveler and his longtime companion heard the bolt and locks being undone on the door. Quickly Volo took to his feet and, grabbing Passepout by the scruff of the collar, retreated into the darkness of the unlit part of the cell.

“What about the fungus?” the thespian desperately implored, only to be shushed by the gazetteer.

The door to the cell opened, and Volo recognized the backlit silhouette of the guard that he had heard talking earlier in the day.

“The High Blade has decided to move the interrogation up to tonight. I understand that he plans to torture them himself. They must be hiding back there somewhere,” the guard asserted to his junior officer. “Go get them.”

The junior officer, obviously blissfully unaware of the dreaded fungus, proceeded into the darkness-obscured rear of the cell, where he tripped over the cowering body of Passepout.

“I found one,” the younger guard called back, still backing up, not realizing he was quickly approaching the fungus-encrusted wall of the cell. “The other one has to be—”

The young guard’s report gave way to a scream of outrageous pain and surprise. As the guard’s backward journey brought him into contact with the wall-anchored fungus, it had latched onto his unsuspecting body and stubbornly refused to let go. The young man screamed again as the fungus began to dissolve any living tissue with which it came in contact.

The senior guard stepped forward to help the junior officer, but quickly thought better of it as the young man’s screams turned to a horrible sound that could only be described as a sickly combination of sucking and chewing. He turned to fetch reinforcements.

Frantic to make his own escape, Passepout bolted forward like a charging bull. The force of his bullet-like flight literally bowled the still-turning senior guard over, tossing him in the air, and causing him to follow a head over heels path that sent him rolling back into the sucking fungus, right past the watching eyes of Volo. Before he knew it, the senior guard had joined his junior as wall’s the main course.

Passepout, meanwhile, still not looking where he was going, collided with Mason McKern who was just entering the cell. The senior Cloak saw him coming, managed to brake his stride, and braced himself against the door frame, blocking the stout thespian’s charge of egress.

Volo stepped forward, out of the darkness. “What kept you?” the master traveler queried.

“Something must have happened to my brother,” the mission-obsessed mage replied, “but I found his spellbook. I am sure the key to releasing the mask from Rassendyll’s head is in here somewhere.”

Mason opened the book, and his expression immediately darkened.

The pages were all blank.