Jeff LaSala - The Darkwood Mask

The room was small, bereft of furniture and adornment, save for a single high-backed, velvet-padded chair. The man sitting in it stared out, unseeing, through the window. His head was propped up, the lids of his eyes half open, admitting only a trace of gray light from the rising dusk.

Unaware of his surroundings, the time of day, or his own fate, the man stared forward, reliving the cycle again, the memory as present as if it were happening again right there in the small, stark room.…

Rejkar One stares at me as I work, his aventurine eyes uncomprehending. Over the last eight hours, I have watched their translucency increase and an almost imperceptible green light grow from within. Both are indicative of the sentience struggling to take hold within the artificial mind .

I labor to give the titan more .

I clean the shallow runes along the ocular cavities with a small brush. Between the gaps in its mask, I touch the darkwood fibers to test their resilience. These I have already dusted with trace amounts of ground Irian crystal. Routine maintenance is vital at this stage .

I feel strangely outside myself this day, somewhat detached as I explore this moment. Perhaps it is simply the importance of what I am doing and the perspective it gives me. I hear the shivering roar of the forge behind the titan, but I have learned to ignore the distraction. We all have. Today the forgemaster and his team have halted their usual work to produce a lot of thirty standard units. The demands of the world outside have increased, the need for more manpower dire .

I think of Aarren again as I work, a great man, despite his excoriation. His mastery of the intelligent mind, his respect for its fragility, overshadows my own. What his father Merrix had created-warforged titans like the one before me-Aarren perfected with the man-sized, more adaptable units, but some of us have not given up yet on improving the titans, the true “children” of the Orphanage. Marrying Merrix’s work with his son’s genius has been the mission of this facility for years. We have made progress, and I am proud for my part in it .

Imagine it-with sentient, rational constructs of such great strength at hand, the war could be forced to a speedy conclusion at last .

“Master, you must take some rest.” At the base of the maintenance ladder beneath me, I hear the concern in my assistant’s voice. Does he not understand how diligent I must be in my work today?

“One hour more,” he says. “Take some rest in an hour. I will take your place then, Master.” He does understand .

“That will do,” I call down to him .

I return to my work, confident I will not be interrupted again .

Sar, the 7th of Sypheros, 998 YK

Tallis surveyed the cityscape one last time.

Night was absolute in Korth, the pearly face of Zarantyr veiled by storm clouds. It was a good time for this kind of work. Tallis watched from his position along the parapets of one of the city’s towers, clad in his customary black, masked and ready. The arches and linear designs that gave each building below him its own identity were lost in the darkness. Only an array of glowing needlepoints-wisplights at the intersections and residential firelight in the windows-riddled the gloom.

Along the main avenues, individual torches marched in long-established patterns-the noctivagant patrols of the White Lions. Tallis knew Korth’s garrison well. They were a predictable, if tenacious lot-dangerous only in numbers or if encountered unexpectedly. The only watchmen concerning him tonight were those guarding tonight’s mark.

He produced a pair of wire-framed spectacles set with dark lenses. When he settled them over the holes of his leather mask, what few colors remained of the night faded into shades of gray. The shadows nearest him vanished altogether, making every crevice and crenellation within a stone’s throw sharp in arrant contrast.

For that brief moment, Tallis envied the dwarves-even goblins and orcs, for that matter-for their natural darkvision. Sharp as his eyes were, he could not see in the dark. Less fortunate criminals-like him-had to pay hard-earned gold for devices like this one.

He set his eyes upon the adjacent tower, an edifice of black stone that rose more than ten stories higher than his current vantage. Known as the Ebonspire, it catered to the noble and the privileged, housing esteemed citizens and honored guests alike. It was also considered nigh impenetrable.

Tallis intended to prove such disinformation to be simply that.

The sentries and magic wards that guarded the tower’s occupants ensured that whatever he was after had better be worth the risk. To Tallis, it was well worth both the risk and the expense. He’d nearly exhausted his magical resources just getting this far, but at least he’d saved gold by using a simple mask. Powerful wards placed by House Medani denied all the Ebonspire’s entrants the ability to disguise their true appearances with magic. It was said even changelings could not use their innate shapeshifting within.

The dwelling he was about to infiltrate housed one Arend ir’Montevik, an aristocrat from the city of Atur whose religious charities Tallis was disinclined to favor. He nearly spit at the thought. The Blood of Vol had enough followers to fill its coffers without receiving generous donations from the likes of ir’Montevik.

While the man’s coin could surely pad his own depleting coffers, Tallis wasn’t after his wealth. Not this time, anyway. He didn’t know what business ir’Montevik had in Korth at present, but he would see to it the valuable scrolls in the man’s possession wouldn’t reach their final destination. Gold was one thing. Necromantic spells in written form were quite another.

Haedrun, the agent who’d given Tallis this job, had offered one hundred galifars for every scroll he could acquire. Such pay was paltry compared the scrolls’ actual value, but Tallis respected the Red Watchers and their work. For her , he would do this one cheap.

And if he chanced upon anything interesting or valuable in ir’Montevik’s possessions-say, dragonshards or perhaps a choice potion or two-then it would all even out. The noble was burdened by a substantial inheritance, and when such unfortunate men failed to employ their legacies properly, it was up to men like Tallis to relieve them of it.

Tallis studied the wide tower. Every story of the Ebonspire included four flats, each overlooking Korth in one of the cardinal directions from a wide balcony. His enhanced vision could not pierce the darkness as far up as he meant to climb, but he was able to scrutinize the nearest balconies, his point of access.

There: two stories down and directly across on the tower’s eastern side, Tallis spotted another guard. This one’s ivory tabard and burnished breastplate proclaimed him one of the White Lions. A military man must reside within that flat. That balcony wasn’t his target, though it was his means of accessing the Ebonspire. The guard would have to get out of his way.

A long-hafted battle-axe rested within the White Lion’s reach against the tower wall, and he held a longbow in hand. His posture was rigid from the arduous instruction all White Lions received under the iron-willed General Thauram.

Thauram. It had been a while since Tallis had crossed blades with that particular half-elf. He still saw the scar from that encounter every time he bathed.

Tallis appraised the young soldier and saw that he was tense, expecting a problem. One of Thauram’s “amnesty cases,” a felon who avoided execution only by indentured military service to the city?