Brian Thomsen - The Mage In The Iron Mask

Mason then went over a preliminary map of the keep to acquaint Volo and Passepout with the intricacies of the architecture. The two were then washed and bathed by the able-handed Poins and Hal, fed, and dispatched to Mulmaster in the custody of an old crone with a crossbow who sounded, to the very discerning ear, suspiciously like Chesslyn Onaubra.

On the Road Back to Mulmaster:

"Why do you and I have to be the reinforcements?" Passepout asked his boon companion. "Why couldn't Fullstaff have sent Poins, Hal, Hotspur, or any of his other lackeys?"

"Probably," the master traveler of all Toril answered, "because he didn't want to risk anything happening to them."

Volo and Passepout's hands were tied to the saddles of their horses in such a way that unless they sat perfectly upright and still, they would fall off and be dragged under the hooves of the surefooted stallions of the stable of Honor Fullstaff, whose servants did the binding, in Honor's words, to make their captivity convincing.

Chesslyn's long sword was hidden on a pack mule that followed closely behind so as not to arouse the suspicions of the guards at the gate, and in its place was a modified crossbow.

Along the way, Volo passed the time with stories of exploits similar to his own that he had picked up in various taverns around Toril. Chesslyn's weapon at hand reminded him of one that he had heard recently.

"I remember an article a while back that I read about a man with a crossbow who searched all Faerun in hopes of finding the meaning of life, but instead found love, laughs, and friendship," he began.

"What was it's title?" Chesslyn asked.

"On the Road with Crossbow, Hope, and Lamour."

"Lamour?" she queried.

"It means female love interest in some foreign tongue."

"Oh," she replied wistfully.

Volo could almost make out the towers of Mulmaster peeking up in the distance, and rashly chose this moment to make his move.

"Speaking of love, laughs, and friendship," he said quickly, slurring over the first "l" word, "when this is all over I was wondering if maybe you and I could spend a little more time getting to know each other."

"What do you have in mind?" she asked coyly.

"Maybe dinner?" he asked carefully.

"I have an even better idea," she countered, "how about…"

The tete-a-tete of the two travelers was interrupted by a loud snore issuing forth from the unconscious Passepout, who, despite the bumpy road had somehow managed to fall asleep in the saddle. Chesslyn and Volo turned in his direction, and in doing so noticed an advance squad of Hawks approaching, no doubt a patrol for the city watch.

Chesslyn put a finger to her lips, indicating discretion, and whispered, "Later."

It was the last word to pass between them, as the oncoming Hawks took possession of the two prisoners, promising their old crone captor that she would be notified when the reward for their capture could be picked up.

The two Hawks talked about how they planned to split the reward between themselves as they rode into Mulmaster with the bound Passepout and Volo.

In less than an hour the two travelers were sharing a dark and damp cell in the bowels of the dungeon of Southroad Keep.

In the Villa of Sir Honor Fullstaff, Swordmaster, retired:

Mason worked his magics on the iron mask that encased Rassendyll's head. When the spellcasting was complete, a mirror was brought out of storage so that the masked man could admire the handiwork that had been performed.

Gazing into the mirror, Rassendyll couldn't believe his eyes. He immediately raised his hand to the mask, to feel whether it had tactually changed as well.

It hadn't, but to all outward appearances the flat, stark, blank face of the mask's surface had been transformed into an ornately engraved faceplate on an even more elaborately emblazoned helmet.

Honor approached the still bewildered former mage, ran his fingers over the mask's surface, and turned toward the direction of Mason McKern.

"You're slipping," the blind swordmaster commented, "it feels the same."

"True," the senior Cloak replied, "but to the naked eye, it is now a work of art. The glamour surrounds the surface of the metal, without ever making contact with it."

"Then it will do," Honor acknowledged, and called to Poins. "Are his tabard and leggings ready?"

"Indeed, milord," Poins replied, and began assisting Rassendyll in the donning of the uniform of a Knight of the Order of the Hard Day.

Moments later, Rassendyll was completely masked in his knightly disguise.

"Only one last touch remains," Honor said aloud, turning slowly to accept a locked case from the arms of Mason.

Honor held the case out flat, and placed it into the outstretched arms of Hal who acted as a podium stand for the heavy box, his hands and arms stiff and unwavering under its oaken weight.

Carefully and gently, Honor opened the case and withdrew a samite-draped object which, with the gentle assistance of Mason, he began to unwrap.

"This was your father's sword," the blind sword-master explained. "No one else has used it since the day he died. It has been waiting for you. Hold it, use it, and it will remember."

Rassendyll gripped the sword, gently swinging it through the air in a wide arc as the memories, abilities and skills of its former owner coursed through his body.

Rassendyll was still absorbed in his gentle practice when Mason turned to Honor and whispered, "We should be getting changed for the reception. Let's leave them alone to get acquainted."

"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.