Brian Thomsen - The Mage In The Iron Mask

The last thing he remembered in his life was the distinct taste of the blood filling his windpipe and mouth, and a feeling of dampness on his breast as his silken tunic failed to absorb the onrushing blood from the pump within his chest that had not yet realized it should stop beating.

Rassendyll raced after his murderous brother in the darkness, relying only on his hearing to guide him in the proper directions. The cool air from the tunnel felt good against the skin of his face, luxuriating in the absence of the metal second skin that it had become accustomed to.

The formerly iron-masked man stopped short. He no longer heard the skit-skat of running steps in front of him.

Remaining absolutely silent, even holding his own breath, Rassendyll listened carefully for any new sounds.

A new noise had been added to the subterranean cacophony of plips, plops, and echoes… an irregular scuffling sound like a spoon scraping against the inside of a jug, or a muffled striker making occasional contact with the inside of a bell. As he listened, the sound seemed to be getting farther and farther away in a seemingly upward direction.

Silently and carefully as possible, so as not to lose the trace of the new sound, Rassendyll backtracked along the passageway, his hands searching and sweeping along the wall for some variance in the tunnel's make up.

He stubbed his finger on the still unrighted sconce, and noticed the barest of crevices in the wall. Reaching inside he forced the door open further, and feeling around, immediately discovered the ladder.

He quickly pulled back his hand as the ladder continued to dance back and forth for a few seconds, before coming to a hanging rest.

Whoever was just using this seems to have arrived at his chosen destination, Rassendyll thought.

Still in hot pursuit, the High Blade's twin brother paused for a few seconds more, listening for new movements on the ladder, then proceeded to climb upward to where he now knew his brother had fled.

Rickman watched the assassination of High Blade Selfaril from his safe haven of the closet through which he normally entered the High Blade's sanctuary when the utmost secrecy was required. The ambassador had hidden himself behind Selfaril's chair, barely obscuring himself from view with the help of a hanging tapestry that provided a barrier of insulation between the seated High Blade and the cold and drafty stone walls of his chambers.

The stupid ninny, the captain of the Hawks thought. Selfaril will certainly notice the unusual tumor that seems to have grown on the wall behind the tapestry. If he sees that worm, I may have to lend a hand in his disposal.

Rickman thought that he knew all of the secret passages in and out of Selfaril's study until he saw the High Blade make his entrance on hands and knees through some passage within the hearth.

I will have to have the local engineers make up a floor plan for all of the entrances and exits to this room once I become High Blade, he noted mentally, adding as an afterthought that they would have to be executed when it was completed.

Selfaril was out of breath and distracted as if he had been in a chase and was only now able to take a rest. As a result he failed to see the tumorous bulge against the wall that was the more-or-less concealed assassin.

A feeling of warmth and joy entered the captain of the Hawks' heart when he saw the wormlike ambassador plunge the crystal wand into the High Blade's heart, recognizing it as the twin of the one that had been left at the Retreat barely a week ago.

The High Blade is dead! Long live the High Blade! he thought, his own dagger ready to silence Selfaril's assassin. Next he would sound the alarm, alerting Mulmaster to the tragedy that had occurred; that an agent of the First Princess has killed her husband.

Just as he was ready to make his grand entrance, the sound of scuffling came from the hearth, and a second figure entered the secret chamber.

Rassendyll felt the slickness of sweat on his face as the exertion of the past few hours began to take its toll. All of my training in the Retreat never prepared me for this, the High Blade's twin thought, pausing for only a moment to get his breath. Holding the ladder firmly with one hand he wiped the perspiration from his brow and face with the other, simultaneously slicking down his recently unshorn whiskers with the discarded sweat before resuming his climb.

Another few steps upward, he felt the end of the ladder and carefully pulled himself up onto the ledge to which it was anchored.

Fighting the desire to stop and rest again, Rassendyll frantically scanned the darkness for some indication of where to go next. A hint of a crack of light to the left provided the only clue so, carefully feeling forward on hands and knees, he crawled to it until he felt the fabric of a curtain, which he lifted up just enough to slip under it.

Rassendyll crawled forward, momentarily blinding himself with the light of the High Blade's study. Withdrawing back slightly into the shade of the hearth, he allowed his eyes to adjust for a moment before once again penetrating the room.

When he opened his eyes he saw the feet of a robed individual standing by a great desk. Carefully and silently he took to his feet, ready to do battle if necessary.

The wormlike ambassador turned when he heard the noise from the direction of the hearth-only to confront the man he thought he had just killed bearing down on him with a sword.

The ambassador looked at the figure slumped in the chair, the crystal wand still embedded in its chest, and then back at the apparition approaching from the hearth.

They are one and the same! the Red Wizard realized. He has already come back from the dead to acquit his honor!

Frantically, the portly and soft Thayan civil servant retreated to the place on the wall against which he had previously hidden, but was unable to slip back behind the tapestry. He thought for a moment that perhaps he could extract the wand from the corpse's chest, but quickly realized that it would do no good against one who had already been killed; and besides that, the corpse's double was already upon him.

The wormlike ambassador embraced the darkness of fear and panic and fainted dead away, falling to the floor inches from the feet of the approaching twin of the High Blade.

Rassendyll glanced down at the pathetic heap of flesh that was his brother's assassin, and then looked to the corpse of his brother, the stain of blood slowing in its spread across his chest.

"I only wish that it had been my own hands that had the honor of taking your life," Rassendyll said out loud to his unhearing twin.

A voice from behind the nearly exhausted Rassendyll replied, "I am sure you do, and, I assure you, you aren't alone in that wish."

Rassendyll spun around, careful not to become entangled in the mass of flesh that was the Thayan ambassador's unconscious body, and immediately recognized the figure stepping out of his closet hiding place as the man who had accompanied the High Blade on the night upon which the events that would forever change his life had begun.

"We meet again," Rickman said acidly, "and might I say the beard becomes you much more than the mask your brother insisted upon."

Far below the High Blade's sanctuary, four figures pressed onward through the darkness, trying to catch up with the twins. Without the benefit of a torch, or even the fleeting traces of sound left by the one being pursued, the party was unable to keep up given the lead and pace that the younger men possessed. The four hastened guardedly through the black of subterranean night.

Honor led the group, who linked hands in order to stay close together. The blind swordmaster used his acute senses of hearing and touch, and his excellent memory of years earlier to retrace the route he took along these paths many years ago.