Майкл Уильямс - Before the Mask

He rushed toward her blearily, his arms extended, Nightbringer glimmering like a dark torch in his gloved hand. Seizing her, he drew her close, crudely and violently.

The knife! Judyth thought, instinctively raising the bundle. She brought up the packet suddenly, violently, as the sharp blade of the dagger slit through the green cloak and scored across the face of her assailant, a thin, shallow line from chin to forehead.

Verminaard reeled from her, howling and clutching his face. He banged Nightbringer on the stone floor in a flurry of black sparks, and smoke streamed from between his fingers.

Alarmed, but alert enough to seize her chance, Judyth rushed from the hall and out to the bailey. She dropped the bundle at the threshold, then crouched to quickly gather the belongings. And shivered as the long cries from the hall became shrill and terrible.

Robert found her, as he knew he would, waiting in the garden.

There, in the ring of aeterna lovingly planted by his old friend Mort, he discovered the girl weeping, her lavender-blue eyes reddened and downcast.

“Oh, Robert!” She smiled up at him and rose to her feet.

“Come with me,” Robert urged quietly and took her arm.

Gently Robert steadied the girl as they slipped through the topiaries, bright with autumn reds and violets, toward the stable, where the seneschal had kept a roan stallion saddled and ready for the trip to Berkanth.

But as they reached the edge of the garden, the tower bells began to ring.

“They’re after us!” Robert hissed, pulling Judyth behind the vine-entangled gate. Together, breathless, expecting torches, search parties, and alarms, they stared across the open courtyard at a surprising and ominous sight: the bailey in the eerie red glow of Lunitari, the soldiers assembled around Aglaca’s shrouded body, breathing the Solamnic prayers they scarcely remembered as they prepared to bury him amid the aeterna in his beloved garden.

The commotion came from the ramparts, where the garrison of Nidus rushed to man the walls, the archers hastening to the western gate, where the cry of the sentries rose above the tumult.

“Solamnia! The forces of Laca! Prepare for attack!”

“We’re going nowhere now, m’Lady,” Robert whispered, motioning for silence. “Even if we could cross that moonlit yard and get to the horse, there’s no longer an unguarded gate in the castle. I taught these boys how to wait a siege, and if they listened at all, Nidus is shut tight against the enemy.”

“Then just what do we do, Robert?” Judyth asked, drawing Aglaca’s dagger, her lavender eyes flashing with anger.

“Not what you’d like to do, lady,” Robert insisted, gently taking the weapon from her and slipping it into his belt. “We wait it out. We hope that Lord Laca has schooled his men even better.”

Verminaard sat in Daeghrefn’s old quarters, looking dolefully in the mirror. He had slept for days—a strange and fitful sleep, filled with shapeless dreams and dark landscapes. He could tell as much by the moons and the shifting planets, from which he gained his only knowledge of time. For pride’s sake, he dared not venture down into the keep, where his soldiers might see the wound the girl had given him.

The cut had never bled—not even a drop—but now, three days after his wounding, the scar was even worse. Jagged and purple-black, spreading from chin to forehead, it had branched and forked like a river in rocky country.

My glory is ruined, he thought bitterly. You would think that a wound such as this would be mortal, but it does not hurt. I can ho longer even feel it, and yet when I look in the mirror, the scar has spread even farther, to my ears and lips and my very eyelids. The skin is destroyed. My face is eaten alive by this wound.

I shall find that girl.

As he slipped the black cloth over the mirror, he saw Cerestes in it, entering the door behind him. In Verminaard’s absence, Cerestes had assumed defense of the castle. The spell that had bound his magic ended with Aglaca’s death, and now the mage used every charm and enchantment he knew to bind the garrison to his command. But Cerestes had recovered only slowly from his own binding, and his spellcraft was still weak and tentative. Though he kept the soldiers in line for the moment, the mage looked haggard and drawn.

“My beauty is ruined, Cerestes,” Verminaard pronounced desolately. “Now those I conquer will remember me for my scar, for my ugliness.”

“Not so, Lord Verminaard,” the mage replied. “They will remember you for the power of your choices, for your victories and conquests.”

Verminaard laughed bitterly. With a sweep of his gloved hand, he pointed to the balcony, to the high overlook and its view of the southern plains. “Look out beyond the walls, Cerestes, and think back only as far as midsummer. Now the plains are growing back, and the forest beyond them is greening with fir and juniper. But how will this mend, Cerestes? How will this scar look in a season’s time?” Cerestes backed toward the door. “Wait for me here, Lord Verminaard,” he urged. “Your wounds will mend as mine do—slowly but completely. Though I cannot hasten that recovery, I know a little of shape-changing and disguise.”

“ ‘Wait’? How could I leave this cell, marked as I am? And who knows when the mending will begin?” Verminaard intoned as the mage slipped through the chamber door. Verminaard sat on the bed, burying his face in his hands. “Has any suffered as I have suffered?” he shouted to the empty room. None , the Voice claimed as the mace by the bedside sparkled with ebony light. None have suffered as you have suffered, and yet you are handsome in my eyes, a creature of unforeseen beauty, whose scars have deepened his splendor, for in my eyes, you are a spirit of dark light …. Verminaard shook his head. He would not be consoled. Not yet.

Go to the balcony , the Voice urged. Look west over the plains whose greening you mourn. West over the army of Solamnics, toward the Eira Goch .

Reluctantly Verminaard stood and walked to the balcony railing.

“Light,” he said, shielding his eyes against the red glow of the sunset. “I see light, and the crests of mountains.”

Dream of what lies beyond them , the Voice urged. I am preparing you an army in Estwilde—a thousand men strong and ready .

You are handsome enough to lead them .

“I will not have them see this scar,” Verminaard insisted. “It is a wound—a sign of weakness.” No weakness. For Cerestes prepares a mask of mysteries, wrought from Daeghrefn’s broken breastplate. You will wear the mask at the head of your armies. You are handsome and splendid, but the mask is better. Now none will know you as I know you. None but I shall look upon your countenance. When you receive the mask, go to the evergreen copse, to the place of transformations. There we shall commune, and I shall bring to pass the first of my promises.

Your army will wait. Your destiny will abide .

Laca watched the dim arrangement of lights along the battlements of Nidus. It was the tenth day of the siege, and there was still no word from Verminaard.

Long encampment sat ill with Solamnics, as did the waiting.

Even now, the thought of defeating Verminaard was enough to fill his dreams with delight and yearning. Deeply Laca wished revenge on his own son, on the cold young raven of Nidus who had blinded one brother through petulance and spite, then slain the other on the battlements where the lights weaved now in the thickening darkness.

But startling news had come from the castle. The emissary, a grizzled Nerakan named Gundling, brought the story to Laca. Verminaard, who was now, some said, a cleric of considerable power, had vanished from the castle two nights ago. Rumors had it that he was somewhere in the mountains, communing with the goddess and readying himself for the great venture. And while he was gone, the garrison had come to themselves, Gundling said. They had seized the mage, who was near exhaustion, imprisoned him, then voted to a man to open the gates to the Solamnics, to hand over the castle. As a Solamnic lord, Laca had heard stories such as this before—the hoarded promises of besieged towns, the lies of bandit captains. Strong magic could await them inside those walls, and a thousand lesser ambushes.