Mistress Of Masks (Book 1) Page 10

  “Bolt yourself inside,” she shouted at Geveral, and then she was gone, pounding off down the walkway toward the village square.

  Alone, Geveral sat watching the pool of blood from Dal’s body spread over the floorboards. He ought to get up now. He ought to run after Orrick and Eydis and fight to defend himself and his village. Or even shut the door and hide. But he did neither. Instead he sat paralyzed, while the flickering firelight played over Dalvin’s face and the screams and sounds of running feet continued outside.

  He didn’t know how much time passed before he became aware of a long shadow falling across the floor. Looking up, he found a startling figure filling the open doorway. It was a creature unlike any he had ever seen.

  Tall as the doorframe, the Aviad possessed the golden head and massive wings of an eagle but the muscular body of a man. There was a thick torq around its neck and a lapcloth encircling its waist, while the rest of its body was bare. It had a hooked beak that looked as deadly as the curved talons tipping its fingers and toes. But the bow slung over its shoulder and the bloody spear clutched in its hands were more threatening still.

  For the space of a second, Geveral and the silent birdman locked tense gazes. Then the Aviad charged, spear raised. Instinctively, Geveral coiled his muscles and threw himself out of the birdman’s path, feeling the wind as the spear passed close by his cheek. Desperately, he looked for something to defend himself with, as the Aviad rounded on him. A broken broomstick, a heavy frying pan, anything. But the birdman blocked his access to anything that might have served as a weapon. And now it closed in on him. Faced with the quick jabs of the creature’s spear, Geveral grabbed the only furnishing available, a rickety wooden chair, and held it before him like a shield. If he couldn’t fight, he would at least keep his enemy at a distance. They circled the room, the Aviad easily driving Geveral backward until he was forced out the open doorway and onto the front porch.

  The scene outside was chaos. Treeveil was overrun with birdmen, and as Geveral watched, another wave of them flew in, swooping on massive wings beneath the branches of the trees to light on rooftops and walkways. They were torching cottages and murdering villagers, largely unopposed. But here and there, villagers defended themselves with what tools were at hand. Geveral caught a glimpse of Eydis on a distant walkway, battling a birdman twice her size. The fire poker she swung at the creature looked pathetic, but she used it with skill enough to stay alive. Of Orrick, Geveral captured only a fleeting glance as the barbarian defended a neighboring cottage. Shoving a blazing torch in a birdman’s face, Orrick stole the creature’s own spear and used it to run him through.

  Geveral could take in no more of the fight because he had problems of his own. Retreating at his enemy’s advance, he stumbled down the porch steps and onto the walkway. Before he knew it, the railing of the walkway was at his back and there was no place left to run. He couldn’t flee without exposing his back to the birdman’s spear. His heart pounded, and fear sweat broke out on his forehead despite the sudden chill in the air.

  As thunder rolled overhead, the Aviad flinched. It was the first sign of emotion Geveral had seen from the creature. Surely it couldn’t be afraid of a thunder storm?

  Whatever its concern, the Aviad recovered quickly and made a feint to Geveral’s left, before leaping again to his other side. Startled, Geveral jerked backward, leaning his weight against the railing behind him. Too late, he heard a cracking sound and felt the rail give way. He teetered precariously on the edge, trying to regain his balance, before plunging over the side.

  As he fell, the world dropped away. The birdman, the walkway, and the cottage beyond, shrank in the distance. He landed hard, flat on his back. Pain and dizziness were overwhelming. Struggling to recapture the breath knocked from his lungs, it took him a few seconds to realize he wasn’t lying on the forest floor hundreds of feet below. His fall had been broken by the platform of a lower level. This was an exposed space housing storage barrels, outdoor tables, and a roofed pavilion for open-air meetings. Beneath the pavilion, many frightened village families huddled, driven from their burning cottages. The surrounding torchlight flickering across the scene revealed death and destruction.

  Storm clouds hovered directly overhead, although the skies in the distance were clear and starlit. It was as if the storm was centralized around the village. A light hail began falling, chunks of ice bouncing from the boards around him as Geveral rolled onto his knees. There was a heavy thud, and the boards beneath him shuddered. With a sinking feeling, Geveral looked up to find his winged adversary had followed him. There was nothing to shield him this time. The chair that had protected him before had fallen with him and was scattered in broken bits of kindling. Pinned in place by the merciless eyes of his enemy, Geveral knew he faced death.

  “Geveral!”

  Following the sound of his name, he saw Eydis looking down from the platform above. “Geveral, catch!” she shouted over the wind and the distance as, leaning around the broken rail, she dropped an oblong object.

  The iron poker fell, landing with a clatter only inches from his hand.

  Desperately snatching the weapon, Geveral brought it up just in time to knock aside the descending spear that would have skewered him to the spot. But his grip was weak and clumsy. As the spear glanced off it, the poker was knocked from his hand, spinning away out of reach.

  On his knees and defenseless again, he waited to die. The Aviad took aim. And then there came a wild cry and the pounding of running feet. Geveral looked up to see the barbarian, Orrick, rushing toward them. He would never arrive in time. But at the last possible moment, he skidded to a halt, took aim, and hurled his spear like a javelin. The spear caught the birdman in the heart, and with a gurgling sound, the creature crashed to the floor and lay still.

  Fixed to the spot, Geveral stared at his fallen enemy, scarcely feeling the blasting wind and stinging hail raining down. The world had fallen oddly silent, the screams of the villagers and the howls of their attackers fading away until all that could be heard was the roar of the storm. The torches lining the platform had been extinguished, but through the gloom the winged forms of the Aviads could be seen rising like black shadows into the sky. They were leaving!

  “Come on, boy,” said Orrick, grabbing him roughly by the shoulder and dragging him to his feet. “Let’s take shelter before this hail storm finishes what the birdmen began.”

  “I don’t understand,” Geveral shouted into the wind. “They had us beaten. Why are they retreating?”

  “Maybe they like the storm even less than we do,” yelled Eydis, appearing at Orrick’s side. “If the weather grounded them, they’d be as helpless as humans—probably not a feeling they like.”

  As she spoke, a hailstone the size of a coin bounced painfully off Geveral’s shoulder. This was getting dangerous. He followed the others as they ran for the shelter of the covered pavilion, where other villagers gathered. Overhead, lightning and thunder split the skies over Treeveil.

  * * *

  All the village elders gathered for a meeting in the aftermath of the storm. The rising sun was just chasing the stars from the sky, the gloomy light of dawn revealing the damage the village had suffered.

  Unable to face what awaited him at home, a dejected Geveral sat leaning against a row of barrels, within earshot of the open-air meeting. He wasn’t really trying to conceal himself, but neither was he trying not to eavesdrop on the council meeting. Thus, he couldn’t help but overhear when Mage Jauhar took the floor.

  “It is those strangers from beyond the forest,” Mage Jauhar said, pacing before the assembled circle. “Treeveil has always been a peaceable village. Never before last night have we seen anything like the attack of those birdmen. Does anyone believe it is mere coincidence those evil creatures descended on us in the same day and hour of the strangers’ arrival? No, I tell you Mentor Kesava should never have invited the outsiders into Treeveil. They brought this tragedy to our door.”

  Around t
he circle, elders were nodding and murmuring agreement.

  Geveral did not realize he meant to speak until he found himself on his feet. “That is an unjust accusation, Mage Jauhar. Eydis Ironmonger and Orrick of Kroad came to Treeveil to trade with us, not to bring us harm.”

  He swallowed, as every head swiveled toward him, and he felt the glare of many gazes.

  “Young master Geveral, isn’t it?” asked Elder Sudaka, the chief among the village heads. The elder’s lined face was firm but not unkind. “This is a meeting of the elders, not a place for uninvited younglings. But since you are here, tell us about these strangers. You have spent time with them?”

  “Enough to know they’re not villains,” Geveral answered. “Eydis, in particular, strikes me as a woman to be trusted. And she is a seer.”

  Elder Sudaka looked startled at that last revelation but recovered quickly. “Seer or no seer,” he said, “this woman and her barbarian companion have much to answer for. Where are they now?”

  “Trying to gather enough supplies to continue their journey,” said Geveral.

  Mage Jauhar hissed angrily. “You see how it is with these foreigners? Last night they bring tragedy upon us, and this morning they abandon us to clean up the wreckage and bury the bodies they leave in their wake.”

  “They’re anxious to carry on with an urgent mission,” Geveral defended. “I’m sure they would stay to help us if they could.”

  “Are you sure, youngling?” asked Mage Jauhar. “Because the only thing I’m sure of is that last night our people lost loved ones and saw their homes set ablaze, all because Mentor Kesava was foolish enough to offer hospitality to a pair of outsiders who had no place in our midst.”

  At mention of his mentor, Geveral felt the blood rush to his face in anger. But before he could respond, Elder Sudaka cut in. “Mage Jauhar, you will refrain from criticizing Mentor Kesava, considering the tragic sacrifice he made for all our sakes.”

  Geveral’s fury ebbed as quickly as it had surged, and even Mage Jauhar looked suitably ashamed. Geveral had seen Mentor Kesava when they found him after the storm. Already an old man, in death the mentor appeared to have aged threefold, his skin so withered and his body so shrunken he looked more a mummy than a man. It was a sight Geveral knew he would be having nightmares about for some time to come.

  “Mentor Kesava gave his life bravely,” Mage Jauhar admitted. “In his death, this village lost a good mage, and I lost a close friend. Carrying on as Treeveil’s sole remaining mage is a burden I dread having to bear. But Kesava knew the risk he took when he channeled so much power into creating that hail storm to drive away the birdmen. He was never very strong in weather manipulation, and the degree of magic he used would have drained almost anyone to a lifeless husk.”

  “Which makes his sacrifice all the more courageous,” Elder Sudaka intervened. “But Kesava’s death is not the subject of this meeting. What we have to decide is what to do about this Eydis Ironmonger and her barbarian companion.”

  “They defended us last night,” Geveral put in quickly. “If not for their efforts, many more villagers would have died, including myself.”

  “Or possibly,” said Mage Jauhar, “many fewer would have died had the strangers not trespassed into our forest at all, bringing their Aviad friends along behind them.”

  “The birdmen are no friends of theirs—” Geveral protested.

  Mage Jauhar intervened. “Whether the Aviads are friends or foes to the strangers is yet to be determined. All we can be certain of is that the timing of last night’s attack was suspicious. I move that we look into the matter and ascertain what, if any, association the foreigners have with the birdmen and whether they had knowledge or part in the tragedy that befell our village.”

  When Geveral would have argued, the elder signaled him to be silent. “If these strangers are innocent of wrongdoing, they will have nothing to fear by such an inquiry,” he said. “But questioned they will be. Innocent Drycaenians died last night, and their loved ones have a right to know why.”

  The council of elders put it to an immediate vote, and when the outcome came, it was unanimous. Eydis and Orrick were to be placed under arrest and kept under guard of the Watchers of the Wood until a trial could be held.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Orrick

  “I know you hear me,” Orrick called, pushing his face against the bars over the window. “This is your last chance to release us from this splinter box you call a prison, before I reach down your throat and rip out your entrails.”

  “Save your breath, Orrick,” Eydis advised, stirring in the bed of straw in the corner. “The guard knows you won’t rip out entrails you can’t reach.”

  Orrick scowled in the face of her infuriating calmness. She had spent the last hours of the afternoon napping while he paced the confines of the narrow hut the Watchers had pitched them into, looking for a means of escape.

  “I’ve spent enough time behind prison bars,” he grumbled, watching out the window as the lone Watcher guarding them made his rounds. “They can’t keep us in here forever, and as soon as that door cracks open, I’ll have my hands around the throat of that guard. And then—”

  “Yes, yes, the entrails,” Eydis murmured, stifling a yawn. “Maybe instead of raging at the guard, you could put this time to better use by getting a little sleep. We’ll need our wits about us if we’re to reason with these Drycaenians and gain our release.”

  Orrick stalked around the room, which was so small he could cross from one end to the other in a dozen paces. Apparently in this village they rarely had cause to lock anyone up over prolonged periods. The hut they called a roundhouse would have made a more suitable storage shed than a holding cell. In fact, it had every appearance of having been hastily converted from just such a previous use. For someone who had recently escaped the Morta den ‘Cairn, the most notorious prison in the rangelands, breaking out of this place should present small difficulty.

  He took a run at the door, slamming his shoulder over and over into the wood. But it was surprisingly sturdy and didn’t give way under his onslaught.

  “Stop doing that,” Eydis sighed. “You’re only going to hurt yourself. I’m telling you, the only way we will leave this cell is by means of diplomacy. When we’re brought before the village heads we’ll have the opportunity to present our case.”

  Orrick glowered. “You can have your diplomacy. I’d rather crack a few skulls.”

  She shook her head as if to say he was a fool and changed the subject. “I had another vision while I was resting. At least, I think it was a vision. I haven’t been experiencing them long enough to be certain when I’m only dreaming and when I’m being given a true glimpse of the future. But this was vivid, like the vision I had in Silverwood Grove.” She sounded troubled.

  He wasn’t getting anywhere with the door anyway, so Orrick sank to the floor beside her. He asked, “And did this vision show how long we’re to be kept locked up here, while Arik the One-Eyed probably moves farther from my grasp with each passing day?”

  She looked at him narrowly. “Finding the man you seek is not our primary quest, barbarian,” she reminded. “Preventing the fall of the Asincourt seclusionary is our first concern. Remember that.”

  How could he forget with her reminding him of it every step of the journey? But arguing with the woman only made her more intractable. He was learning that already. So all he said was, “What exactly did your vision reveal?”

  “Only that we must not leave Treeveil without persuading the Drycaenian, Geveral, to accompany us to the baselands.”

  “The youngling?” he asked, forehead creasing. “Of what use is he to us? He’s certainly no warrior. We saw that last night when the Aviads attacked. He couldn’t defend himself, let alone anyone else.”

  He might have added that Eydis, on the other hand, had surprised him with how well she handled herself. He wouldn’t have taken the skinny redhead for much of a scrapper, but last night, even with only a fir
e poker for a weapon, she had fought like a cornered cat. A cat battling birdmen. He smirked at the thought, before recalling their present situation was much less amusing.

  “I am determined in this, Kroadian,” she was telling him now. “There is more to this Geveral than meets the eye, and at some point he is going to be vital to the success of our quest. I have seen this.”

  Before he could reply, he was distracted by the sounds of a commotion occurring outside the hut. A cry of “fire” sounded in the distance, followed by the thud of running feet. Hurrying to the window, Orrick saw their Watcher guard had deserted his post.

  “What’s happening?” asked Eydis, joining him at the window. “Is it the Aviads returning?”

  Orrick didn’t answer. Their window was positioned to afford a view of treetops, a glimpse of the walkway twisting around the hut, and little else. They were on the wrong side to see anything of the village.

  But Orrick’s keen hearing detected what his eyes could not. Someone was stealthily approaching the hut. The soft steps weren’t those of a guard but of someone who had no business being here. Someone who did not care to be detected.

  The door handle rattled softly.

  Casting caution to the winds, Orrick demanded, “Who’s creeping around out there?” When there was no response, he laid a hand to the iron door handle. And jerked away when it was painfully cold to the touch. His hand throbbed as if it had touched a frozen flame. Before his eyes, the door handle changed, turning blue as ice crystals formed over the iron, then spread, crackling over the lock and down the side of the door.

  Orrick knew magic when he saw it. “Is this your doing?” he asked Eydis, uneasily.

  She shook her head and stepped back as the door’s hinges and handle suddenly shattered, shards of frozen metal showering the floor. With a bang, the door fell. And there, on its other side, stood the figure of a tall and slender youth with the sharply pointed ears and narrow features of the Drycaenian race and the simple forest clothing and long loose hair favored by the Treeveil inhabitants. This particular youngling was the last person Orrick had expected to see.