Mistress Of Masks (Book 1) Page 6

  “I have no use for your religion, headsman. In case you haven’t heard, I’m not of your race. I’ll leave this world the same way I came into it, a heathen from the Kroadian wilds.”

  He watched for a reaction, but the other man showed no anger. That was disappointing.

  “What have you come for anyway?” Orrick growled. “If my day hasn’t come, why are you here?”

  The headsman glanced toward the door, where the turnkey hovered on the other side of the barred window. “It’s my custom to visit the condemned before they fall under my axe. I accept their gifts and explain to them what to expect on the day. Sometimes the prisoner wishes to practice, ensuring all comes off cleanly at the final event…”

  “Gifts?” Orrick cut him off with a scowl. “You expect me to bribe you to do a decent job of killing me?”

  “What I expect,” the headsman said, “is for you to shut up and listen.” He dropped his voice and eyed the door again, where the shadow of the turnkey was no longer visible. “Your time to exit this earthly realm may not approach as soon as you think, Betrayer. Not if you act quickly and follow my every instruction.”

  “Call me by that name again, and I’ll rip your throat out,” Orrick responded. But his attention was captured. “What instructions are you talking about?”

  “I speak of a plan,” the headsman said. “I speak of escape.”

  Orrick straightened.

  “I’m listening.”

  The executioner said, “Everything has been arranged for your removal from this place. The boat that brought me to this prison waits in the level below.”

  “Where they take in supplies and fresh prisoners?” Orrick asked, vaguely remembering the layout of the place he had passed through on arrival so many months ago.

  The headsman said, “All you need do is get down to that boat without alerting the guards to your escape from this cell. The oarsman has been paid for his silence, and once the Morta den’Cairn is behind you, he’ll take you where you need to go—to the Isle of Bones. There a friend will be waiting with supplies and weapons for you. Do you understand?”

  “Sure, I understand,” Orrick said rising. “But I do have one question.”

  “Yes?”

  In a flash Orrick leapt at the man, grabbing him roughly and spinning him around so that his forearm was pressed hard across the headsman’s throat.

  “Who are you really?” he growled.

  The executioner swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath Orrick’s grip, but his voice remained calm. “I’ve told you the truth. I’m the headsman employed for your execution. My name is Fenric.”

  “Fenric may be your name,” Orrick interrupted, “but what sort of executioner helps a prisoner escape? Someone has sent you to ensnare me. But to what purpose?”

  Fenric coughed as Orrick’s arm tightened to cut off his breath. “I swear by the First Father I’m here to help.”

  “And why should I believe you?”

  “I’ll give you reason if you’ll only look me in the face.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “Just do it!”

  If nothing else, this Fenric’s determination was sincere.

  Orrick hesitated. “If you so much as squeal, I’ll kill you before the guard can get in,” he warned, releasing his hold.

  “Understood.” Facing him, Fenric pulled back his cowl.

  “By my greatmother!” Orrick gaped. The face exposed to him was a mirror image of his own, from thick slanted brows over ice blue eyes to the crooked nose above tight lips and an unkempt blond beard. Even the shallow scar cutting across one eyebrow was identical.

  “What foul sorcery is this?” Orrick demanded.

  “Not foul. The magic was worked by a friend, one gifted with the talent of changing faces,” Fenric answered. “Beneath the enchantment she cast over me, I bear only passing resemblance to the man you see before you. She helped me appear more exact.”

  “She? She who?”

  “There is no time to explain, even if I knew all there was to tell. I’m only one cog in the wheel. But when you meet this young woman, she will answer your questions.”

  Orrick struggled to grasp the situation. “At least tell me who you serve. Whose forces are working to free me?”

  Instead of answering, the executioner began to disrobe.

  “Take this and put it on,” he instructed, tossing his hooded cloak to Orrick.

  Ignoring Orrick’s protests, Fenric worked quickly, not pausing until the switch was complete and he was fully dressed in Orrick’s clothing and Orrick in his.

  “There. It is done,” the headsman said, shoving his heavy axe into Orrick’s hands and stepping back to survey the transformation.

  “What is done?” Orrick scowled. “If you plan what I think you do, you’re mad. Only in stories does this trick work.”

  “Have faith, Orrick of Kroad,” Fenric said. “It will not be your fate to die within these walls. I do not know exactly what is planned for you, but I’m told yours is a great destiny. I’m only here to help you on your way.”

  And suddenly, before Orrick could react, a dagger appeared from nowhere in the headsman’s hands and he plunged it into his own belly.

  Orrick caught him before he could collapse noisily to the floor and lowered him carefully, mindful of the guard outside the door.

  Fenric was pale and trembling but still alive. Curse the fool for thinking he would die instantly from a belly wound. He was trying to speak but Orrick couldn’t make out his garbled words. He leaned his ear to the dying man’s lips.

  “Do not …waste this second chance. May the First Father go with you…”

  He exhaled his last breath then and his face shifted, the imitation of Orrick’s face morphing into the unfamiliar features of another.

  There was no time to stare in amazement. Thinking fast, Orrick dragged the dead man’s body into a corner and rolled it on its side, facing the wall. With any luck he would appear to be sleeping. Next he scattered fistfuls of straw bedding to cover the bloody pool where the headsman had died and the gory trail to where the body rested.

  The door rattled, and the guard called, “Time’s up, Fenric. Let’s go.”

  Orrick positioned himself to block the view of the body as the door swung open. Would the guard notice the switch?

  “Come on, headsman. Your oarsman is impatient to be off.” The guard barely glanced at him.

  Hope surged within Orrick as he ducked out the door of his cell. It seemed an eternity he had been locked away in the confined space. The torches lining the walls were bright to his eyes, so long accustomed to shadow. The limping turnkey led the way down the corridor, past other silent cells, and into the warren of passages that burrowed into the heart of the prison keep.

  Orrick kept his head down, his hood pulled low, expecting every step of the way to hear a cry of alarm ring out as his deception was discovered. How long could it be before the headsman’s body was found? Grip tightening on the handle of his axe, he eyed the hunched shoulders of the guard ahead. One way or another, he would escape tonight. He wouldn’t be taken alive and stuffed back into that cell.

  As he contemplated silently dispatching the turnkey and proceeding more swiftly without him, the echo of voices and approaching steps reached his ears. Another moment and a pair of guards appeared. They were too busy conversing with one another to spare more than a glance at Orrick and his escort as they passed. But the encounter convinced Orrick he was less conspicuous in the other man’s company. The turnkey would live as long as he was useful.

  They descended a winding stairway to the lower levels. Down here the walls and ceiling glistened with moisture, and the smell of fish was stronger. With the odor, a cool draft seeped upward, kissing Orrick’s grime-encrusted skin and promising the nearness of freedom. He heard the water before he saw it, the sound of lapping waves magnified and bouncing from wall to wall.

  At the bottom of the steps they entered the watery cavern benea
th the keep. Here there were enough barrels of provisions to keep the prison stocked for months. There was a pier where supply boats from the mainland could moor. One waited there now, bobbing on the tide.

  The oarsman hailed them noisily, impatient to cast off. But as Orrick was about to go to him, the turnkey planted a fat hand on his chest. “Not so quick, Fenric. You know how this works. You’ll be on your way all right after I gets me fee.”

  “What fee?” Orrick asked, keeping his voice rough so the man wouldn’t notice it wasn’t Fenric’s.

  The guard cleared his throat and spat. “Don’t play stupid, headsman. I got you to and from the prisoner, as promised. But me services don’t come free.”

  “It seems they will have to, as I have no coin,” Orrick said impatiently.

  “No coin, eh? Then this shiny medallion will do well enough for me.” The turnkey grabbed the medallion and chain around Orrick’s neck, the emblem of the First Couple that had belonged to Fenric.

  Orrick caught the guard’s thick wrist. “The medallion is not for trade,” he snarled, wondering as he did so why he was loath to part with it. It was not as if he were an adherent to Fenric’s religion.

  The turnkey sneered. “Maybe you don’t understand, headsman. Without my nod, no visitor leaves this island. At least, not in one piece. So if I was you, I’d reconsider giving up the shiny.”

  He gestured toward the shadows, and Orrick realized they were not alone—two more guards waited to back up their friend. So. They had planned this in advance.

  “Final chance,” Orrick said. “Get out of my way or I’ll remove you myself.”

  The guard’s eyes widened, and his cheeks flushed with anger. “You’ve got an arrogant tongue, headsman. Seems my friends and I will have to teach you a lesson by cutting it out.”

  He drew his sword, and that was all the encouragement Orrick needed. Knocking aside the incoming sword, he swung his axe and felt the blade bite deep into the side of the turnkey’s neck. Warm blood spurted from a penetrated artery to wash down Orrick’s hand. Gurgling softly, the guard collapsed.

  Before the turnkey hit the floor, his friends in the shadows charged. Orrick buried the head of his axe in the chest of the first to reach him. The second man managed to draw sword before Orrick fell on him. Hauling the body of the first man in front of him like a shield, Orrick blocked his enemy’s first swing, then shoved the body into him, knocking him off his feet. The sword fell from the guard’s hand to slide across the stone floor and plunge over the edge, into the murky water.

  The unarmed guard, now pinned beneath the weight of his dead comrade, licked his lips, eyes darting around for a means of escape. While Orrick debated whether it was worthwhile to kill him, the clatter of boots on the stairs warned him someone had heard the scuffle. More guards were coming.

  Orrick sprinted for the small boat moored against the dock.

  “Quickly, take up your oars,” he shouted to the lone oarsman, as he tossed his axe into the boat, jumped aboard, and hauled the rope in after him.

  “Whoa now, I’m not getting paid enough for this,” the oarsman protested. “Nobody warned me there’d be any killing.”

  Cursing, Orrick shoved the man overboard and took up his oars.

  The first guards had entered the cavern, their shouts echoing up to the roof. “A prisoner is escaping!” someone cried. “Drop the water gate!”

  Orrick leaned against the oars, even as the cavern rumbled with the sound of turning gears and the grating noise of the portcullis being lowered over the cave’s only exit. When that gate came down Orrick would be trapped inside, all hope of escape lost.

  He rowed harder, reaching the mouth of the cave just as the gate dropped. It crashed through the bow of the boat, splintering the wood. Cold water rushed over Orrick’s legs.

  He abandoned the oars and dove into the dark waters, plunging deep beneath the surface. Here he tried to wriggle beneath the gate but his loose cloak snagged and held him fast. His lungs ached for air, and he was so disoriented he could hardly tell up from down. But he fought his way free of the clothing and kicked away from the gate, swimming in the direction he hoped would take him to the surface. To air.

  When his head broke the surface, he didn’t know which side of the gate he had come up on. Was he free or not? Coughing and gasping for air, he looked around and saw a long stretch of lapping water. Stars and a pale moon glowed up above, and the Morta den ‘Cairn on its rock loomed against the sky, a vast gray shadow.

  There was no time to celebrate his escape. He must put distance between himself and the prison, before they raised the gate and pursued. Bobbing on the water, he had little sense of direction but he struck out away from the prison and in the direction he hoped would lead to the nearest shore.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Orrick woke to the sound of gently lapping waves and the feel of gritty sand beneath his cheek. With a groan, he rolled onto his back, expecting to see, as he did every morning when he opened his eyes, the low ceiling of his prison cell. Instead, he saw a menacing sky, heavy with dark clouds. He bolted upright, memories rushing back to him—his escape from the prison, the hours he spent after, battling the waves as his arms grew weaker and weaker. The long struggle to keep his head above water before finally giving up the fight and allowing the swells to carry him where they would. He had given himself up for dead then. Yet here he was, not only alive, but free. Free!

  But he shouldn’t let his hopes soar too high. He could be recaptured at any moment. Come to that, he didn’t even know where he was. He looked around with interest. Where was this ghostly mist-shrouded shore where the ocean had seen fit to deposit him? The fog was thick over the shale and sand covered beach, spreading out to either side. The ocean lapping at his feet was the same oppressive gray as the lowering sky. He saw no sign of life.

  There was a sloping rise at his back, leading away from the shore. If he climbed it, perhaps he could rise above this unnatural fog and get a clear view of where he had landed. As he drew shaky legs beneath him and climbed to his feet, he put his hand down on something—a white stick poking up from the ground. On second look, it was no stick at all, but a bone. Orrick had cleaved flesh from enough bones in his lifetime to know a human thigh bone when he saw it. Same for the jaw bone lying nearby.

  With a scowl, he backed away. What was this murky bone-yard he had been cast upon? The graveyard of the underworld? But, unsettled though he was by the ghoulish discovery, he wasn’t unnerved enough to return to the sea that had vomited him onto this shore.

  Hunger gnawed at his belly, reminding him he needed to find food soon. Clothing too. He had been forced to slither out of half his clothes to escape drowning last night, and now he stood chilly and damp in nothing but trousers and a pair of ill-fitting shoes taken from the dead headsman, Fenric. Fenric’s religious medallion hung around his neck too, small good it would do him unless he could find someone to trade it to, in exchange for food.

  With that idea in mind, he abandoned the beach and stumped his way up the rocky incline. He passed other piles of bones along the way. The rotting stench wafting on the breeze hinted there were more corpses nearby in less advanced states of decay.

  At the top of the rise, he looked down to find himself at one end of a small island, stretching perhaps two miles end to end. There were no dwellings in sight and no trees, except a few scrappy shrubs. The ground rose in irregular mounds and dropped in wide pits, broken up by narrow sunken paths snaking between the hillocks. Here and there, the terrain was dotted with heaps of stones and tall obelisks. Above the scene hung a persistent haze, like a cloud of ill omen, blanketing the ground and swirling around Orrick’s ankles as he walked. Even the sun above couldn’t penetrate the screen of scuttling gray clouds.

  On his way down the hill, Orrick passed one of the manmade obelisks, identifying it as a grave marker. The pillar was ancient. Years of wind and rain had deteriorated the runes inscribed across it, leaving them unreadable. Orrick went on an
d soon came to a more recent burial site, one that hadn’t received the same careful treatment as the last. It was an open trench, where numerous decomposed corpses had been dumped into the same shallow hole and left uncovered. Whoever these people were, they had not been worth the cost or dignity of a grave marker.

  That was when Orrick was certain on what ground he stood. There could not be two such islands near the Morta den ‘Cairn. Whether through accident or fate, Orrick had reached exactly the place where Fenric had instructed him to flee. The Isle of Bones. Once a burial place for the ancients, the island was now a dumping ground where the keepers of the Morta den’ Cairn rowed over and deposited the corpses of dead prisoners. Knowledge of the hundreds or thousands of corpses decomposing beneath his feet and all around him made the death stench more pronounced to his nostrils.

  For the first time, he smelled something else too. A strange mingling of scents that belonged to neither man nor beast but held hints of both. A surreptitious glance suggested he was alone, but Orrick was in the habit of trusting his nose before his eyes. The latter was more easily deceived. Without betraying his awareness that he was watched, he walked on. If his stalker did not wish to be seen, he would allow them the false security of concealment.

  Reaching one of the sunken paths snaking between the mounds, he discovered fresh footprints in the earth. Someone had been here recently. A grave digger transporting a dead body? Or something more threatening? But the tread of the boot-prints were short and narrow, like those of a woman or a large child. He took note and moved on.

  A heap of ornate stones rose up ahead. This mausoleum must have belonged to some respected personage in ancient times. Certainly it wasn’t built for the sort of carcasses being laid to rest on the island these days. Orrick paused to lean against the tomb’s wall and catch his breath. This hilly terrain was hard on legs weakened by too many months sitting in a prison cell. Lack of food and his recent struggle in the ocean hadn’t done him any favors either.