Masquerades

Twenty-Three Battle With the Night Masks

With Winterhart on one knee, Olive pressed her advantage before the other halfling had a chance to demonstrate her superior skill with a blade. Olive circled to Winterhart’s left side and lunged with her blade, but the younger halfling switched her sword to her left hand and parried her opponent neatly.

“Ruskettle, you’re making a mistake,” Winterhart declared. “I’m not working for the Faceless.”

“Oh, no,” Olive replied sarcastically. “You just have a secret entry to his lair so you can come for tea.”

As the two halflings faced off against one another, Jamal looked around for something, anything she might use to help Olive fight Winterhart. A two-handed broadsword hung on a wall behind the iron golems. The actress grasped the weapon by its hilt and slid it from the hooks that held it in place. The sword was unbelievably heavy, and Jamal was unable to raise it without her arms shaking from the exertion.

“Perhaps you would care to try something smaller, Jamal,” a man whispered behind her.

The actress swung around, trailing the broadsword with her, but unable to raise it to defend herself. Kimbel stood in a doorway, eyeing her with cruel amusement. She glared at the assassin who unfastened the scabbard about his waist and tossed it at her feet.

Distracted by the sound of Kimbel’s voice, Olive retreated a step from her opponent, giving Winterhart a chance to get to her feet.

“Winterhart,” Kimbel barked, “you haven’t got time for this. The Faceless is about to address his troops. You’ll miss your cue.” The assassin retreated through the doorway.

Winterhart dashed after him, calling out, “Come on, Ruskettle, Jamal. You don’t want to miss the fun.” She disappeared into the darkness beyond the door.

Olive exchanged a confused look with Jamal; then the halfling raced after Winterhart. Jamal dropped the ridiculously heavy broadsword. She considered for a moment the sword and scabbard Kimbel had given her. It could be a trick, but she needed a weapon. I really wish I’d read the script before I jumped into this play, she thought as she followed Olive.

On the other side of the doorway, hewn into the bedrock, was a stairway. There were more than a hundred steps, and Olive was breathless when she reached the top. The door was a pivoting section of wall, which someone had propped open with a spike driven into the floor. A tapestry hung over the door on the far side, concealing it from view. With her dagger, Olive poked a hole in a threadbare spot in the tapestry and pressed her eye up close.

She looked out on a dais and, beyond that, a cavernous chamber. Once, long ago, this had been the audience chamber of King Verovan, but when the castle had fallen into the hands of House Vhammos it had been converted to a dining hall, with feasting tables on the dais and in the hall below.

Now Night Masks packed the room, hundreds of them, dressed in costumes as varied as the citizenry of Westgate. There were merchants and priests, sailors and drovers, pickpockets and cutthroats, all wearing domino masks and all of them armed with deadly weapons. All had their attention focused on the dais. Ten figures wearing black robes and half masks of white porcelain stood on the stairs leading up the dais. Olive recognized one of them as Kimbel despite the mask he wore.

A man dressed in a blood-colored robe of velvet stood at the top of the dais. His face was a magical blur of colors. He stepped forward, and a buzzing sound spread through the room as hundreds of Night Masks realized he was their master.

“The Faceless,” Jamal whispered behind Olive. The actress had poked her own eyehole farther up the tapestry.

Kimbel motioned for silence, and a hush fell over the room.

“You see, I live while those who oppose me have perished!” the Faceless thundered. The magical distortion of his voice, caused by the mask that obscured his features, sent a shiver down Jamal’s spine. “The nobles opposed me, and they are no more. The croamarkh opposed me, and he is no more. The sell-sword Alias and her companions opposed me, and they are no more. This night I claim rulership of this city, and all of you who are loyal to me will be rewarded!”

A cheer went up from the crowd.

“Tonight begins a new era for Westgate,” the Faceless continued. “The treasure of King Verovan is ours to take—”

At the mention of treasure another cheer rippled through the crowd. Gold always had a way of rallying the troops, the Faceless thought. He waited patiently for the din to die down.

“There will be danger,” the Faceless warned matter-of-factly. “Verovan’s treasure lies in another plane, and like most treasure hoards is guarded by creatures that dwell in that plane. Your lives will be at risk, yet your reward will be great. All of you who survive will receive a share of what is looted from the hoard. Once that share is yours, you will no longer be criminals, but the wealthiest men and women in Westgate.”

There was another cheer, but the Faceless cut it off with a sharp motion of his hand. “I am the one who made the Night Masks the most powerful guild in the Heartlands. I am the one who destroyed your enemies. I am the one who will lay Verovan’s treasure at your feet, but first you must pay my price.” The Faceless paused.

The room went silent as each Night Mask worried what that price might be, and each considered what price would be too high.

“I demand your fealty,” the Faceless announced in a sepulchral tone, “not as a crime lord, but as your king! I will make Westgate the greatest empire in the Realms, and you shall all share in the riches of that empire! If you share in my vision, if you accept my terms, kneel now before me.”

Like faithful worshipers, the Night Masks below the dais knelt as a body. The Night Masters on the steps did not seem certain whether or not they too were required to join in this physical display, but when Kimbel knelt, the others followed. If any one of them held a republican sentiment or inwardly questioned the wisdom of agreeing to so empower an anonymous crime lord, they did not share it with their fellows.

“All hail the Faceless,” Kimbel cried, “King of Westgate!”

“The Faceless,” the crowd shouted, “King of Westgate!”

The Faceless, surprised but very pleased by Kimbel’s call for the crowd’s allegiance, held up his arms and basked in the adulation of the thieves of Westgate. Unfortunately, his moment of glory was followed immediately by an uncomfortable silence as hundreds of Night Masks grew anxious for their reward and wondered if it was too soon to get off their knees.

“All hail the Faceless,” a shrill but clear voice called out from the back of the dais. “Master of an honorless, greedy mob. Traitor to his duty and family. Murderer of his father and his lover.” The speaker leaped up on the feasting table behind the Faceless so that all could see the red-haired halfling woman in leather armor—Winterhart. The sound of her sword slipping from its scabbard slithered through the length of the hall. She aimed the blade at the Faceless’s neck.

“My gods,” Olive gasped under her breath. “She’s going to get herself killed.

“But if that isn’t an entrance to die for,” Jamal whispered, “I don’t know what is.”

The aura of puissance momentarily faded from the Faceless as he retreated from the point of the halfling’s weapon and nearly took a tumble down the dais steps.

“Maybe we could grab her and escape down the stairs,” Olive whispered. She began to pull back the tapestry, but Jamal set a heavy hand on her shoulder and held her back.

“Wait,” the actress whispered. “Heroes never truly die,” she added with a delighted grin on her face.

She’s as crazed as Winterhart, Olive thought.

The Night Masks held their breath, waiting to see what their master would do.

From behind his mask the Faceless glared with fury at the insolent halfling facing him. It would not look particularly valiant for him to skewer the vermin, but none of his Night Masters showed the least inclination to grab the creature and throw it at his feet. All were no doubt afraid of losing a hand to the steel weapon still pointed in their master’s direction. Even more aggravating were the charges the halfling brought. How had she discovered his secrets?

He would have to make a joke of her. It was not the dignified beginning he imagined for his reign, but he had to keep her from making further accusations. “Did you intend to challenge me all by yourself?” the Faceless asked with a tone of amused derision.

Miss Winterhart smiled. “Well, to tell the truth, I did bring a few friends.”

Olive’s heart leaped to her throat. Surely this crazy halfling didn’t expect the three of them to fight a horde of Night Masks! Did she expect Olive and Jamal to step out from behind the tapestry and make another dramatic speech?

Apparently Winterhart had not been counting just Olive and Jamal among her few friends. The halfling swordswoman gestured to the back of the hall just as platoons of the city watch marched toward the back ranks of Night Masks. The soldiers all wore leather armor and copper helmets and were armed with swords and crossbows. The room rang with the echoes of their boots stomping on the stone-paved floor.

Durgar the Just stood at the front of his troops in his silver plate armor, carrying his mace like a staff of power. “In the name of the watch,” the priest bellowed, “I order you to lay down your weapons and surrender. Failure to obey will be met with lethal force. This is your only warning.”

The Night Masks, who for years had considered the watch a joke, were not about to surrender to them when the largest treasure they’d ever looted was nearly theirs.

The thieves charged first, with their weapons drawn. The front ranks of the watch knelt in a precision maneuver, leaving the second rank clear to toss out great capture nets. The kneeling first rank let loose a volley of crossbow bolts. Night Masks at the battle’s front who were not dragged down by the heavy, weighted nets, were felled by the shower of missiles.

The Night Masters and the Faceless began moving toward the door hidden behind the tapestry. Winterhart leaped down from the table in front of them, blocking their escape. The Faceless and four of the Night Masters drew swords.

“I guess this is what you call a cue, isn’t it?” Olive asked the actress.

Jamal nodded grimly. She pulled back the tapestry, and, with swords drawn, the pair burst onto the dais to back up Winterhart.

In the back of the hall, swordsmen of the watch maneuvered right and left on the thieves, and soon steel clashed against steel. There was a burst of light as some thief, equipped with a powerful amulet, teleported from the hall. Three thieves standing behind their fellows aimed wands at the watch. Blasts of eldritch energy issued from the wands, and five swordsmen were knocked back by an invisible rain of blows. A moment later, however, all three wand-armed thieves became pincushions of crossbow bolts—a warning to any other Night Masks that those using magic would be favored targets.

On the dais, those Night Masters not armed with long blades shrank back from the naked steel presented by the two halflings and the actress. The remaining four flanked the Faceless.

Winterhart squared off against the Faceless and one Night Master, Jamal against a second Night Master, and Olive against the remaining two. Winterhart dealt the Faceless an immediate blow to his sword hand with the flat of her blade, and her return sweep parried a blow from the Night Master who stood beside him. Faceless lost his grip on his weapon—the blade spun across the dais. The leader of the Night Masks was forced to retreat to retrieve his weapon.

Jamal remembered immediately why she’d given up adventuring twenty years ago. The thought of a sharpened steel blade slicing through her skin, her flesh, and her innards filled her with a nauseating fear. In his scornful offering of a sword, Kimbel had challenged one of her greatest fears. She wished desperately that she was wearing some kind of armor or carrying a shield, but she knew that in the shape she was in the weight of the armor would be too great and she needed both hands to keep the sword before her steady. The goddess of luck must have been looking out for her, though. The Night Master before her seemed to be neither an aggressive nor skilled fighter. Perhaps he’d drawn a blade only to impress the Faceless. Jamal held her own, parrying the blows the Night Master delivered. She even managed to draw first blood across his arm.

Olive was not feeling so fortunate. One of the two humans attacking her was a burly man, quite skilled with his weapon, while the other human was so tall that she had trouble keeping her sword high enough to parry his blows aimed at her head. She’d only just managed to ward off a stroke that might have decapitated her, but the cost was accepting a smack to the ribs. Her leather jerkin kept the blade from cutting into her, but the force of the blow knocked the air out of her and left her side throbbing. As if that weren’t enough, it appeared as if the assassin Kimbel were about to join the two swordsmen in their attacks on the older halfling.

Kimbel placed his hands on the head of the taller Night Master facing Olive. An aura of ball lightning erupted from the thief’s head. His hair stood upright from his scalp, and Olive could see the bolts of energy crisscross the flesh left exposed by the mask. The Night Master fell forward, steam pouring from his ears.

Olive gaped at Kimbel with astonishment. If she’d told every halfling in Westgate that the Dhostar assassin had helped her, not one of them would believer her. She didn’t believe it herself.

Kimbel blew on his hands. With a sly grin, he asked, “Haven’t you ever seen a shocking grasp spell before, Mistress Ruskettle?”

The remaining Night Master engaging Olive was distracted just enough by the fall of his fellow for Olive to deal him a critical blow. Kimbel moved on to give another shocking grasp to the Night Master battling Jamal.

In the meantime, Winterhart dispatched the Night Master before her with professional precision just before the Faceless returned to the fray.

Olive turned to a corner where two Night Masters without swords cowered, waiting for the tide to carry them one way or the other. Olive barked an order for them to surrender or fight. To the halfling’s delight, they surrendered.

Jamal and Kimbel bullied the remaining three Night Masters into lying with their hands over their heads.

Olive looked out across the hall.

The superior teamwork of the watch was delivering the victory to them. For years they had fought their enemy in the streets, where the thieves could too easily go to ground. Now, however, the watch’s more conventional combat training had the Night Masks pinned, and the thieves were surrendering in droves. Some lay down or played dead with the plan of creeping off once the battle front crossed over them, but these were thwarted by the watch, who dropped heavy nets over them before moving forward. Durgar was in the middle of the room, charging the dais, his glowing mace administering his judgment against those who had disobeyed his command.

Kimbel, Olive, and Jamal stood back and watched as the Faceless attempted a powerful strike against Winterhart, which she parried with a strength beyond any Olive might have credited to a halfling. “Admit your guilt, Victor Dhostar,” Winterhart demanded, “and surrender to the watch, or you will pay for your crimes with your life.”

The Faceless snarled like a beast, but admitted nothing, and neither did he surrender. He and Winterhart battled on. It soon became apparent which combatant had more skill. Every stab the Faceless delivered to the halfling she matched and bettered.

Olive was just beginning to realize that there was something familiar about Winterhart’s parries and attacks when the Faceless’s blade caught on the fabric of the young halfling’s sleeve and tore it away from her arm.

Olive gasped, and even the Faceless stepped back in surprise. Winterhart’s right arm was marked by an azure brand, a tattoo of thorns and cresting waves, with a blue rose at her wrist.

“I knew she had to be a cheap hero,” Jamal declared with a chuckle. Beside the actress, Kimbel muttered some unintelligible spell words.

A shimmer of light rippled across Winterhart’s body and the halfling began to transform before their eyes. Her frame grew to human size, her muscles took on the definition of a warrior in training, and her plump cheeks and rounded chin grew more drawn and angular. She became the former defender of Westgate—Alias the Sell-Sword. With the polymorph magic dispelled, the chain-mail armor, boots, and cloak she’d worn upon her transformation into a halfling were now revealed. The scar from Victor’s ring still blazed across her cheek.

Alias swung her weapon with an uncustomary fierceness and let out a blood-curdling battle cry as she dashed at the Faceless. Shocked, the Night Mask retreated three steps, stumbled on his long robes, and fell on his back. The swordswoman stepped up to her foe and set her booted foot down on his sword hand, keeping enough pressure on it to prevent him from raising it. With the tip of her blade she pried off the coin mask, which obscured his features.

Victor Dhostar’s face appeared at her feet. “I should make you pay for your crimes now, with your blood,” Alias said coolly, “but I will give you instead to Durgar for trial. The quick death of a warrior is too good for you.”

“Alias, my darling, no!” Victor cried. “It wasn’t me! It was Kimbel! He was never enchanted to serve my family. It happened the other way around. All those years ago, he put me under his spell so he could use my family and finally destroy them. I tried to resist, but he was too strong. All I have done has been at his command. He is the true Faceless.”

“Why did he help us in combat then?” Olive demanded.

“And why,” Durgar said, climbing the stairs to the dais, “did he turn over all the Night Masters’ books to me and dispel all their magic yesterday?”

Victor glared up at the assassin standing beside Jamal. “You will pay for your treachery!” he screamed. Pointing a ringed finger at the assassin, he snarled, “Kreggarish.”

Kimbel grabbed the sides of his enchanted mask, screaming as Melman had when he had been branded.

“Enough,” Alias commanded, smacking at the nobleman’s hand with the tip of her blade, leaving a crimson streak across his fingers. Victor whimpered like a child, but a moment later he laughed at the assassin. “The brand is permanent Kimbel. You’ll never be rid of it. You shall always feel the pain,” the vanquished Faceless gloated.

Kimbel tossed aside the white mask with a hearty chuckle. His face was untouched. “Sorry, old boy,” he said, “but not only do you have the wrong man—” Kimbel’s figure began to glow and shimmer as Winterhart’s had when she had transformed into Alias, and in a moment he reappeared as none other than Mintassan the Sage. “—but a magic ring like that hasn’t held power over me for decades.”

“If you’re not Kimbel,” Olive asked, “who is?”

“Why Kimbel is, of course,” Mintassan replied. “Though at the moment he’s chained in the dungeon of Castle Dhostar and looks like a feeble-minded sage named Mintassan.”

“And where’s Dragonbait?” Olive demanded.

Alias looked up at Mintassan. “Where is Dragonbait?” she asked.

In the swordswoman’s moment of distraction, Victor Dhostar slid his wounded hand deep into the sleeve of his robe and pulled out a twisted glass vial. He smashed the vial against the floor.

Quicksilver dribbled from the broken glassware. The liquid metal glowed white-hot until it bathed Victor Dhostar in a glaring light. When the light faded a moment later, Victor Dhostar had vanished.

“What was that?” Jamal asked, blinking away the spots on her eyes.

“He’s slid through a dimension door. He cannot have gotten far,” Mintassan explained.

“Spread out,” Durgar ordered a patrol of his men. “Search the entire castle.”

“I’ll check the lair, in case he tries to escape by one of the portal mirrors,” Mintassan said. “Silver path, Faceless’s lair,” the sage murmured, then vanished.

“Thistle!” Olive cried. “He would go after Thistle and try to snatch something from Verovan’s hoard. Mist said she’s—”

“At the top of the south tower,” Alias shouted. The swordswoman dashed from the hall with Olive and Jamal at her heels.