The Cleric Quintet: Night Masks

Chapter Nine

 
"This one's mine!" the gruff dwarf explained.
The swordsman smiled at the dwarfs apparent stupidity - together these two could have easily finished him.
His smile went away - literally - when Ivan suddenly hurled the spindle-disks again. This time, surprisingly, the small weapon was not attached to the dwarfs finger, had no encumbrance at all as it zipped past the swordsman's futile attempt to block.
The man's head snapped backward viciously and his face seemed to melt away when the adamantite disks connected squarely, removing every visible tooth, smashing apart his nose and both cheekbones, and neatly tucking his chin up under his upper jaw.
"Didn't think a dwarf could throw like that, did ye?" Ivan bellowed.
The man stood staring in disbelief; his sword fell to the ground.
"Oo," Pikel muttered as the man's head lolled freely to one side, for only then did either of the brothers realize that Ivan's powerful throw had snapped the man's neck.
Ivan reiterated Pikel's grim thought. "Oo."
Kick and swipe, punch and spearing thrust.
Danica and the staff-wielder moved in vicious harmony, attacking and parrying with incredible speed. For seconds that stretched into minutes, neither scored any hit at all.
But in the heightened competition, the adrenaline pumping fiercely, neither seemed to tire in the least.
"You are good, Lady . . . ," the staff-wielder remarked, his voice trailing off as though he had meant to say more. "As I expected you would be."
Danica could hardly reply. Had the man just teased her, almost uttering her name? How could he know? A hundred thoughts raced through Danica's mind with the sudden suspicion that this was not a random ambush. Wis Cadderly safe? she wondered frantically. And what of Avery and Ru-fo, who had come down this same path just a couple of days before?
Thinking her distracted, the Night Mask came in viciously.
Danica dropped straight to the ground and kicked out, connecting on the man's knee hard enough to halt his rush. Danica stepped ahead, coming up right in the man's face. She took a painful hit on the shoulder for her efforts, but got in one of her own, a snapping chop to the man's throat. In the single instant the man was forced to pause and gulp for breath, Danica got one hand planted on his chin and the other around the back of his head to grab a clump of hair.
The man dropped his staff and clamped his hands desperately onto Danica's wrists, preventing her from twisting his head around. They held the pose for several moments, with Danica simply not strong enough to continue the intended maneuver.
The man, sensing his superiority, smiled wickedly.
Never releasing her grip, Danica leaped and rolled right over his shoulder, letting her weight do what her strength could not. They twisted and squirmed, Danica bending her knees to keep her full weight on the hold. The man wisely dropped to the ground, but Danica rolled again, under and to the side, now with her forearm locked tightly under the man's chin.
He gasped futilely for breath, scratched and clawed at Danica's arms, then shoved his own hand into Danica's face, probing for her eyes.
Danica felt the hardness of a stone under her hip and she quickly shifted again, putting the man's head in line. Frantically, brutally, the young monk realigned her grip on the man's hair, leaving the back of his head exposed, and began slamming him down to the stone.
Still, he could not breath; all the world disappeared in a darkening fog.
"He's dead!" Ivan cried, and Danica realized only then that the dwarf had been uttering the words over and over.
Horrified and sorely bruised, the young woman released her grip and rolled away from the man, fighting back her nausea.
"That one'll be gone soon, too," Ivan said calmly, indicating the man slumped against the tree, two daggers protruding from his bloody torso. "Unless we tend his wounds."
The man seemed to hear and looked pleadingly at the three companions.
"We must," Danica, composed again, explained to the dwarves. "I think this one knew my name. There may be a conspiracy here and he" - she pointed to the man against the tree - "can tell us what it is."
Ivan shrugged his agreement and took a step toward the man, who seemed to take some comfort in the fact that his life would be spared. But there came a click from the side, and the man jerked violently a moment later, a crossbow quarrel next to the silver-hilted dagger.
The lone surviving Night Mask, wounded with a crossbow quarrel protruding from his shoulder, crashed through the brush, on the edge of delirium from the searing pain and the loss of blood. One thought dominated his thoughts: he had failed in his mission. But at least he had stopped his cowardly comrade from revealing the greater mission-rule number one to the merciless band.
The man didn't know where to run. Vander would kill him when the firbolg learned that Lady Maupoissant had survived - the man regretted now that he had chosen his one remaining shot to finish the potential informant instead of trying again for Danica. Then he took heart as he reminded himself that even if he had been able to hit Danica, even if he had killed her, the dwarves would have had their informant and the more important plan to eliminate Cad-derly would have been in jeopardy.
Still, the man regretted the decision, all the more when he heard the pursuit. Even wounded and weakened, he was confident that he could outrun the short-legged dwarves. When he looked back over his shoulder, though, he saw the young monk, flying effortlessly through the brush, gaining on him with every sure-footed stride.
The trees and brush opened up to more barren, rocky ground, and the desperate man smiled as he recalled his immediate terrain. He was a Night Mask to the bitter end, loyal and proud. His duty, wicked though it often was, had been his all, a dedication bordering on obsession.
The cruel monk was only a few strides behind him, he knew.
Loyal and proud, he never slowed as he came upon the edge of the hundred-foot cliff, and his scream as he leaped into the air was one of victory, not terror.
What the Shadows Say
ong shadows of the day's last light streaked across the barn's floor and walls. Gray webs glistened across gaps in the rafters, then went dark as the sun slipped farther away. Vander leaned against the wooden wall, glad to be back in his body again, but not so glad to learn what had transpired in the few short hours that Ghost had taken his form.
The fanner's girl was dead, and her end had been most unpleasant.
' Memories of the time he had fled to his homeland, the Spine of the \\brld, when Ghost had caught up to him and taken his body, coursed through Vander's thoughts, forcing the firbolg lower against the wall. For the proud firbolg, the defeat was complete. To Vander's warrior sensibilities, this was the ultimate humiliation. He could accept being defeated in honest battle, could kneel to a rightful king, but Ghost had dared to take that one step farther; Ghost had taken Vander's valor, his honor, his very identity.
"Have they returned?" the firbolg snapped at the black-and-silver robed man as soon as he appeared at the barn door.
"The trip to the mountains would have taken them all of last night," the Night Mask replied, as if he sensed Vander's frustration. "Likely, they have not yet even encountered Lady Maupoissant."
Vander looked away.
"The line has been set up to Carradoon, and the group has taken position near the Dragon's Codpiece," the assassin went on hopefully.
Vander eyed the man for a long moment. He knew what the human was thinking, knew that the man had only blurted that information in the hopes that the news would be well-received and would spare him from the firbolg's unpredictable wrath.
Unpredictable! Vander nearly laughed at the vicious irony of that thought. He waved the man away, and the Night Mask seemed more than happy to follow the silent command.
\fonder sat alone once more in the deepening shadows. He took some measure of solace in the fact that the noose was apparently tightening around their latest target and that this business might soon be concluded.
Vander hardly began to smile before a frown again captured his visage. The business would be finished and another would soon begin. It would not end, Vander knew, until Ghost decided that the firbolg had outlived his usefulness.
The sun was gone, leaving Vander in the darkness.
"You have indicated that you wanted to be of help," Ghost said to the surprised wizard. "Now I offer you that chance."
Bogo Rath's beady green eyes seemed to grow even smaller as he studied the sleepy-eyed man. He had just moved his small pack of belongings to the private room that Fredegar had provided, only to find the mysterious assassin sitting on his bed and waiting for him.
Ghost understood the wizard's suspicion and his hesitation. Bogo did not trust Ghost (and rightly so) and Bogo's agenda was his own. Surely Bogo wanted Cadderly dead, but Ghost knew that the opportunistic and ambitious young wizard was not working with the assassin band. Rather, he was working independently, hopeful that he might use them to meet his own ends. Ghost, above all others, could understand that self-serving methodology and, above all others, the wicked man knew the dangers that might accompany such actions.
"I am to serve as sentry?" Bogo replied, incredulous.
Ghost thought it over, then nodded - that was as good a description as he could think of. "For this minor exploration only," he answered. "The time has come for us to learn a bit more about Cadderly's room and personal defenses. I can do that, do not doubt, but I would not be pleased to have the other two priests of the library return to the inn while I am otherwise engaged."
Bogo spent a long moment staring at the man. "You are so filled with riddles," he said at length. "You can get near Cadderly, hint that you can get even closer, and yet, the young priest lives. Is it caution or macabre pleasure that makes you play the game?"
Ghost smiled, congratulating Bogo for his perceptive-ness. "Both," he answered honestly, more than willing to tout his own prowess. "I am an artist, young wizard, and not a common killer. The game, for that is what it is, must be played on my terms and by my rules." Ghost carefully chose his emphasis for that last sentence, letting it sound just enough like a threat to keep Bogo on edge.
"It is early for the hearth room," Bogo reasoned. "The sun is just down. Most of the patrons are still at home, finishing their dinners. And I am not yet settled into my new quarters," he added, a hint of dissatisfaction in his tone.
"Do you consider that so very important?" Ghost asked bluntly.
Bogo found no immediate reply.
"Take your dinner down in the hearth room," Ghost replied. "It is not so unusual a practice for guests of the inn."
"The priests went to the Temple of Dmater," Bogo argued. "It is unlikely they will return within the hour you say you will need."
"But they might," Ghost said, his voice hinting of mounting anger. "Artist," he reiterated, voicing each syllable slowly and clearly. "Perfectionist."
Bogo gave up the argument and resignedly nodded in agreement. Ghost had indicated that he wouldn't yet kill Cadderly, and the young wizard had no reason to believe otherwise. Certainly, if the weakling assassin had wanted to strike against the young priest, he could have done so at almost any time over the last few days, and he would not have had to go out of his way and engage Bogo to stand watch in the hearth room.
They left Bogo's room together, Ghost stopping Bogo at the door and whispering to him, "Do inform young Brennan, the innkeeper's son, that Cadderly wishes to take his dinner now." Bogo cocked an eyebrow at him.
"It will get the door open," Ghost explained, a perfectly reasonable fie.
Ghost turned into his own room, with Bogo continuing on to the stairway. The puny assassin silently congratulated himself for so easily handling the potentially troubling wizard. He willed the Ghearufu into sight as he slipped behind the protection of his partly opened door.
The industrious Brennan came hopping up the stairs a short while later, carrying a dinner tray balanced easily in one hand and a long and narrow package in the other. Ghost admired the spring in the teenager's step, the vigor and boundless energy of awakening manhood for the handsome, if a bit slender, Brennan.
"Boy!" Ghost called out softly as Brennan turned the corner past Avery's room and headed past the assassin's door. Brennan stopped and turned to regard the curious man, following the waving motion of Ghost's white-gloved hand.
"Let me deliver this and then I'll get you whatever . . ." Brennan began, but Ghost cut him short with his upheld hand, this one, Brennan noted curiously, adorned with a black glove.
"My business will take only a moment," Ghost said, the significance of his wry smile lost on the unsuspecting youth.
A split second later, Brennan found himself staring back into his own face, and to the hallway beyond. At first, he thought that the strange man had put up some sort of mirror, but then the image, his image, moved independently. And he, or at least his image, was now wearing the black and white gloves!
"What?" Brennan stammered, on the verge of panic.
Ghost shoved the trapped man back into the room and waded in, closing the door behind him, dropping the narrow bundle - he knew it now to be some sort of staff or rod - and setting the tray on his own night table.
"It is just a game," Ghost purred, trying to keep the terrified victim from calling out. "How do you like your borrowed body?"
Brennan's eyes darted about in search of some escape. Gradually, his terror shifted to curiosity; the man standing before him, wearing his body, certainly did not seem so ominous.
"I feel weak," he admitted bluntly, then cringed, realizing that he might have offended the man.
"But you are!" Ghost teased. "Do you not understand? That is the point of the game."
Brennan's face crinkled in further confusion, then his eyes popped open wide as Ghost, moving with the speed of youth, clenched his borrowed fist and launched a roundhouse punch. Brennan tried to dodge, tried to block, but the weak body did not respond quickly enough. Hie fist slipped through the pitiful defenses, slamming Brennan between the eyes, and he was falling helplessly, with no strength to resist the waves of blackness closing over him.
Ghost regarded the body for a long while, trying to discern his next move. The prudent act, he knew, would be to strangle Brennan then and there, as he had done with the beggar on the road, and put one glove on the body to prevent the regeneration process from recalling the lad's wandering spirit.
Other sensations argued against that course. The wretched assassin felt wonderful in the youth's body, full of barely controllable energy, and with his passions fluctuating almost violently, beckoning him urgently toward base actions he had not seriously considered for decades. The impulsive notion came to Ghost to reach over and remove the boot and the magical ring, to kill Brennan in the weakling body and leave him dead. Ghost could then claim this form as his own until he had burned it out as he had nearly burned out the effeminate mantle.
He again wore the black and white gloves when his hands went around the weakling's neck.
Ghost realized that he must not do it - not yet. He berated himself for even beginning to act on such a rash notion. Moving methodically, he tied and gagged his victim securely, dragged him behind the bed, and wedged him between the bed and the wall.
The ring had already begun its work, and young Brennan's eyelids fluttered with the first signs of consciousness.
Ghost smashed him again, and again after that.
Brennan groaned through the gag and Ghost leaned in close, putting his lips to the trapped boy's ear. "You must be quiet," he purred, "or you will be punished."
Brennan groaned again, more loudly.
"Wauld you like me to tell you the punishments I have planned for your disobedience?" Ghost asked, putting a finger into Brennan's eye.
The terrified Brennan made no sounds and no movements at all.
"Good, wise lad," Ghost cooed. "Now let us see what you have brought." The assassin moved away and quickly unwrapped the bundle, revealing a ram-headed walking stick, finely crafted and perfectly balanced. Ghost had seen the marvelous item before, in Cadderly's hands when the priest had gone to the wizard's tower outside Carradoon. Only then did Ghost realize that the young priest had not been carrying the stick when he had returned down the road.
"How convenient!" he said, moving back over to Bren-nan. "I said I would tell you of the punishments, but here, let me show you instead" he said, patting the formidable club against his open palm.
Ghost's face contorted with sudden rage, and he launched a two-handed overhead chop. He felt the magic of the weapon thrumming when he slammed the ram's head down on Brennan's shoulder, and smiled even more widely when he saw the skinny limb crumble under the weapon's tremendous enchantment. Ghost had never fancied weapons, but he thought of keeping this one.
Ghost considered the wisdom of turning the walking stick over to Cadderly. The assassin was left in a quandary, for if the young priest was expecting the weapon's return, he might seek out Fredegar, or the wizard in the tower, and either would likely pose larger, more dangerous, questions.
That would be the worst of the possibilities.
The artist-killer left the room a few minutes later, bearing the tray and the retied bundle for Cadderly, and leaving the crumpled, unconscious Brennan hidden behind the bed in a pool of blood. Ghost had beaten Brennan severely, and the young man in the pitiful body would soon have died, except for the persistent healing magic of the ring concealed under the boot.
Semiconscious, Brennan almost hoped he would die. A thousand fiery explosions seemed to be going off within him; every joint ached, and the evil man with the dub had paid particularly painful attention to his groin and collarbone.
He tried to move his head but could not; tried to wriggle his body out of the tight cubby, despite the pain, but found he was securely bound in place. He reflexively coughed up another gout of blood, his survival instincts barely managing to force the warm liquid past the gag so that he would not choke on it.
Broken, Brennan prayed that this torment would soon end, even if that end meant death. He did not know, of course, that he wore a magical ring, that he would soon be healed once more.
Cadderly wasn't thinking of dinner, wasn't thinking of anything at all beyond the alluring song playing in his mind as he turned the pages of the Tome of Universal Harmony. The book had offered him shelter once again, had chased away the images of Avery and Rufo - they had come back to see Cadderly that morning, and had again been abruptly turned away - and all the other troubles weighing heavily on the young priest's shoulders.
Under the protection of the sweet song of Deneir, Cadderly felt none of that weight, but sat straight and tall. He worked his arms out to the sides when they were not engaged in turning the pages, in a manner similar to the meditative techniques Danica had once shown him back at the Edificant Library. Back then, these movements had been simple exercise, but now, with the song flowing through his every movement, Cadderly felt the strength, his inner strength, coursing through his limbs.
"I have your supper!" he heard Brennan call from behind him, and he knew from the young man's volume that Brennan had probably called him several times and knocked loudly on the door before that. Embarrassed, Cadderly closed the great book and turned to meet the young man.
Brennan's eyes opened wide.
"Excuse me," Cadderly apologized, looking around helplessly for something with which to cover up. He was naked from the waist up, his well-muscled chest and shoulders glistening with sweat, and the rippling muscles of his waistline, newly trim from the meditative exercises over the tome, quivering from the recent exertion.
Brennan quickly composed himself, even flipped Cad-derly a towel from the dinner tray with which he could rub down.
"It would seem that you could use the meal," Ghost offered. "I did not know that reading could be so strenuous."
Cadderly chuckled at the witticism, though he was a bit confused that Brennan had made such a remark. The young man had seen him at his reading many times before, and many times involved, as he was now, in the meditative exercises.
"What have you there?" Cadderly asked, seeing the long and narrow bundle.
Ghost fumbled with the item, still unsure if the young priest had expected it or not. "It came in just this afternoon," he explained, "from the wizard, I would assume." He unwrapped the bundle and handed the fine walking stick to Cadderly.
"Yes, Belisarius," Cadderly replied absently. He waved the walking stick about easily, testing its balance, then tossed it casually on the bed. "I had nearly forgotten about it," he remarked, and added with obvious sarcasm, "I wonder what mighty enchantments my wizard friend bestowed upon it!"
Ghost only shrugged, though secretly he was gnawing at his lower lip, angry now that he had decided to return the unlooked-for present.
Cadderly gave the young man a wink. "Not that I will ever find use for it, you understand."
"Wfe never know when a fight might fall our way" Ghost replied, sliding the tray onto Cadderly's small table and arranging the silverware. Cadderly eyed him curiously, caught off guard by the grim tones and uncharacteristically reflective thought of the passion-driven youth.
The young man held a serrated knife in his hand for just a moment, with his hand only inches from Cadderly's bare chest. For some reason, that dangerous image suddenly mattered to Cadderly; silent alarms went off inside him. The young priest fought them away, as easily as he rubbed the sweat from his neck, rationally telling himself that he was letting his imagination run wild.
The song played in the back of Cadderly's mind. He almost turned about to see if he had left the tome open, but he had not; he could not. Shadows began to form atop Brennan's slender shoulders.
Aurora.
For some reason he could not understand, Cadderly sensed again the unfathomable possibility that Brennan was considering striking him with the knife.
Suddenly, Brennan dropped the knife to the tray and fumbled about with the small bowl and plate. Cadderly did not relax; Brennan's movements were too stiff, too edgy, as if Brennan was consciously trying to act as though nothing unusual had occurred.
Cadderly said nothing, but held the small towel around his neck with both hands, his muscles tight and ready. He did not concentrate on the man's specific actions; rather, he shifted back to the young man's shoulders, to the misshapen, growling shadows huddled there, black claws raking empty air.
Aurora.
The song played in the distant recesses of his mind, revealing the truth before him. But Cadderly, still a novice, still unsure of his power's source, did not know if he should trust in it or not.
Cadderly could not recognize the shadows any more than to equate them with the same fearsome things he had seen perched upon the shoulders of the beggar on the road. He sensed that they boded evil, both then and now, sensed that they were images resulting from vile thoughts. Considering that Brennan had just been holding a cutting knife, that a short stroke could have driven the serrated instru-
ment into Cadderly's bare chest, those sensations did not put the young priest at ease.
"You must go," he said to the youth.
Ghost looked up at him, confused, but again, the expression did not seem right to Cadderly. "Is something wrong?" the slender youth asked innocently.
"Go," Cadderly said again, his scowl unrelenting, and this time the word held the strength of a minor magical enchantment.
Surprisingly, the young man held stubbornly to his position. The shadows on Brennan's shoulders dissipated and Cadderly had to wonder if he had misread the signals, if those shadows represented something else altogether.
Brennan gave him a curt bow - another unexpected movement from the young man that Cadderly thought he knew quite well - and then prudently slipped from the room, closing the door behind him.
Cadderly stood staring at the door for a long time, thinking that he must be going mad. He looked back to the Tome of Universal Harmony, wondering if it was a cursed book, a book inspiring lies and a discordant song that sounded true to the foolish victim's ear. How many priests had been found dead, lying across its open pages?