The Masks of Sentinel Chapter Two (part 2 of 2)

  
          Seven eagles of the sea coursed out of the silver night, the ocean buckling beneath their plunging stems. Their sails were like black wings against the burning sky.
          Tarush recognized them immediately. A blistering curse, largely concerned with the unique genitalia of an otherwise minor deity, rang through the ship.
          As luck would have it, the Kuthnar lay in the path of a fleet of northland vessels. Worse, the sign at the heart of each sail proclaimed them to be longships of the most feared tribe of that barbaric region - the White Axe of the Skarnyr.
          Half asleep, Symos climbed to the prow and stood beside his master. When he saw what rushed upon them, he muttered, "I wish I had been put ashore with Falk!"
          The lead-ship bore down on the merchantman with unerring speed and accuracy. It was an enormous vessel: Tarush estimated eighty oars. Its carved prow stood higher than all the others, and fresh gilding gleamed along its length. And then Tarush saw more clearly the symbol blazoned at the heart of the square, dead-black sail: the winged axe, the mark of kingship.
          "Symos! What do you know of the latest lord of the Skarnyr?"
          "Not much. He's young, and an empire-builder by all accounts, not content with growing rich from the proceeds of piracy. If it's the same one as I'm thinking of, he's ruled for about three years - something of an achievement in itself."
          In the far north, competition for almost everything was unbridled and fierce, not least for royal titles, and kingsblood tended not to flow through veins longer than someone more capable considered necessary. (In the more languid southland empires, however, where lineages stretched back into prehistory, a few families of godlike eminence intermarried incestuously to produce, in roughly equal proportions, monarchs of tumultuous genius and cavernous idiocy.)
          "And," Symos concluded, "I've heard talk of a sister, a witch of no mean power. Which would, if true, give me something in common with this king."
          "I wouldn't rely on it," Tarush muttered.
          Triangular black shields hung from the sides of the longships, overlapping featherlike; the hard-set faces of warriors could be glimpsed between them. Banks of oars bit into the sea, rising and falling in measured strokes like the wings of soaring birds. The beat of drums, deep as distant thunder, marked the almost mechanical precision of the rowers.
          Tarush sighed. "Why is beauty so often deadly?"
          "A bad time for philosophy," Symos grunted; then urged, "We've not much time to prepare to fight."
          "Pointless to resist. Though as we've no cargo to speak of, we should get through this unscathed."
          Symos looked doubtful. "I never heard the Skarnyr were noted for their chivalry."
          Tarush shook his head. "Sound commercial practice: if they let us survive today, they might just encounter us in the future with holds bursting."
          "True enough. But wait ... these are not promising waters for piracy, and kings rarely lead raids in person."
          "Meaning," said Tarush wearily, "that this is a war fleet."
          Each took refuge in his own thoughts as the flank of the royal longship drew level with the galley. Battle-horns growled. Oars retracted as one. Grappling irons shot from the newcomer, gripped rails of salt-crusted wood, locked the vessels together.
          When the longship had stopped moving, Tarush and Symos found themselves in the shadow of the high, curved prow, with it's sculpted eagle's head. Blind pride and arrogance lay in every line of the carving. The eyes were set with circles of orichalc. Hinged leaves of gold ruffled in the wind like real feathers. The beak resembled a golden scimitar. The neck merged into a suggestion of folded wings, sweeping back into the main body of the ship.
          Framed against the starsea, the eagle-head was magnificent, barbaric, arresting.
          "That you choose to admire the quality of the Rimedawn's carving instead of the inferior aspect of my own royal shape does you credit."
          Tarush and Symos started as one. Fascinated by the grandeur of the Rimedawn itself, neither had noticed the man standing in its prow. Only when placed in such an imposing context could this individual be overlooked. Among other men, he would stand out like a wolf in a pack of mongrel dogs.
          The Skarnyr king was tall, powerfully built, black-skinned like all northlanders, and of surprising youth. Even before assimilating these purely physical details, Tarush gained an impression of mingled passion, intelligence and energy. Two axe-bearing bodyguards flanked the king. Tarush judged this to be overdressing for the occasion.
          "My name is Starkad Frostmane. I appreciate your wisdom in not resisting our approach. How are you called, captain?"
          The voice matched the man's appearance. Tarush could imagine him talking softly in a hall full of shouting men and still commanding attention.
          His throat dry as desert sand, the galley-master said, "My name is Tarush of Thuskra." His voice would not have commanded attention in a room full of mutes.
          "Good. I perceive you are far from home. I'll not detain you longer than is necessary. I require certain items of information."
          Starkad's gracious manner was disconcerting. Tarush had expected to have to deal with a crude pirate. He was not entirely put at ease, however: there was steel beneath the silk.
          Tarush bowed. "If I can be of service."
          Starkad smiled. Tarush suddenly realized how beautiful the man was. Symos, whose tastes frequently ran in a certain direction, stifled a gasp of appreciation.
          "I'm looking for a particular bay. It's dominated by two crystal towers. Do you know this place?"
          "Aye, lord. You're on course for it."
          "And what of the local ruler ... the Masked King?"
          Tarush shook his head. "To me, this is a land masked entire."
          Starkad twisted half-circle to acknowledge someone standing close behind him, yet previously hidden. Tarush strained to see, but could make out no more than a dark figure of considerably smaller stature than Starkad and his guards.
          The Skarnyr king nodded, turned back to Tarush. "And does the name Challun-Tioch mean anything to you?"
          Tarush related the little that he knew.
          "It appears my informants did not mislead me."
          An edge to Starkad's tone made Symos feel compassion for the Masked King and relieved on behalf of the informants.
          The northlander raised his hand. "And now, friend Tarush, as your vessel rides disappointingly high in the water, I'll permit you to continue your voyage in peace."
          Symos indulged in a long sigh of relief as the grappling hooks were loosened, with the ungrudging assistance of the Kuthnar's crew, and pulled back into the longship.
          A disdainful leviathan, the Rimedawn slid past the Kuthnar and took its position at the head of the fleet.
          As the seven vessels resumed their course, Tarush focused on Starkad's tall figure behind the eagle-prow, the white hair that marked him streaming from his shoulders and glistening like snow in the starsea's light.
          Symos murmured, "A lord of ice and fire."
          Tarush snorted, "Time for bed, not poetry!"
          Before returning to his bunk, Tarush examined the compass. Its needle had returned to normal. He trusted that his life would now follow suit.
          As though to warn him against such complacency, Starkad Frostmane continued to plague Tarush even in sleep. Dreaming vividly, he saw the boreal king as a painted carving on a chessboard, surrounded by ships and warriors of like provenance. In the opposing squares stood pieces of markedly alien design, fashioned from jet and silver, dominated by a king cloaked in darkness. Between these two main forces stood a third: a single hybrid figure, composed, like some extravagant mythical beast, of recognizable elements of man, wolf and hawk.

         " It will save time if I tell you what I already know." The voice was calm, even-toned. "Your name is Falk. You were the only passenger on a southland merchant ship that carried no cargo, your destination being a place rarely visited by traders. Your choice of travelling companions appears a little eccentric. Your origins are far from clear, and your purpose here is unknown. Is this a reasonably accurate summation?"
          Falk assumed that he was being addressed by Xaltoran, the Masked King; or by a magnified projection of Erastor's ruler.
          The great cavern, the dragon-doors, the gutted machines, the pillar of light, the giant image ... all combined to create an effect that was more than a fraction unnerving. Yet Falk's dominant emotion was excitement rather than fear. Such compelling evidence of ancient science vindicated his choice of landing place.
          "Reasonably accurate," Falk muttered. "I'd be interested to hear your conclusions."
          "You are audacious and resourceful: the means by which you arrived here indicate nothing less. Of course, you could be immensely rich, and that ship might then be your property ... but why would it sail off and abandon you here? The way in which you outwitted Commander Bralud and acquired the light-lance was both unexpected and amusing. As to the wolf and the hawk, your control over them is - how should I put it? - not entirely natural. Lastly, the nature of your quest - the most difficult segment of the puzzle, of course - but I believe I have the answer, or part of it."
          "I see." Falk decided to test the extent of the Xaltoran's knowledge. "And what is your solution to this enigma that I so unwittingly represent?"
          He wondered where the real king was, the man of flesh and blood whose image towered above him. A hooded cloak concealed Xaltoran's body. A tightfitting silver mask covered his face, the visage being done in the likeness of a coldly beautiful youth. Falk could only assume that the king sought to conceal some terrible disfigurement. The silver mask was so closely moulded to the head that he had the uneasy feeling that only a naked skull lay beneath. This impression was heightened by the eyes, which were not, like Commander Bralud's, visible through simple apertures in the metal, but obscured by inset lenses of blue crystal.
          "I have no conception of who you are," Xaltoran said; "and neither do you, I susp - "
          "How can you know this?"
          Wolf howled as though at a primeval moon.
          Hawk, screeching, arrowed into the king's shining face; but Xaltoran's mask proved infinitely less substantial than Bralud's.
          "It is indeed fortunate," the king said, "that I chose to greet you thus, as a projection of my true self."
          Xaltoran's implacable calm bedevilled Falk's struggle to regain his own composure. Outward signs were salvaged easily enough, with Wolf and Hawk returning to their previous states as though nothing had occurred. It was the inner turmoil that proved intractable.
          "I regret the outburst," Falk said, finally, his voice scarcely above a whisper. "Pray continue."
          "Thank you. I have no conception of who you are, and neither do you, I suspect. But I may be able to shed some light on what you are."
          "Even a flicker in the dark is better than nothing," Falk conceded. "And we have this in common, I think: a desire to avoid wasting time. Clearly, you've grasped the measure of my quest. So now, I ... beg you, lord king, to tell me everything you know."
          "That would take a lifetime," Xaltoran said.
          Falk managed a diplomatic smile. "You understand my meaning, I think."
          "Of course .... And you, I think, must realize that nothing of value is so easily gained. All knowledge has its price, as I understand only too well." Xaltoran lifted a black-gloved hand to his shining face. "So be patient, Falk. Further bargaining is necessary."
          "I have little enough to trade," Falk protested.
          "Though you might not be aware of it, you possess a valuable commodity - a quality, to be precise - which I may need very soon .... However, it grows late, and we both have much to consider. We'll meet again tomorrow, in somewhat less intimidating surroundings. Is it agreed?"
          "Do I have a choice?"
          "The question seems more reflexive than reasoned," Xaltoran said. "You disappoint me."
          "And therefore myself," Falk sighed; adding, in a louder voice, "It is agreed."
          "Excellent. Beyond the dragon-door you'll find a stairway and a corridor, but only the former will be open to you. It leads to a suite of rooms that I hope will be to your liking. A bath has been drawn for you, and a bed newly prepared. There's ample food and drink, including raw meat for your companions. And with that pleasant thought, I wish you good night."
          Unlike its appearance, the departure of Xaltoran's giant image was simple and abrupt: it vanished, leaving no trace whatsoever in the column of light.
          Falk saw that the dragon-gate was opening.
          Wolf leading, they made directly for the shining path, followed it up through the great stone jaws, then ascended a spiral stair to an apartment where all was exactly as the lord of Erastor had described.

          Each wall of the octagonal chamber was pierced by a high, circular casement; eight shafts of daylight met at the centre of the floor like the spokes of a wheel joining its hub.
          There were also four windows proper, paned with frosted glass. In the spaces between hung tapestries of intricate design, themselves resembling windows opened on strange worlds; dark beneath the limbs of light, only the gold and silver thread gleamed, outlining shadowy landscapes and figures.
          A square opening at the edge of the floor revealed a stairway of black stone. The floor itself was patterned with a worn and faded mosaic; only a few bright patches remained, so that the spires and domes of crumbling cities reared unsupported, scraps of foliage glowed like emeralds in the sombreness of vanished woods, and the faces of men and beasts gazed up from swirls of muddied colour as though from quicksand.
          The chamber was situated at the summit of a tower, and ceilinged with a shallow dome. The vault was lined with some polished black substance, studded with silver and brass, amber and carbuncle, so that it presented the appearance of a sky decked with alien stars, giving the illusion that the tower was eternally open to an eternal night.
          At the centre of the room, in the bright pool formed by the eight shafts, a woman sat weaving. A cataract of broidery fell from her loom and stretched in stiff waves over the floor. In the full blaze of the light, the silks and threads of the tapestry shone like remnants of strangely coloured flame.
          The woman was black-haired, beautiful. A green velvet cloak swathed her body. A naked sword leaned against the side of her chair. Blood sullied the blade.
          The measure of footsteps on the stair penetrated to the chamber. The woman ceased weaving. She went from the loom and began to straighten the folded arras.
          A man entered. He moved immediately to assist the woman in her task. The subject was soon revealed as the folds of heavy cloth were levelled.
          A hunting scene.
          When they had finished, the man and the woman rose and looking down at the tapestry like gods considering the gaming-board of the world.
          The weaving-woman pointed out a specific figure.
          "His name is Falk." She spoke as though of a lover. "You must outrun him. You must kill him before he reaches the Pentacle Gate."
          The man laughed.
          He raised his hands before his face.
          They shone and flowed like quicksilver.
          With a triple-toned sound of fear, Falk lurched into wakefulness and the nightmare ended. Then came awareness of sweat on skin, of bristling neck-fur, of stiffened hackles ... and of brightness beyond skulls.
          Eight shafts of daylight met at the centre of the floor like the spokes of a wheel joining its hub.

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