The Masks of Sentinel Chapter Four

  
          The Masked King led Falk, Hawk and Wolf along dusty passages and up winding stairways to a high chamber. Darkness lay massed beyond the entrance like a tangle of black gauze; deep within it hung flecks of prismatic light, arranged in a square grid.
          The tumult of a castle preparing for war, the voices of metal and men, reached them as they entered, though greatly muffled by the intertissued stone.
          Falk could almost see the corridors and courtyards, teeming with unaccustomed life, brimming with turbulent movement; yet he detected something measured, like a heartbeat or an anvil stroke, beneath the muted clangour.
          Steel would be flaring against grindstone; steel would be flashing, damascened with sunlight.
          Meanwhile, in locked apartments, gilded vaults rang with dispute as excited nobles gambled on the outcome of the impending conflict .... And in the temple dedicated to the nine gods of the nine musical modes, mystic orisons issued from drug-sensitised throats, mingled in polyphonic complexities, echoed and re-echoed through vast white spaces.
          The pinpoints of light within the chamber intensified, invading the dark. They were cradled, Falk realized, in crystal hemispheres. All around were suggestions of finely chiselled stone ... vague, disturbing.
          The roar of horns reached the chamber. Answering calls came from every part of the castle, confounding the echoes of the signal blast. For a long, arresting moment, a war of sound raged among Erastor's high towers, foreshadowing the earthly battle to come.
          In the wake of the horns, wild shouting.
          Falk imagined frantic motion as warriors struggled to encase themselves in burnished armour, hastily checked and adjusted weapons, zigzagged resolute as soldier ants to assigned positions.
          On the far wall, the crystal hemispheres filled to overflowing with light - opalescent, shot through with all the colours of Sentinel - and great stone faces evolved around them.
          Xaltoran said: "This room is the brain of Castle Erastor."

          Beyond the seven longships, the twin crystal towers glistened like pinnacles of ice.
          In the night, a deepsea quartzworm had risen from the ocean, coiling its translucent flesh about one of the pillars. It had died in the dawn, killed by the sunlight. A few of the Skarnyr took this to be a bad sign.
          The Rimedawn's tremulant flint image split delta-wise beneath the lurching prow of Starkad's returning skiff.
          Fully aware of their lord's present temper, the oarsmen maintained a powerful stroke as they drew near. Relentless as a thrusting ram, the boat's brass-ringed stem thudded against the flank of the parent vessel. With unceremonious haste, Starkad climbed the silkrope ladder and pushed through the knot of waiting attendants. His men needed no command beyond the cold gleam in his eyes. All were in battle position even before he reached the mast.
          Ulainn joined him beneath the image of the Sun-Eagle. The Skarnyr princess whispered urgently, "The mirror is on fire. The future is hidden ... burning. No accurate prediction is possible. Caution, my lord."
          Starkad took her gauntletted hand in his own.
          Then, raising his free arm, he shouted, "Let all mouths close but mine! The king speaks not as friend, not as brother ... the king speaks as King-General!"
          Even before the last word was out, the crewmen had fallen silent.
          Beneath the high unclouded lodestar, flames of metallic fire ran over every facet of the gently rocking ship: over the copper chasing above the keel and along the rails, over the armoured warriors, over the lines of shields, over the argent symbol at the heart of the black sail, over the gold of the eagle's head above the prow.
          At the focus of all, the jet and silver figure of Starkad Frostmane shone with a light that turned all else to shadow.
          "Before this day is over, the Sun-Eagle's wings will fill the skies above Erastor. Even the starsea at its full will be too feeble a blazonment to hold above our victory."
          He paused as Ulainn's grip tightened.
          The warning went ignored.
          "This day, an axe of purest ice falls out of the north to challenge all the lands of the sun. This day, swords and shields of tainted fire will lift before us in line upon line. This day, the iron of history and the gold of legend flow into one crucible. This day, a new age will be cast."
          Starkad released Ulainn's clutching fingers.
          Berserker blood rose in him, a red tide. He strode to the prow, turned and threw both arms wide. "In the furnace of the battle to come, steel might melt ... but never the ice forged in Skarnyr!"
          He judged the moment, knew that he had said enough.
          "Let all mouths open but mine!"
          In each of a hundred hammering throats a link of roaring sound was made.
          A chain of wild exultation whipped out, coiled and recoiled through the ship.
          Ulainn remained silent.
          As the acclaim died away, Starkad lowered his arms and walked back towards the mast, avoiding the reproachful stare of his sister. In the dazzled gaze of the watchers, banners of white, slow-dissolving fire trailed from his armoured form. A gust of wind caused the canvas to fill, blotting out the lodestar as Starkad drew near his target. In the narrow, transverse shadow-pool under the sail, the components of the black machine resembled the tentacles of a kraken.
          Ulainn said, "I only hope that, this day, your eyes see more clearly than mine."
          "I have one vision only," Starkad replied. "My name inscribed on all horizons."
          He fell to his knees before the convoluted mechanism at the base of the mast, as though before an altar-stone of dark design.

          Five nodes of flashing steel embossed the flowing, golden line of the battlements.
          A privileged military caste, comprising thirty members only, with half being on duty at any one time, wielded the much-prized and greatly feared light-lances.
          This elite corps owed its allegiance directly to the king, and was divided equally into three: the seaward watch; the praetorians; and the custodians, responsible for the maintenance of civil order within Erastor, as signified by masks whimsically fashioned to resemble the faces of mythical tomb-guardians.
          In the present emergency, Falk, Wolf and Hawk were substituting for the praetorian guard, releasing them for alternative commissions.
          Through a mist of heat-charged dust, the men of the seaward watch gazed intently at the enemy ships; by chance, it was the same five who had witnessed Falk's arrival the previous night.
          Bralud spoke to the jackal-headed guard. "There's much to be prayed for before a battle. Right now, I'd give my soul for a few clouds."
          It was hellish inside the sun-snaring polished armour; hordes of questing insects added to the general discomfort.
          "I never thought I'd see this day," the other grunted.
          "Why would anybody declare war on us? There's nothing in Erastor worth having!"
          Bralud shrugged. "The king must think so, else we wouldn't be out here day after day, night after night."
          "You've fought before, commander. What's a real battle like?"
          Bralud laughed. "I'm no veteran! My only taste of combat was years ago, when the lords of Challun-Tioch, bored with hunting, last ventured against us."
          "These barbarians'll provide more than a skirmish."
          "Aye, though I'm convinced we've the advantage in terms of weaponry."
          "If we're permitted to use it .... "
          This was a pointed reference to the order Xaltoran had issued soon after Falk had been ferried ashore: all members of the watch, with the exception of Bralud, were to conceal their lances behind the rampart, no matter the provocation. Endless speculation had generated only one plausible motive: that the Masked King had desired to reduce the chances of Falk being harmed, whether by accident or an excess of zeal.
          "Why else would I be reprimanded for a perfectly reasonable warning shot?" Bralud had dared to complain; adding, under his breath, "I'll never get accustomed to that witch-voice inside my helmet!"
          A narrow trail of dense red smoke uncoiled from the Rimedawn, spreading through the air-shimmer like ink through water.
          "What does it mean, commander?"
          "Fire and blood," Bralud muttered. "Return to your position."
          A trumpeter on the highest tower overlooking the sea sounded the four ascending notes of the war-kindling, answering the Skarnyr's crimson challenge. When the flurry of echoes had faded, and the white birds of Erastor had resettled, a net of silence claimed the castle.
          Bralud signalled the men on either side. Lizard nodded to bull, jackal to falcon. Primed lances shot forward like prehensile tongues.
          Far out over the ocean, the red trail spiralled almost vertically, as though being drawn to the fiery lodestar. Bralud's gaze wandered idly over the line of smoke, following it back to its source -
          - And he experienced, for the first time in his life, absolute fear.

          Falk watched intently as scenes formed within the eyes of the graven faces.
          Apart from the wall of masks, which was of blackest obsidian, the chamber was lined with slabs of blue-white chalcedony. A console of grey metal stood at the heart of the ice-smooth floor; there were no other furnishments.
          All illumination came from the glowing screens; the chamber's periphery remained in fitful shadow. There were nine faces in all. In every case, the features were identical to those of the Masked King. Only the eyes - unhumanly large, protuberant, insectlike - were different.
          Xaltoran attended the console, facing the pattern of eighteen screens. His raven hands moved over a grid of jewelled controls. Lights flickered beneath his probing fingers.
          Falk, with Hawk, stood at the king's side; Wolf guarded the door.
          It was now clear that the lambent, crystal eyes afforded different views of the castle and its immediate environs.
          "A useful contrivance," Falk remarked. "In some ways, it's like an artificial version of myself, though severely lacking in flexibility."
          "Perhaps," the king conceded. "However, my system could be said to be more robust - less liable to damage and dysfunction."
          "As many have discovered to their cost," Falk riposted, "my defense mechanisms are more than adequate."
          "Wait until you see mine," Xaltoran said.
          Falk smiled: the king reminded him of a child with a box of toys.
          The chamber was located at the summit of the Tower of Masks, and from it Xaltoran planned to observe and guide the course of the impending conflict. Apart from the various ocular devices situated throughout the castle, and the instruments designed to receive and transmit sounds, there were mysterious weapons hidden in various locations - all capable of activation from the console.
          Falk recalled with amusement his confrontation with Commander Bralud. He now realized that Xaltoran had seen and heard the encounter: that he could have been consigned to oblivion on a transmitted command; or even, perhaps, at the touch of a glowing button.
          "Why have you brought me here?" Falk asked.
          "Because," said Xaltoran, "whatever the outcome of this war, my term of kingship is at an end. The lifespan of a redundant monarch is, by custom, brief. Of all at present within the walls of Erastor, you have the most to gain by keeping me alive and safe."
          "And when may this reluctant King's Champion expect his reward?"
          Grasping an opportunity, Xaltoran pointed at one of the crystal eyes. "Our game with Starkad is going to be even more challenging than I'd expected."
          Falk stifled a gasp. "Either the impossible is taking place, or your machines are not as efficient as you like to think."
          Xaltoran's fingers flew over the controls.
          "All is as it should be," said the king. "Besides, what occurs is far from impossible."
          "It is on Sentinel."
          Instantly, Falk wondered why he had made the remark; but the offending screen prevented an excess of introspection: it flared like a bursting star, dazzling the mind as well as the eye.

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