The Masks of Sentinel Chapter Five (part 1 of 3)

  
          Midmost of Castle Erastor lay a wide, walled garden, overlooked by the Tower of Masks.
          Throughout the two years of his rule, Xaltoran had lavished much attention on its creation. Many of Erastor's nobles, favouring the claim of the Lady Kaihima, or of some other royal aspirant, had cited the new monarch's cherished project as evidence of madness, brought on by a morbid obsession with his terrible physical injuries. Yet even they could not deny that the garden was curiously disturbing in its alien beauty.
          Rare minerals, varying in size from pebble to rock, displayed an almost infinite variety. Most remarkable, perhaps, were the crystals, ranging from flawless translucence to black opacity. Only the adamant, changeless products of earth had been planted in the garden. There was nothing living; nothing of life passed away.
          At first glance, there was no appreciable order to the arrangement of the stones: they were as random as the moraine left by a retreating glacier. It was only after lengthy meditation that cogent images became apparent, usually in a devastating flash of recognition. One who had experienced the effect compared it to contemplation of an unusually arcane illustrated manuscript.
          The vision was of a living garden filled with riotous, luxuriant growth: grass brighter than malachite, trees sheened with copper or bronze and mantled with leaves like flakes of beryl, blossoms resembling spheres and cones of faceted, prismatic glass.
          At times carefully chosen for their qualities of light, shade and mood, the Masked King would walk alone in the strange garden, his black-swathed form a shadow hinged to a shadow, his silver face flowing, like a flawed mirror, with unearthly patterns, shapes and colours.

          Majestic as a true eagle taking flight from a sky-piercing crag, the Rimedawn lifted from the waves.
          In a high room facing the bay, Lady Kaihima sat at an open window. Behind her, Lord Nissuraj was arranging military charts on a sword-scarred table. Books on strategy lay in haphazard piles over the floor. Pieces of antique armour and weaponry, interspersed with tattered banners, hung on the walls.
          "War is no longer a science," Kaihima proclaimed. "It has just been stripped of all logic."
          Frowning, Nissuraj walked over to the sun-filled portal. "A mirage," he said nervously, shielding his eyes.
          "A dangerous illusion," Kaihima muttered. "What you're looking at is power. Call it sorcery if you will - its nature is not important. All that matters is the effectiveness of our response."
          "Like it or not, only Xaltoran can help us now."
          Kaihima's green eyes narrowed catlike. She leaned out and glanced down at the battlements, where the beast-headed sentries looked as though they had been turned to stone.
          "You may be right, Lord Nissuraj. With petrified warriors guarding Erastor, Xaltoran's toys offer the only hope."
          As though hearing Kaihima's words, and stung by them, Commander Bralud gave the order to fire. This was futile, he knew, the range being too great. Yet he also knew that in discharging their light-lances at the enemy, his warriors would at least feel like valid fighting men once more.
          The cobalt rays darting from the ramparts fell, as Bralud had predicted, far short of their targets; where they struck, the ocean boiled and spurted, convulsive as volcanic mud.
          Coincidentally, the Rimedawn's oars dangled, ragged as broken wings, then slid into the foaming water.
          "Interesting," Kaihima observed. "Obviously, Starkad doesn't intend returning to the sea."
          "I'd hazard he means to dock permanently in Erastor."
          "Then we must find a way to wreck his vessel well before it lands."
          "There are no reefs in the air," Nissuraj felt moved to point out.
          Kaihima sighed. "That ship may be able to defy natural laws, but its materials remain earthbound ... wood, canvas, metal. Its occupants are no more than flesh and blood. Starkad wields forces we can't yet comprehend. But we shouldn't lose all reason because of it. He's not invulnerable." She bit her lower lip. "I believe I know what should be done. Listen, then go and speak to your men...."
          At a signal from Bralud, the fusillade ended: powerful over short periods, the lances required frequent charging, and could soon be exhausted if unwisely used.
          A trail of violet radiance lingered, then dissolved swift as steam. In its wake, all of the enemy longships, including the Rimedawn, which was now two yards clear of the sea, trembled like storm clouds riven by lightning. Vertical cracks appeared in the black flanks, peculiarly regular, splitting open like great wounds, spilling light instead of blood. It was as if they were exploding: exploding with a deliberate, controlled measure ... and silently.
          A victorious trumpet pealed in Erastor; shouts of triumph rang from the high walls and towers.
          "I seek to rule a realm of halfwits," Lady Kaihima announced to an empty room.
          Bralud and his men were equally unconvinced of the enemy's demise. They knew that their lances had proved ineffective, and were certain that none of Xaltoran's hidden ordnance had yet been activated. Refusing to join in the premature rejoicing, they contemplated the blazing fleet with a mixture of wariness and mothlike fascination.
          The light bursting from the ships rapidly intensified. Blinding white, it flowed out like molten metal from a furnace. The compassing waves flared as though dusted with phosphor; the proud black sails were engulfed.
          No columns of smoke choked the sun. No red flames licked the sky. No noise or smell of burning drifted inland.
          Kaihima smiled ironically as the noises of victory faltered and died. Fear permeated the ranks of Erastor's soldiery. Warriors turned and stared like beasts at bay. Arcane signs were made with trembling hands. Hurried prayers escaped from behind grilles and visors.
          Along the uppermost rampart, the custodians endeavoured to remain aloof; their grotesque helmet-masks were curiously appropriate in the face of what the majority branded sorcery.
          Starkad's eagle continued to rise, like a miniature sun from a nest of suns.
          Kaihima whispered, "Your move, Xaltoran."

          Three grey-robed, hooded torchbearers advanced along the winding corridors of a catacomb. Walls pressed close, reared into chaotic darkness. Shadows leaped gigantic, shrivelled to nothing, leaped again. Ancient bas-reliefs, etched out of umber by the fitful light, flowed and ebbed.
          No words were spoken; footfalls and twitching robes barely roused the lurking echoes.
          The man leading was also the tallest by far. His brand was gripped in his left fist; chatoyant stones, set into ornate rings, glittered in the torchlight. The fingers of his right hand, also heavily bejewelled, curled tight about an ebony longstaff; the skull of a horned rat, its eyes inset with red gems, crowned the shaft.
          They came in time to the entrance of the royal burial passage. Doors of basalt, sealed with a silver torque, barred the way. The tall man angled his torch at the black barrier. After a moment's hesitation, his attendants moved forward. One of them produced an axe from beneath his robe; the other held his brand close to the shining knot.
          With unerring accuracy, the axe swooped, cut through silver, struck stone. Sparks showered out. The torque flew in half. A deep clang reverberated along the corridor, sonorous as the peal of a giant bell. The doors swung wide on cunningly balanced hinges.
          Cautiously, the two who had broken the seal moved on into the burial passage.
          The tall man held back as the others passed beyond the black gate; the eyes in the rat's skull burned with the illusion of a cruel intelligence. Yellow light snaked into the tunnel as the two proceeded. Opposing ranks of alcoves, curdled with shadow, stretched into distance and darkness.
          With barely a sound, the ground beneath the intruders snapped open.
          They fell, screaming, into the pit beneath.
          Shrill echoes flooded the maze of corridors.
          Before the trap could close and reset itself, the tall man ran into the passage and leaped across the gaping space. His robe flapped like huge wings. His torch flared in the rushing air.
          As he landed safely on the opposite side, he heard a rumbling noise. He turned quickly and glanced into the pit. Though not a squeamish man, he instantly regretted his rashness.
          Clutching their gutted torches, the two men hung suspended in a well of viscid green fluid. One of them stared up at the glassy surface, his mouth moving as though in prayer. Around them, fixed in the gelid mass, trailing ganglia red as blood, were eyes resembling great black pearls.
          The lips of stone ground together.
          Peace returned to the labyrinth.

          The Masked King said, "All optical systems facing the bay have been disrupted."
          "In other words," Falk said, "Frostmane's effectively blinded you."
          On the wall of faces, a pattern of glowing, featureless eyes formed a meaningless ideogram, its white vacuity emphasised by the lifelike images flickering across the remaining screens.
          Xaltoran, hunched at the console, endeavoured to correct the fault; the reflected tints of the controls rippled over his mask like oils in water.
          "Why not order Commander Bralud to report?" Falk suggested.
          "And admit that I cannot see for myself?"
          "Of course," Falk muttered, adding, "Starkad's technical capabilities surely exceed those to be expected of a barbarian."
          "Indeed." Xaltoran depressed three red jewels. "I have now taken appropriate action."
          Falk looked up at the giant eyes; but the white remained, sheer as snow piled against glass.
          The king's glance flashed. "Given that I cannot aim my weapons, I've set them to function at random. The screens will clear momentarily."
          "My own ... optical systems might prove less liable to dysfunction," Falk commented.
          "As my champion, you've some latitude."
          Wolf moved from the door and focused on the wall of masks. At the same time, Falk turned and walked to the entrance. The door was locked; a brass lever opened it from the inside. In the corridor, Falk launched Hawk on its mission.

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