The Masks of Sentinel Chapter Six (part 1 of 2)

  
          Falk reached for the hilt of his sword.
          Images of the doomspore lanced his mind; his eyes darkened, hardened, gleamed like brass.
          His voice matched his gaze. "No cause can justify such a death, visited on so many. This is an evil game, and its players deserve to die."
          He turned to face the king, then drew Thief and held its point at the other's throat. Xaltoran did not move, did not speak.
          "This weapon has killed before, though never with my hand on the hilt. I've named it but recently." He tilted the blade, catching along its length the colours of the burning fleet. "I would baptize it in the blood of kings."
          As always, the cold mask and the crystal eyes made it impossible to gauge any reaction. (Falk resisted a powerful urge to wrench the metal visage free, revealing the king's mysterious face.) And, as always, Xaltoran's voice was calm, detached:
          "You will not harm me, Falk. You are a man of honour. You pledged yourself to be my protector. It was Starkad Frostmane who brought war to this place - Frostmane who unleashed the doomspore."
          Falk did not lower his blade. His impulse to kill the king remained. But he struggled to quell his anger, to think clearly.
          Xaltoran added, "And remember ... only I can reveal to you the secrets of your lost past."
          Wolf moved from guarding the door and turned again to the wall of eyes.
          Seeds of battle were being sown in the garden beneath the Tower of Masks.
          A quarter of Erastor's garrison had manned the seward rampart; all had fallen to the doomspore. The balance, including the praetorians, had been assigned to various strategic points. Falk could see, without recourse to the screens, that these remaining forces were now in purposeful motion.
          Hawk, having exited the tower through a quatrefoil, circled high and wide. Directly below, the Rimedawn was close to landing. In its prow, Frostmane stood, gleaming and arrogant, longsword already drawn and raised. Answering the challenge, armoured forces streamed towards the garden like currents of bright, foaming water.
          Falk nodded slowly, then lowered his weapon. "I spare you because you may prove to be an important pawn in my own game." He smiled. "And because I perceive a more worthy adversary."
          "If I were not so relieved, I might be insulted."
          "You're no coward. At least, you showed no fear at the prospect of death."
          "How could you tell?" The king raised a gloved hand, touched his frozen features. "I'm not well equipped for displays of emotion."
          "Your manner, tone, words - these were sufficient. And the face, if controlled, can lie more efficiently than any tongue. So far as I can judge, there's only one difference between yourself and most high-placed men - you wear but one mask."
          The king regarded the screens. "What will you do now?"
          Falk, watching the ebb and flow of battle through other eyes, turned towards the door.
          "My soul is sick ... Starkad Frostmane must die."
          Wolf followed him as he left.
          Entirely alone, the Masked King watched the destruction of his perfect garden.

         As the Skarnyr ship neared the earth, shields turned again, dazzling light giving way to dull blackness.
          The five praetorians, in the vanguard of Erastor's converging forces, spaced themselves widely, then fired their lances at the vessel from the sky.
          At such close range, the bolts of blue energy had considerable effect. Shields blistered, cracked. Flames crawled over the wooden hull. The eagle figurehead lost its golden glory.
          Arrows streaked from the invader. Several flared as they passed through the beams. Most found their targets. The tips of the shafts were coated with the last of the black acid that had been used to destroy the doomspore. As they glanced off the steel-sheathed forms of the praetorians, they left behind trails of the deadly liquid. It spread like oil over polished metal, trickled between armour joints.
          Other warriors, rushing on the scene, were puzzled to see the fusillade falter and cease.
          Beneath the violet trellis of fading lance-fire, they died quickly, the royal guards. Coloured flames spurted from them as they fell. Helmet masks darkened, buckled, crumbled to ash. Armour glowed red, blue, white. Lances exploded, filling the air with lightning-like flashes and cracks of thunder. Steel melted, flowed, cooled .... Five twisted mounds of beetle-coloured slag stood like ringstones about the heart of the garden.
          The ship landed.
          Chanting a jubilant war-song, the northlanders took their scarred black shields from the flanks of the eagle, then leapt down to the glittering earth.
          The final battle began.

         Falk and Wolf passed from gloom to daylight, the door to the Tower of Masks clanging shut behind them.
          The wild tumult hit like a breaking storm.
          Starkad had clearly not yet determined the whereabouts of his royal enemy, for the main battle still raged about the ship. There were a few dead soldiers near the doorway, however, and Falk moved quickly to one of these, divesting the body of essential war-gear. Luckily, none challenged him or came near while he worked. Wolf shadowed him as he returned to the recessed gate.
          When, a little later, Falk ventured out again, only his stature and golden eyes distinguished him from the general soldiery of Erastor.
          His sword, Thief, was in his right hand: he was coming to enjoy the feel of it. On his left arm was a light, circular shield of hard wood, faced with leather, rimmed and bossed with iron. Protecting his head was a spike-crested helmet with hanging guards for the nose, cheeks and neck.
          Wolf remained in the doorway: Falk felt the need to fight without overmuch advantage. Besides, Wolf could observe the battle from the ground, augmenting Hawk's perspective.
          As Falk crossed the garden, his anger grew.
          Wasted lives had desecrated its pure, tranquil beauty: glittering earth, dulled by blood; rocks casting coloured shadows over dead faces and twitching limbs; subtle patterns cruelly broken, all meaning irrevocably lost ....
          And then he saw Frostmane.
          Backed against the Rimedawn's prow, the northland king and two other warriors kept a dozen men at bay.
          A longsword was in Starkad's right hand, a double-headed axe in his left: weapons that seemed to move independently, almost serenely, ravelling patterns of light. His armour of steel and bleached leather was dappled with crimson. His helmet, fashioned in the likeness of an eagle, was yet unstained, blinding when it caught the sun.
          The man who fought on the king's right was a berserker.
          Falk had never known the like before: a giant, naked, his black, sweat-gleaming flesh scored with new wounds, ridged with old, and bulked with muscle that flowed and knotted like serpents.
          A thick blond mane fell ragged to the berserker's shoulders, and a profuse beard hung down upon his chest. His face was scar-tautened, his wild eyes and bared teeth startlingly white. In his right hand he wielded a two-bladed shortsword, in his left a broadaxe.
          The third warrior closely resembled the Skarnyr lord in all but size. At first, Falk assumed a princeling; then realized that it was a young woman, fighting with all the relentless dexterity of a true veteran.
          It was a bizarre trinity by any standard; but to Falk, it possessed an unavoidable resonance, and he headed directly for it with confused emotions.
          Try as he might, he failed to avoid prior conflict, finding himself locked in combat with a young northlander. Falk fought instinctively, with a welcome degree of skill. His sword grew rapidly to seem an extension of himself, almost in the same way as Wolf and Hawk.
          Compelled to narrow focus, his perception of the overall course of the battle blurred to a red mist in which faces melted and interflowed like burning wax.
          The air was filled with the shouting of the battle-eager, the hoarse screaming and groaning of the wounded, the blaring of horns, the crash and scrape of steel.
          Men jostled and fought, fell and died. The living stumbled over, and cursed, the dead. Discarded weapons created additional traps for the feet.
          The ground became churned into a morass of sand and blood that crusted the faces of the upturned fallen.
          It was as if the Tower had begun to shed its masks.
          Thief shot forward, found the narrow space between helm and gorget, pierced throat and windpipe. The northlander sank to his knees. He pointed at Falk and tried to speak. Then he fell and lay still.
          Falk thought: As a baptism for Thief, that must be accounted a rehearsal.
          Avoiding further challenge, he progressed quickly through the thick of battle.
          Starkad saw him draw near, recognized him, grinned wolfishly, then shouted briefly to the black giant, who glanced at Falk and nodded.
          Teeth bared, the berserker lumbered forward.

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