The Masks of Sentinel

Chapter Seven part 2 of 4

  
          The two players prepared for the endgame.
          They stood alone before the wall of eighteen eyes. Starkad had ordered his protesting men to remain in the corridor. The door was locked.
          Neither had yet spoken.
          Frostmane's proud armour was clouded with dust, smirched with dried blood. He had removed his eagle helm. His face was rigid as a mask of polished jet. And his cerulean eyes were no less hard and bright than those of his opponent.
          The Masked King, with his silver visage and black-robed form, resembled a smaller, negative image of the Skarnyr lord. He had not, of course, been externally tainted by the brief war he had partially engineered; the internal effects were beyond conjecture.
          On the wall behind them, the square of sculpted faces hung in the gloom like a tragic chorus at the back of a stage, waiting to comment on the last scene of the drama. Their immense eyes were dim, featureless: the scenes of destruction had been allowed to fade.
          It was the invader king who broke the tense stillness and silence. He raised his hands slowly, reached forward, touched - caressed, almost - the silver mask.
          "I'm flattered," he said.
          "It seemed logical at the time," the other replied.
          Starkad then pushed back the hood, revealing a smooth metal skull. He probed at the edges of the mask with gentle fingers. His actions were not resisted. He found two small depressions, one on either side of the shining head. An instant later, the coldly beautiful face came clean away.
          "With your permission, I'll keep this as a reminder of your treachery."
          "Of course. It has served its purpose, and is of no further use to me. But how glibly the word treachery comes to your lips."
          Starkad placed the silver mask on the jewelled console, next to his helmet. He then removed the gauntlet from his right hand, revealing, on his middle finger, the platinum ring and its curious stone - black, flat, thin, bevel-edged, cut into the shape of a five-pointed star. "Do you recognize this?"
          "A pointless question. How could I not? The Pentacle Device: for such as myself, the symbol of absolute power. Apart from a few obvious and impractical exceptions, it's the only object in existence that can end my own existence. I delivered it into your keeping: an ill-advised act, as I soon realized."
          "You gave it to me in a spirit of gratitude. Must I remind you of that?"
          "I do not have the facility of forgetfulness. I had to choose a master: that was unavoidable. I selected you: there was no-one else."
          Gripping the edge of the console, Starkad said, "I could have left you sealed inside that glacier."
          "You make yourself sound like my liberator. In fact, the ice had been receding for at least a hundred millennia. Another decade, and the only fire necessary to free me would have been the sun's. I entombed myself in that glacier over a million years ago. My thankfulness at being spared a further ten is limited."
          "Much of this remains beyond my grasp," Starkad confessed. "But I do understand that you sought refuge from a world in chaos ... and that you were discovered at the exact moment demanded by my own destiny."
          "Like most superstitions, a convenient tool for the power-hungry. I only wish my self-imposed sleep had endured for another thousand centuries. By then, Sentinel might have climbed out of barbarism, providing me with a more suitable milieu."
          "But the opportunity is here and now!" Frostmane's words echoed around the chamber. "What better time than this?"
          "No, Sentinel is still not ready for me ... nor for conquerors wielding ancient knowledge."
          "Knowledge bestowed by an ancient," Starkad taunted.
          "I admit that I was the catalyst of your ambition - the mainspring of your destructive course - albeit unwittingly."
          Frostmane smiled sadly. "Destructive course? Surely not. Together, we could bring peace and progress to this stagnant world."
          "The human race has always suffered most at the hands of those convinced of their righteous destiny to improve its status. I've seen the results of forced, rampant progress. Mellow stagnation is often to be preferred."
          "You must work alongside me." The young king placed his hands on the other's narrow shoulders. "I ask it. I demand it."
          "No."
          "But you have so much to atone for." Starkad's tone became silkily persuasive. "Many have died as a result of your actions - or lack of them. If you'd only agreed to leave Erastor with me, no harm would have come to it or its people. You don't belong here. You're an imposter, a pretender."
          "I cannot deny any of this. I tried to consider the greater good. But even a being such as myself is motivated by self-preservation to an extent. The world that gave me birth was in many ways a simpler place, and moral choices were rarely required."
          Starkad lowered his hands, turned to face the wall of eyes. "I could destroy the whole of Erastor from here."
          "No: I've disabled all the weapons."
          "What can I do or say that will persuade you?"
          "Nothing."
          Frostmane lifted the ring before the other's face. "I could have put an end to you at any moment of my choosing. This is not restricted by distance."
          "The reason's obvious. You need me. I cannot discern any nobility of motive."
          "Have I denied that need? No!" Starkad shook his head. His eyes sparked with blue light. His frost-white mane shone more splendid than any crown. "And my motives are noble. They are noble."
          "You delude yourself as capably as you delude others. That's your most dangerous quality."
          There was a long silence, ended by Starkad: "At least satisfy my curiosity before we proceed. I imagine it's quite a saga. You know where to start." He laughed harshly. "It was something of a shock to wake up that morning and find a wall of my citadel completely missing!"
          "A slight miscalculation. You must've been informed that a boat went astray that same night? Good. Before I stole it, I appropriated this robe - or one similar, for it's become my accepted kingly garb - from a monastery yard. I headed south and east because these lands offer the best potential for the fugitive. The distances are great; but I'm well equipped for survival."
          "As I know, to my cost. What then?"
          "I met with King Jethuran. The circumstances were perfect. He was on the beach, alone, when I landed in Erastor. The king was much given to walking at night by the sea: it helped him to sleep."
          "How sad for his wife."
          "Wives, actually .... At first, Jethuran thought that I was a leper - the watch assumed the same - for I was naturally reluctant to uncover my face. I soon realized, however, that he would prove sympathetic, and revealed my identity to him. Being a seeker after knowledge, he was profoundly excited by the possibilities I could open up for him. One thing, at least, seemed certain: he was no empire-builder.
          "So it was as a mendicant leper that I entered Erastor. Two days later, a burial case filled with an animal carcass was burned beyond the boundaries of the castle. After my ... death, I lived secretly in the royal apartments.
          "Jethuran's brother, the Lord Xaltoran, was also something of a savant, and reacted favourably to my presence. The three of us worked together on a number of scientific projects. I'd learned from my dealings with you to avoid any areas of research which could be bent to military use."
          Frostmane grinned sardonically. "That must've been difficult."
          "Yes, unfortunately. Later, of course, various pressures - internal and external - forced me to develop weaponry to protect myself and Erastor."
          "But how did you accede to the throne? You're not of any blood, let alone royal."
          "Xaltoran was killed in an accident: some archaic machine he'd unearthed in the great cavern under the castle exploded. It was Jethuran who suggested that his brother's death be used to advantage, and that I should take his place. I'd lived in hiding up until then, and this plan would allow me greater freedom. Xaltoran was interred with absolute secrecy: a select priestly caste is responsible for all royal burials, and its members would never reveal any of its mysteries, even under torture or-"
          "Ah, superstition," Frostmane murmured. "A convenient tool for the power-hungry, I believe?"
          "-pain of death. Jethuran embellished the details surrounding the accident to substantiate my wearing a mask, gloves and concealing robes. My supposed disfigurement also accounted for my predilection for solitude. I never attended banquets or grand state functions: the preservation of regal dignity was the accepted cause."
          "All very fortunate," Starkad commented.
          "For me, yes. Soon after Xaltoran's death, Jethuran himself died, of some obscure intestinal complaint. I didn't hesitate to claim the throne. I knew that many of the nobles would object to my rule - they considered that my physical injuries rendered me unfit - so I devised superior weaponry to discourage any opposition, and won the support of the army at the same time."
          "All very fortunate indeed. This quality of luck in a gambling place would bring an accusing knife to your throat."
          "What you're implying is impossible."
          "Why be ashamed? For my part, double regicide inspires respect rather than revulsion."
          "Enough. I was fortunate, no more. I admit only this: I knew you'd track me down eventually, and so I took power in Erastor when the opportunity arose. I prepared for your coming as best I could. If only I'd had more time...."
          Starkad cursed. "You destroyed six of my ships, killed hundreds of my men. That's why I unleashed the doomspore - you forced my hand."
          "I accept the charge. Before I escaped, I should've taken the precaution of destroying all that I'd created. I underestimated your ability to adapt the most innocuous invention to alternative, deadlier use."
          "It was necessary."
          Starkad was becoming impatient - the endgame seemed likely to go on forever. As he tried to think of a way of breaking the impasse, he considered the face he had exposed by removing the mask. It shone even brighter than the silver that had covered it. There were no definite features, only mere suggestions of eyes, nose and mouth. The whole head was of the same smooth, flexible, seamless, brilliant material. In its way, it was astonishingly beautiful.
          And the body beneath the black robe, Starkad knew, was fashioned from the same impervious substance. In essence, it was a thing of living, sentient metal. There was only one method by which to destroy this being that had survived for countless ages inside a mountain of ice: to take the ring on the middle finger of his right hand and tear the black star from its setting.
          "Aye, it was all necessary," Frostmane said. "But now, conflict between us is pointless. We must agree to work together. A great future lies before us."
          The shining being moved away. "We've discussed this fully and to the limit. I'll never agree to it."
          "This is foolish," Starkad ground out. "I am your master."
          "My true masters allowed for the misuse of power. Self-determination is not entirely denied me. I'm permitted to make certain decisions. Even though you possess the Pentacle Device, I may refuse what you ask."
          Frostmane pulled the ring from his finger. "I've only to release the black stone."
          "Break the circuit of my existence. It matters not."
          "Are you so eager for death?"
          Startlingly, a deep weariness permeated the other's voice. "I think I am. My universe died a long time ago. It's fitting that I join it at last."
          Starkad blazed with fury. "I do not understand you."
          "Unfortunately, I understand you only too well."
          "Don't you fear death at all?"
          "I'm frightened only of the power that my declared fear of death could bestow on you."
          "Accursed riddle-maker!" The northlander laughed wildly. "I'll succeed without you. There's always Challun-Tioch."
          Silence.
          "Speak! There can be no stalemate."
          "You're a fine player, Starkad. But this is our last game together."
          "And it's my destiny that's at stake. You were given to me by the gods. I can't lose you now. You belong to me."
          The smooth, gleaming face threw back distorted reflections of Starkad's own. "I think we are both mad, you and I."
          Without warning, the shining metal visage began to grow even brighter. Starkad felt waves of increasing heat flow about him. He backed away, shielding his eyes.
          This strange attack was so unexpected, and evolved so rapidly, that Starkad was unable to retaliate. He clutched at the hilt of his sword, then realized his folly. He tried to think clearly; but his very mind seemed to be shrivelling in the incredible heat pouring over him.
          Smoke curled up from the imposter's clothing. The black gloves liquefied, exposing white-hot metal hands; jet drops fell like blood from the still fingers.
          Searing incandescence licked at Starkad's exposed flesh.
          "Please ... stop."
          Red flames erupted from the black robe: a blazing, argent figure was revealed.
          Beneath the armour, the northlander's skin began to blister and split.
          Shreds of burning cloth drifted out into the room like birds of fire.
          Starkad tried to summon help; but only croaking screams emerged from his parched throat. Then, recalling that the chamber was securely locked, he turned and stumbled through the lambent air.
          Behind him, the screens started to melt: the nine stone faces wept great tears.
          In the corridor, the waiting warriors, feeling the increase in temperature even through the thick walls, began to shout and pound on the door.
          Inexorable as an angel of light, an angel of death, the other followed Starkad across the room.
          The Skarnyr king was now in mortal agony; hope deserted him.
          "Ulainn .... "
          It was the last coherent sound to be uttered in that place.
          Frostmane clawed with raw, red fingers at the Pentacle Device. His senses had all but boiled clean away. He was unable to see the ring - unable to feel that it was as cold as the ice from which its donor had been freed.
          As Starkad's soul leapt free of the flames, the black star fell from his burning hand.
          It never reached the floor.

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