The Mage in the Iron Mask Read online

The tall one regained his mount in as little time as it took for Donal to fall to the ground.

  As the shadowriders disappeared into the darkness, their hoofbeats diminishing in the distance, Donal quietly died with a faint trace of a smile on his cruelly misshapen lips, his final thought acquiescing to the insight of the Tharchioness, followed by a chuckle at a secret joke, and a last groan of pain that delivered him unto his expected damnation.

  Rassendyll came to in less than an hour, his body aching from the jostling caused by the steed he was bound to, and the awkward positioning of his bound body upon it. He tried to cry out, but couldn’t because of the horse’s bit that had been fastened to his face as if he were some uncooperative plow horse in need of direction. Had his head not been covered with a sack, he would have realized that it was still the middle of the night. As it was, the only sense left to him for observation was his hearing, and as the shadowriders rode in silence, it too didn’t seem to be of much help … until, quite unexpectedly, his steed stopped in unison with the rest of the party, and a commotion seemed to break out.

  “Who goes there? Show yourselves,” the young wizard thought he heard through the muffling effect of the sack. This was followed by a screech of horses, several clashes of steel, and more than a few cries of pain, as a party of superior force soon overtook his abductors, and mercilessly slaughtered them.

  Rassendyll could barely maintain his joy. He still had no idea why he had been abducted, nor how, nor where he was right now. The only thing he knew was that he was being rescued.

  “Where is Donal?” he heard.

  “Back at the Retreat. I killed the traitor.”

  “Thank you for saving me the trouble.”

  This was followed by one last shriek of pain, and one last whispered order.

  “Take half of the company back to the Retreat, and kill everyone. No one must escape, and be sure to leave this behind.”

  Had the young wizard not been blinded by the sack that encompassed his head, he would have undoubtedly noticed the speaker (obviously the group’s leader) handing his lieutenant a blood-stained crystal wand which Rassendyll, had he been conscious at the time, would have recognized as the weapon that had been used to kill the traitor Donal. As it was he saw nothing, and, petrified with fear after hearing the plans for slaughter, tried to maintain his wits in hopes that an opportunity for escape might present itself.

  A thundering herd of hooves galloped off into the distance and before he knew it, Rassendyll was once again tossed around as the party he was now an unwilling member of raced onward into the night.

  Rassendyll lost all track of time as the riders raced the dawn to their destination. As the stallions slowed down to a trot, the young wizard thought he could distinguish from the cacophony of sounds that included the clopping of the horses’ hooves and the verbal spurs of the riders, a change in the ground upon which they rode, the sound of a gate being raised, and a cock crowing in the distance. As the gate closed behind them, he felt the horse that bore him stop, and felt an eeriness at the peaceful silence that pervaded the early morn.

  The stillness of the air gave way to the distinct odors of industry, smoke, sulfur, and fish.

  They must have brought me to some city, the young wizard discerned, but where? Mulmaster? Hillsfar? If only I knew how long I had been unconscious.

  A few footsteps and the sound of a blade being withdrawn from a scabbard struck terror into his heart.

  Why did they take me all this way just to kill me? he thought, trying to make sense of his situation. Surely if they had intended on killing me they would have done so before now.

  Concentrating deeply, as the magisters had shown him, he sought out with his mind the source of the sounds. In his mind’s eye he saw a one-eyed soldier with long black hair standing right next to him, sword raised as if to strike. Fear took control of the young wizard, and as his mind’s eye blinked, he felt himself try to scream, forgetting the restraining bit that was still safely lodged in his mouth.

  He felt the breeze of a slash pass by his head, a moment of instability as if he had lost his balance, and then the rude concussion of meeting the cobblestoned ground.

  “Pick him up,” he heard. “It wouldn’t make much sense to have carried him all this way just to let him be trampled in the courtyard by the horse that bore him.”

  This was accompanied by a malevolent chorus of laughter, as rough hands wrangled him to his feet.

  “I think he’s awake,” one voice said.

  “Not for long,” another replied.

  Rassendyll tried to brace himself for the anticipated blow, felt a sharp pain to the back of his head the likes of which he never felt before, and was consumed by the darkness that had already blinded his other senses.

  A bucket of water to the face did the double duty of reviving him and drawing his attention to the fact that the sack had been removed from over his head. His entire body ached, his arms long wrenched from their sockets by the constraints of the silken bonds. He tried to move and stretch his cramped muscles, but found his freedom impaired by what seemed to be a massive wooden yoke and frame that anchored his limbs in a semi-sitting position that provided him with no room to relieve or relax his protesting limbs and also restrained his head from moving. He thought he could discern a wooden collar that was acting as his neck yoke. The underside was tormenting his shoulders and collarbone with splinters, while the topside seemed cool and smooth as if it were lined with a metal plate. The bit had been removed from his mouth, but the tightness of the yoke further inhibited his attempts at crying out.

  Gradually his eyes became accustomed to the light thrown by the torches that illuminated the chamber. His captors were behind him, and cast long and threatening shadows on the wall before him.

  “Our esteemed guest is awake. Isn’t the resemblance uncanny?” one of the shadows observed.

  “Donal didn’t lie. I guess even greedy liars and knaves occasionally tell the truth,” the other replied, “but I guess we shouldn’t ask our friends from Thay for their opinions on this subject.”

  “Are you awake?” the first inquired. “I should think that you would want to thank Sir Melker Rickman for rescuing you from those wretched mercenaries from Thay.”

  The source of the voice came around to Rassendyll’s left, just out of sight. “I’m sorry that you have been treated so roughly, but one can’t be too careful. You see, there are certain laws here in Mulmaster governing the comings and goings of you mage types, so certain precautions have to be taken. I’m sure that by now your wrists must be raw from the restraints that have kept you from using your hands since last night, and I must apologize. I have, however, taken steps to alleviate the problem. Send in the smith.”

  The young wizard saw the back of the other pass in front of him as he left to fetch the smith. He returned almost immediately, and this time Rassendyll was able to discern that this one-eyed soldier with long black hair had been the same person who had led the party that had stolen him from his original abductors. He was accompanied by a burly wizard who bore two large metal plates with him, as well as a hammer and a pouch that jangled as he moved. The soldier seemed to lead the burly wizard, and the reason became obvious when he stopped in front of the yoke and frame that restrained Rassendyll.

  The burly wizard was as blind as a bat, his eye sockets still bearing the singe marks from where some flaming coals had been put to rest for some, what must have been interminable, period of suffering for Ao knows what reason.

  “You know why you are here,” the voice from behind commanded. “Begin!”

  The burly wizard replied with a garbled noise of assent, for his tongue had been burnt out as well during the same period of excruciating torture, and began to place the two metal plates into slots in the yoke around the young wizard’s neck, one directly behind his head, and one in front.

  Once they were perfectly balanced in place, the burly wizard began to run his hands over the metal surfaces, mouthing incanta
tions as he worked. Slowly the metal began to heat up, and soften. With hands that had forged numerous talismans and weapons of enchantment, the wizard smith began to mold the two plates to fit the contours of the young man’s head.

  At first, Rassendyll felt a slight sensation of warmth against his cheeks, which quickly became a torturous burn followed by a stifling oppression as the metal closed over his mouth and nose, preventing him from breathing. Before he could cry out or choke, his nostrils and mouth were assailed by the muscular fingers of the burly wizard smith as he poked holes through the metal, molding and smoothing the edges so that they just barely intruded into his breathing apertures. He followed in the same suit with the eye slits whose placement was slightly skewed by the young wizard who kept his own orbs of vision shut tight in an effort to prevent himself from suffering the same fate that had befallen the smith.

  When the two halves of metal were in place around the young wizard’s head, the wizard smith said aloud a new incantation, flexing his fingers in the air with various and sundry subtle motions.

  Once again Rassendyll felt the metal pressing up against his cheeks and the back of his head. Then he felt his skin begin to itch around his neck and scalp as if a thousand chiggers had begun to take their bloodsucking positions along the surface of the skin. He next heard the scrape of four bolts being placed in slots that connected the front piece to the back, which was immediately followed by a cacophony of clangs as if he had been strapped to the belfry back at the Retreat during the noonday chimes.

  Even after the blows of the hammer had stopped, the ringing in his head continued, only gradually dissipating over time.

  “Are you sure the mask has adhered to his skull?” the soldier demanded.

  The wizard smith grunted in assent, running his hand across the back of the tortured Rassendyll’s head, and around his neck as if to say “here, and here.”

  “Good!” said the voice from behind. “Call the guards.”

  The soldier left once again, and returned with three of Mulmaster’s most trusted and ruthless soldiers of the company known as the Hawks.

  “Unbind him!” the voice ordered.

  Rassendyll went limp as the Hawks began to extricate him from the yoke and frame. The itching and gnawing of the skin that had been adhered to the metal was slowly retarding to a mild annoyance that paled in comparison to the soreness that his limbs felt from being bound. As this was alleviated by the Hawks, a new annoyance came to torture him.

  The voice, he thought, it sounds so familiar. Is it possible I have been tortured by someone I know?

  Once removed from the frame, the young wizard straightened and flexed his appendages to return circulation to the outermost limits. Control soon returned to his hands and fingers, as he quickly formulated a plan for fighting back in the manner he had been taught by his magisters at the Retreat.

  The wizard smith is blind, so if I act quickly enough, I might be able to cast a spell that will overpower my captors before they have time to react.

  Almost instantaneously, Rassendyll brought his now unbound hands into action, flexing them in readiness for one of the numerous attack spells he had been taught. Clearing his now unbound throat he readied himself for the incantation that he sought from the files of his mind.

  Fear seized him. He could not remember any of the spells or incantations! It was as if his entire education had been erased.

  “As I mentioned before,” the voice instructed with a certain degree of cruel calmness, “we have certain ways of handling mage types like yourself, here in Mulmaster. This lovely mask that conceals your oh-so-attractive features also deadens all of your magical abilities. You have to admit that it is slightly more comfortable than being bound and gagged all the time. Guards!”

  The Hawks immediately grabbed him, one on each side. The voice came up behind him again, delicately gauntleted hands feeling the edges of the two halves of the metal mask.

  “Fine craftsmanship,” the voice observed. “Form-fitting, yet feature obscuring. Too bad you didn’t allow much room for his beard to grow. Eventually it will probably choke him, but by that time I am sure I will have no further use for him. Guards, take him away.”

  Rassendyll wrenched himself away from the guards to confront his oppressor. The eye-slits in the mask necessitated that he only view objects directly in front of him. Maneuvering himself into position, he faced his antagonist dead on, and fainted dead away, for he realized that he was confronting a man whose features were identical to his own.

  “Throw him into our deepest dungeon,” the High Blade ordered. “The wing in which we house the other madmen, vagrants, and detritus of society.”

  The Hawks complied.

  Rassendyll was tossed into a damp cell whose light was cast from a torch down the hall, its illumination barely creeping in through the guards’ peep hole and the slot through which the slop that was considered food would be passed.

  The weight of the mask bore heavily on his neck and shoulders, throwing him off-balance and dampening all of his perceptions. His body hurt, and he was racked with questions about his fate.

  Clearing his throat, he cried out in torment and confusion, “Why? Why? Why?”

  A lone voice answered him from one of the cells down the hall. It said gruffly, with a basso bellow reminiscent of a thespian or an opera star, “Will you keep it down? An actor needs his sleep.”

  PART ONE

  The Prisoner,

  the Thespian,

  &

  the Traveler

  A Friend in Need

  On a Mulmaster city street:

  “Oh thank you, Mister Volo,” the pudgy thespian Passepout exclaimed, his bulgy flesh bouncing beneath his tunic as he tried to put as much distance as possible between himself and his previous night’s lodging, the prison known as Southroad Keep. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along to bail me out.”

  “Think nothing of it, old friend,” Volothamp Geddarm replied to his former bond servant, pausing only a moment to adjust the beret atop his curly scalp before adding, “and I thought I had cured you of that Mister Volo stuff.”

  “No,” Passepout corrected. “You cured me of calling you Master Volo. The title of ‘mister’ is the least form of respect I deign to use for my savior and salvation.”

  “Again,” the impeccably dressed master traveler of Faerûn (if not all Toril) instructed, “think nothing of it.”

  “But you don’t understand, Mist … uh, Volo,” the thespian insisted. “It was horrible being locked up in a dungeon cell alongside madmen, vagrants, and the other detritus of society.”

  “Believe me,” Volo countered, “there is far worse company you might have been keeping in Southroad Keep’s subterranean dungeon, and not all of them are prisoners either.”

  “It was horrible, dehumanizing, and torturous.”

  “How long had you been incarcerated?” the master traveler inquired.

  “Overnight,” the pudgy thespian answered in righteous indignation, “and I didn’t get a wink of sleep. An actor needs his sleep, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Of course,” Passepout continued to rant. “The cell was hard and damp, the food was low-grade slop.”

  “How terrible for you,” Volo concurred half-heartedly, occasionally fingering his well-groomed beard with the hand that he had free from tending the traveler’s pack that bounced as he strode.

  “It was,” the actor agreed, missing the sarcasm that was conveyed by the master traveler’s mischievous grin. “And if that wasn’t bad enough, there was this madman bemoaning his incarceration all night, and he was accompanied by a horrible clanging as if someone were beating his cell walls with a coal bucket.”

  “The nerve of that poor soul.”

  “Indeed,” the thespian continued. “I am quite sure that this incident has scarred me for life.”

  Volo looked around at the dark and smoke-filled streets of what had been nicknam
ed the City of Danger, put his arm around his boon companion, and tried to put the fellow’s one-night incarceration into proper perspective.

  “Surely, the legendary son of Catinflas and Idle, scourge of the Sword Coast, expert ballplayer and star goalie of Maztica, and circumnavigator of all Toril; not to mention master thespian, and sponsored actor and artist of the House of Bernd of Cormyr, will be able to put this behind him,” the master traveler encouraged, trying not to be too sarcastic in his tone.

  “Of course you are right,” Passepout conceded. “It would take more than one torturous night’s incarceration to scar me for life.”

  “Indeed,” Volo agreed, then changed the subject, asking, “by the way, how are things with your position in the Bernd family household?”

  Passepout looked sheepishly at his traveling companion, mentor of the road, and savior many times over, and confessed. “I am afraid that I am no longer in the Bernd family’s employ.”

  “What happened?”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong, really.”

  “Well surely Master Bernd is a fair man, and his son Curtis is quite fond of you. I’m sure either of them would have stood by you.”

  “Curtis was away on his honeymoon with Shurleen,” the thespian explained, slightly wistful about the wedding of the woman whom he had at one time thought to be the love of his life, “and my problem wasn’t with Master Bernd, but rather with the authorities in Cormyr itself.”

  “What did you do now?”

  “Well remember Sparky and Minx, the Bernd family cats?”

  “Of course,” Volo replied, “two nobler felines I’ve never met.”

  “Indeed,” the thespian explained, “but there was a certain maid that I had taken a fancy to. Her name was Marissa, and she was quite pretty.”

  “Of course.”

  “Well,” the portly thespian continued, “Marissa complained about the additional work that she had to do cleaning up after them, and mentioned her concern that the two felines might have kittens, and thus increase her workload, resulting in less time for me.”