Mask of the Kalish

The storm broke while they were still in the open. The old man cared not. While the boy scampered for the protection of the still-distant forest, the old man slowed down and accepted the drenching. The lush green pasture through which he was diligently slogging was not meant for this type of traversing; it was boggy and animal trodden. He had endured worse in the past, much worse. The ache that came from his legs spoke less of age than weariness from such travel.

The storm hit with its full intensity, forcing him to lower his head into the blinding spray, its winds buffeting him like some rickety scarecrow suddenly come to life and stumbling blindly forward. The boy was now merely a smudge against the dark background of the wood. Had he made it to cover? It was hard to tell. The old man muttered to himself in agitation, his lank grey hair sticking to his forehead and dripping water down over his long beaky nose. Oh, how he hated rainy days spent huddling in the sparse cover that the trees provided. Sometimes he and the boy found an abandoned dwelling or a dry warm cave, but this was the exception. The Gods were not often so kind.

He squinted his eyes against the sting of the rain, thinking that at least this time there had been no hail or frogs or small fish. The sky-striker had bombarded him with many such objects over the years. As he neared the edge of the wood he thought he heard a cry, faint but audible. Perhaps it was the boy—but no. He waited quietly at the base of one of the oaks, watching his master's approach. The old man cocked his head and stood still for a moment, letting the rain batter against him. There was silence; he couldn't even hear the sound of his own breathing.

Somewhere deep within was the unmistakable inner tone that was the Kalish, otherwise nothing. And then there came a cool lingering haunting melody. He shivered. This was neither Kalish nor Catacomb, but an ancient call. There was a voice, impossibly distant, its words just a rustling of dry leaves.

Spellsingers, he thought, yet he daren't listen any longer for there was a throbbing within, and the Kalish had begun sending again. Ghostly images stalked the tree line: an army marching four abreast with rounded helmets and silver shields, a gaily pennanted tent out of which a heroic figure now strode. For a brief moment its face was superimposed across the sky, growing larger and larger until finally breaking up into wispy orange clouds. The ghost images began to fade, and the drumming of the rain against his skull returned.

* * *

"I saw the ghost again," Parly Yieldshield said. The Deathseer nodded sagely. "I had just reached the edge of the wood," Parly continued, "and turned to see how far behind you were, and there it was, towering above you. It had no face."

The Deathseer patted the shivering youngster on the shoulder. "Get some firewood, Parly. I need to warm these old bones of mine, then perhaps we shall speak more of these things."

The boy clambered to his feet. He was dressed, as was his master, in animal skins upon which nodules of water vapour gleamed like liquid mercury. His hair was long and unkempt, but his eyes were bright and questioning. His skinny, underdeveloped body was wiry and toughened from many months of hard journeying. Now, however, he looked just like he felt, tired and frightened. If the Deathseer shared these feelings, then as usual he showed none of them. Sitting beneath the tree, he took from one of his pouches a variety of animal bones which he placed upon the ground before him—his earth-speakers. Parly watched the Deathseer for a moment as he communed with these spirits, then remembering his task he began his search for the firewood.

In truth he was feeling sorry for himself. The small village where he had originated had presented him to the Deathseer as payment in return for some unspecified favour the old Shaman had performed for them, something about driving out an evil spirit and the reclamation of sterile farmland. When it was made known that the Deathseer wanted an apprentice, one from his village, Parly had been chosen. Being an orphan, he was given to the Shaman by elders pleased to be able to do so without splitting up a family. Almost immediately he had been deprived of his village cloths and forced to wear these smelly, lice-infested animal skins. "They will protect you much better against the elements," the Deathseer had told him, "and you will come to know the magic of the land through closer contact with its animals."

Despite this he had learnt very little of the old man's secrets. If he was to be an apprentice, then eventually he would learn magic, or so he thought, but magic was not something that could be learnt, it seemed. "It's either there or it isn't," the Deathseer had told him. "You do not hunt for magic; if you are the one, then it will find you." And now, indeed, Parly had to admit, magic was beginning to find him, but it was not the pleasurable experience he had imagined—far from it. Beneath the surface, a world of nightmares existed. While the Deathseer seemed to be able to tap into this world without concern for his own safety, Parly had no such confidence. Besides, there were things he could see that even the old Shaman could not. Privately, Parly wondered if the Deathseer really understood the forces that were at work in his magic, and if he didn't, then what could control them? Whenever these grim thoughts intruded, he consoled himself that the Deathseer was a very old man—how old exactly, he could never be sure, but old enough that any evil power released by his experimenting would have had ample opportunity to show itself before now. Somehow, this time such thoughts were of no comfort to him, no comfort at all.

The Deathseer returned Deer, Bear and Raven to their pouch. Their speaking had been indistinct, and while he hadn't shown it in front of the boy, a feeling of something impending hung over him. He almost felt inclined to close off and search within the Kalish's sendings for the answers. This, he knew, was a fool's option; the crossover dreams were merely reacting to that which called him now. Something new was out there searching, searching like some great eye slowly beginning to focus on him. Within him its whispering voice grew steadily stronger. He could almost make out the beginnings of words now, though they were in a form he had not before encountered. Their effect upon the Kalish, however, was most disturbing; the ghostly visions of the boy were proof enough of this. A premature crossover was apparently in action.

The sendings were scattered, broken as the very place from whence they came. Yet the boy, despite his inexperience, had envisaged such spectres clinging to him like an unhealthy aura. He smiled his gap-toothed grin. They would continue along the path towards whatever awaited them. The voice might be a puzzle, yet he couldn't help but wonder what it made of him.

When facing the unknown a wise man wears his mask.

At that moment Parly returned, his arms full of firewood. "These woods," he muttered, "they have a feel."

"Catacombs," the Deathseer agreed. "This country abounds with them."

"So why is that?" Parly asked placing the wood on the ground and watching as the Deathseer drew two small stones from another pouch and struck them together. Flame was produced. However, the damp tinder took several attempts before it finally began to smoke. The Deathseer blew on it and slowly began to build up the fire. "Perhaps," he began, "because there are so many barrows. These mounds of the old ones contain more than just artefacts and bones. Some used magic in an attempt to gain a kind of life after death."

"They succeeded then?"

"No," the Deathseer's voice was grim, "they are only shells. Well preserved, but merely shells nonetheless. I've told you that magic will find the man. In this case the waiting shells were filled by ancient things, spirits. They can be summoned, but I have never attempted such a thing. Nor will I ever try."

They were both silent for a moment, basking in the warmth of the fire. The rain had long since stopped, and between breaks in the greenery they could see patches of blue appearing. The sun was emerging, drying out their skins.

The Deathseer closed his eyes and let the dappled sunlight play across his unmoving form. Within him a darkness stirred. Parly opened his mouth to scream but no sound emerged. He stared in horror at the dark thing; a moth dragging itself from within its pupa, slowly growing out of the shrivelled figure of the Deathseer. It grew larger and larger, stretching upwards, towering high above him. There was the sound of dry leaves blowing across distant cobbles. Now it began to extend its wings. This time Parly did scream, but the Deathseer's face remained impassive. Parly passed out.

This is Parly Yieldshield's sending ...

* * *

Toll Armon. It is a city of light and gaiety. Toll Armon—its second name is happiness. There are no beggars on its streets, laws strictly prohibit this. Only those newly bereaved may wear black, and silence is frowned upon for any length of time. There must always be musicians, fairs, circuses. Carnival holidays are declared regularly. So it was that the figure in Parly's dream came to Toll Armon with one of the performing troops. Riddle the Illwisher was the name by which he was known. He gave them no indication of what would follow. He was as fairly dressed as all his fellows, and with his fate cards and crystal-eye telling he quickly became a favourite. Illwisher, they laughed. A more ill-considered name they couldn't imagine. Eventually royalty was drawn to his gaily decorated tent set up within the main square. A great heroic figure was he who ruled Toll Armon, and when he entered the inner sanctum, flinging the flaps aside, the Illwisher was waiting for him. A small, weedy man of indeterminate age. A strangely fixed smile, as if it were a forced thing, thought Lord Vorum when he first sat before him. A man who tries to fit my laws is not yet my brother, not truly of Toll Armon. Vorum flashed him a Toll Armon smile, a truly dazzling thing.

"I have your reading, my Lord," Riddle said, as if speaking something he had repeated over and over again. His eyes were distant.

"Already!" Vorum's voice was a musical laugh. "But I have barely arrived.

"Yet I have your reading, my Lord," he said again.

"Well," Vorum asked, "am I to live a long and fruitful life?"

"No." Riddle's smile had vanished. "You will depart young and reign in absentia."

Vorum's smile never wavered. He laughed. "I understand you, Illwisher, better than you know."

"I curse you," the Illwisher whispered softly, "by the power vested in me."

"Indeed." Vorum nodded. "Now let me tell you your fortune, for I too can see into cloudy futures."

In his sending, Parly writhed in agony. The one called Riddle screamed, and being in tow he could feel and endure it all ... the knife, wielded so expertly by hands he'd thought to know so well. And those colourfully dressed serpents in the audience drinking in his suffering, laughing, calling for more. The slaughterman, the self-mutilator, here removing a finger, then rejoining, miraculously there is not even a scar; Vorum calling for volunteers—there was never any lack of those, to plunge their knives into him, to cut him to the bone.

He was flogged with whips, burnt, then like a snake his skin peeled back to reveal the new layer beneath; to die again and again, always reborn. The cheering filled his head, for the briefest moment blocking out the agony. He gagged on the smell of his own toasted flesh.

At last it ended and he found himself upon the plush rug in his tent, vomiting and reaching out for the crystal eye. It had been knocked from the table by a flailing hand as he had fallen. It lay just out of reach. He crawled towards it like a man caught in amber. Reflected in its curved surface was Lord Vorum's face, hideously distorted but still smiling. He reached out for it.

There was a crunching sound as Vorum's boot came down upon his questing fingers. Somehow, this time the pain seemed more distant, barely a postscript to what had come before. He watched, as if still entranced, as Vorum's boot now came into contact with the delicate crystal globe. He kicked it. As it shattered and exploded into a thousand pieces, Riddle's agony abruptly ceased. An orange rust cloud billowed out from the shattered segments which dissolved as if in acid. For a moment this unchecked expansion continued until it filled the entire tent and had swallowed up Vorum in its enveloping tendrils. Then, as if a film in reverse, it imploded, the crystal segments reforming and jumping back together again.

Riddle lay prostrate upon the floor. There was a faint acrid smell in the air, but of Vorum there was no sign. The crystal globe lay undamaged before him, though now its interior had grown murky as tendrils of orange mist moved within, trying to escape. He smiled for the first time since he had entered Toll Armon, really smiled, and reached out for it ...

* * *

Parly awoke to find himself lying beside a fire. It seemed familiar but the surroundings were not. He was surrounded by old stone walls that were once the inner courtyard of a castle. Of the Deathseer there was no sign. Where is this place? he thought to himself. Perhaps I'm still dreaming. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, remembering the woods and the dark shadow towering above the Deathseer. He was frightened at the thought of what might be there when he opened them again, but he needn't have worried. Nothing had changed. At that moment the Deathseer returned through one of the shattered archways, a brace of rabbits slung over his shoulder, his face streaked ritually with their blood.

"I have hunted well," the Deathseer said by way of greeting. "The earth-speakers called them to me, and I broke their necks with my hands."

"What happened?" Parly asked. "How did I get here?"

"You walked," the Deathseer said. "Even those in trance may walk unaided if the spells are applied properly. I have had previous experience with such things." He lowered the rabbits to the ground and began skinning them with his bone knife.

"So you filled me with this enchantment." Parly's voice was childish, accusing. The Deathseer only shook his head.

"I followed you at a safe distance," he said. "You walked for a full night and almost half a day without halt. Sometimes you spoke words out loud, spellsinging. Eventually, when you reached this place, an Ancient's fortification, you entered this ruined chamber and collapsed. I thought of your hunger and have catered for it, and mine also."

"So this is not your doing," Parly said unhappily.

"No," the Deathseer assured him, "others than I have summoned you."

"But why is this happening?" Parly asked again.

The old Shaman skewered the rabbits with a stick sharpened at both ends and set them upon a spit above the fire.

"I cannot say," he muttered. "My speakers—Deer, Bear, Raven—are vague. I shall consult them again later."

Parly sighed. He doubted if such earth magic, as the Deathseer referred to it, would be of assistance here. He remembered the darkness that had clung to the old man. "The ghost left you," he said. "It stretched its terrible wings and jumped out into darkness, and then I fell. The dream, I only remember the dream, not walking. I don't remember that at all."

The Deathseer was watching him intently, the blood drying upon his leathery face.

"There were voices," the old man suggested, "the blowing of distant leaves."

"At the beginning," Parly agreed, "when the ghost left you, but later there was the dream."

"Tell me about the dream, Parly. I want to know about it, and why you spell-sung the words."

"The words ...?" Parly was still puzzled.

"You spoke them as you walked, though it was not your normal voice."

"What did I say?" Parly asked."

Tell the Kalish man," the Deathseer intoned, "that the dead will come out of the walls. Tell the Kalish the dead will come out."