The Shattered Mask (16 page)

Meanwhile, Tamlin spurred the gelding toward the

open entrance to someone’s shop. He ducked beneath the lintel of the doorway, and the horse knocked over a rack of men’s hats, which fell to the floor with a crash. Soft caps, high-crowned copotains, and other examples of masculine headwear tumbled about, some of them to be immediately trampled by the gelding’s stamping feet.

Tamlin tried to straighten up, bumped his head on the ceiling, cursed, and stooped once more. His scalp smarting, he peered about the shop. As he’d feared, there didn’t seem to be another exit, certainly not one he could take a horse through, and if he attempted to flee on foot, he suspected the nimble, long-legged troll would run him down.

The hatter, a stout, black-bearded man with orange dye stains on his fingertips, evidently knew why Tamlin had ridden into the shop, for he gaped up at the aristocrat with horror in his eyes. “Get out of here!” he wailed.

“A weapon!” Tamlin replied. All shopkeepers kept weapons on the premises to fend off thieves, didn’t they? Torm’s fist, he hoped so!

“Get out!” the merchant repeated.

“The troll will burst in here in a matter of seconds,” Tamlin replied. “One of us will have to fight it. Unless you want to do it, give me a weapon!”

The hatter threw up his hands and raced for the counter at the back of the shop. Deciding he’d be better off on foot than trying to maneuver his terrified horse through the cluf, ter of hat racks and tables, Tamlin dismounted and followed the other man.

The hatter reached around under the counter, produced a cudgel, and thrust the weapon at Tamlin, who regarded it with a feeling not far from despair. A blunt little stick like this might rattle the brains of a common rogue, but it would be virtually useless against a troll. But the club was still, he reflected, marginally better than the glass sword; at least people wouldn’t laugh so hard when they saw it in his cold, dead hand. He reached for it, the horse screamed, and the troll made a horrible, wet slobbering sound as it hurtled through the door.

Tamlin whirled to face his pursuer, and it was only then that he glimpsed the rusty single-bitted axe leaning in a shadowy corner. It wasn’t a battle-axe but a tool for hewing wood to fuel the stove in the center of the room, which was probably why the panicky dolt of a hatter hadn’t thought of it, but it would serve Tamlin better than a cudgel if he could only get to it in time.

He dashed for it, hoping the troll would stop to slaughter his horse, but no such luck. Crouched as it was, the creature had no difficulty maneuvering under the comparatively low ceiling, and it charged straight at him, yellow foam flying from its jaws, the claws at the end of one long arm stretched put to rend him.

‘ Tamlin thrust out his own arm and knocked over a rack of beaver and ermine hats. It fell in the troll’s path, and, as he’d prayed, the creature stumbled over it, affording him the final second he needed to grab the axe.

That was the good aspect of his situation. The bad was that the troll had him in a corner. He fought better with a sword, the gentleman’s arm, than an axe, and the implement in his hands wasn’t even a proper weapon.

He tried to control his breathing, tried to be calm, tried to remember the combat training that he’d often attended so grudgingly, tried it all in that last instant and then the troll was on him.

The creature raked at him with both hands simultaneously. He swayed back, and the filthy claws at the end of the long green fingers missed him by an inch. The rending motion rocked the troll forward, and, following through, it brought its mouth down to bite. Its maw gaped wide enough to engulf his entire head, and its breath was so foul that his stomach turned.

Tamlin thrust upward with the axe as if it were a spear. The steel head cracked against the troll’s jaw, breaking fangs and jolting the creature back. The noble immediately chopped a gash in its breast, then cut at its knee and nearly severed its leg. The moss-green horror fell backward, and as it did, Tamlin seized the opportunity to

spring past it and extricate himself from the corner.

Though the wounds Tamlin had inflicted would have incapacitated any human being, the troll was scarcely that, and the aristocrat knew his stalker wasn’t finished. Sure enough, still quick despite the injury to its leg, the black-eyed thing spun around and flung itself at him with claws outstretched.

Tamlin scrambled backward and kept retreating as the troll crawled after him, its claws splintering the floorboards.

Tamlin reckoned that if he wanted to survive this encounter, he’d better finish the brute off fast. He stopped retreating, giving the troll another chance to grab at him, then met the creature’s arm with a stroke of the axe. The bit crunched into the troll’s wrist and sheared off its four-fingered hand.

Instantly he rushed in to attack the troll’s body and head, while the creature reared up, supported by its remaining hand. It bit at him, and he dodged. It clubbed at him with its raw, bloody stump, and he parried with the axe, meanwhile shifting into position to chop its good arm.

The axe cut into the stringy muscle just above its elbow, whereupon, suddenly unable to support itself, the troll crashed facedown on the floor. Bellowing with rage, Tamlin hewed at the creature’s head and spine.

The troll heaved itself over onto its side, where it tried to fend off the axe with its handless arm, kick Tamlin with its’, three-toed feet, and thrash and flop itself into position to bite his leg. He avoided its flailing legs and gnashing fangs and kept on hewing until something grabbed hold of his ankle.

He let out a startled gasp and looked down to see the troll’s severed hand clutching his leg. In the instant he was thus distracted, the troll finally landed a kick to the side of his head, flinging him backward and into another display rack. The collision knocked it over, and he sprawled to the floor amid an assortment of felt tricornes.

For a second, the world seemed silent and empty of significance. He realized dimly that the kick had stunned him, that he might even be in danger of passing out, and he

struggled to break through the daze. By the time he managed it, he felt a crawling on his thigh.

The troll’s hand had clambered up his leg. Though still a little addled, he realized that it might have found it difficult to plunge its claws through his thick leather boots, but would have no trouble with the velvet breeches higher up.

Somehow, Tamlin had kept hold of the axe. He used the butt of the haft to knock the severed hand off his thigh and followed up with a chop. The hand hopped backward, avoiding the stroke, and then a shadow fell over him.

He looked up. The troll had gotten back on its feet and was now bending over him, its fanged, reeking jaws hurtling down to tear his face off. He whirled the axe up to meet them.

The bloody bit thudded deep into the creature’s head. The troll lurched sideways and collapsed. Tamlin studied it for a second, making sure it truly had stopped moving, then wrenched himself around to see what the severed hand was doing. It was inert as well.

Tamlin floundered to his feet, gave the troll a few more axe strokes for good measure, then turned to the hatter, who was cowering behind the counter.

“Burn this thing,” the noble panted. “Otherwise, it will come back to life.”

A soft slurping sound came from the troll’s mangled body as its hand began to regenerate.

“Me burn it!” the hatter replied. “What about you?”

Tamlin realized it was a good question. He could tell from the noise that the battle still raged outside, and it would be perfectly reasonable for him to chop an exit in the rear wall and avoid the rest of it. He doubted anyone would blame him. As he’d already observed to himself, when necessary, retainers were supposed to sacrifice themselves to cover their lord’s retreat. Still, now that he finally had a weapon, he found he couldn’t quite bring himself to decamp.

“I have to go help Escevar,” he said.

He noticed that the gelding was still present. He’d always heard that horses were rather stupid beasts, and perhaps the

palfrey had lacked the wit to find its way back out the exit, or perhaps it had been as afraid of the commotion outside the shop as of the troll within. Whatever the reason, Tamlin was glad the steed was still available for his use. He crossed the room, grabbed the balky animal by the halter, and dragged it toward the exit.

“Who’s going to pay for all this damage?” the hatter called after him.

***

Scrambling backward, wishing fervently that he hadn’t squandered his ball of flame on the wizard atop the roof, Brom snatched two small vials and a tiny speaking trumpet fashioned from the tip of a ram’s horn out of his pockets. He anointed the horn with the contents of the vials, swirled it through an intricate mystic pass, lifted it to its lips, and shouted.

The blast of sound that erupted from the trumpet’s bell was far louder than any voice augmented by mere mechanical means. It jabbed painfully into Brom’s ears, and the troll that was scuttling after him, and at which he had aimed the magical noise, fared worse. The creature clutched at its ears, swayed, and collapsed.

Mystra grant the ugly thing would stay down for a minute or two before rising to menace him anew. Wheezing, mentally reviewing which of the spells he’d prepared had already been cast and which were still available, Brom surveyed the battlefield.

One troll, its upper body crisscrossed by long cuts presumably delivered by Vox’s bastard sword, lay crumpled in the snow, and the black-bearded bodyguard was furiously battling another.

His chest and thigh bloody, Escevar strove to defend himself from half a dozen bravos. Evidently some of the ruffians.had overcome their wariness of the trolls and advanced up the street to reinforce them.

Tamlin was nowhere to be seen.

Moving in a leisurely way, the masked wizard raised his arms to commence another spell.

Brom suspected that if he and his companions didn’t escape this trap before the enemy wizard completed his next conjuration, they were going to die. Which meant he had to create a way out. It took priority over everything, even locating Lord Uskevren’s missing heir or assisting the hard-pressed Escevar.

He turned his back on the battle to face the wall of gleaming, translucent ice. He was half deaf from the shouting magic, and now he was glad, for with the clamor of the battle muted, he would find it that much easier to concentrate.

It had become apparent early on that the man in blue was an accomplished wizard, and nothing he’d created would be easily dispelled. But, Brom told himself, if he performed the abjuration perfectly, it could be done. Refusing to hurry, he stood tall, recited the incantation with impeccable clarity and cadence, and swung his arms apart with perfect timing.

The ice vanished.

“Run! This way!” Brom called.

Vox drove his troll back with a two-handed sweep of his sword, then wheeled his destrier and rode for the open path. Escevar looked as if he understood and was likewise trying to break free, but the bravos kept him hemmed in.

Intending to cast a spell to help his fellow retainer, Brom reached into his mantle for a small iron bar. Before he could fish it out, Tamlin led his horse out of a shop entrance, looked wildly about, and swung himself into the saddle. Shouting a war cry, the young aristocrat charged his friend’s assailants and scattered them with strokes from a gory axe. Tamlin, Escevar, and Vox raced on out of the broken killing box toward safety.

Leaving Brom afoot and alone.

As the enemy advanced on him, he wondered if any of his companions had even realized he was still alive, his horse was dead, and they were abandoning him to die. With his most potent magic already spent, he couldn’t fend off all

these attackers alone. He preferred to believe that none of them had known, although Vox and Escevar might well have felt that their first duty was to escort their master safely away, while Tamlin, Brom suspected, was rather too fond of himself to risk his skin for a retainer whom he’d only known a short time.

A grinning troll slunk toward him, claws poised to rip. Bubbles of violet light swelled as the masked wizard summoned new minions, though Brom couldn’t believe that the conjuror truly thought he needed them. Then, though with his abused ears, he couldn’t hear it, through the soles of his buskins he felt the rhythmic shocks of something pounding up behind him.

Brom spun around. Tamlin was racing toward him, evidently guiding his mount with his knees, for he had one hand outstretched and the woodcutter’s axe grasped in the other. The dappled gelding’s flanks were bloody from his spurs, and its hooves threw up puffs of snow.

The nobleman wheeled the horse, slowing of necessity, but not stopping. Brom scrambled forward, clutched at Tamlin’s hand and the tooled red leather saddle, and tried to hoist himself up onto the moving animal. His right hand fumbled and slipped away from the pommel, and he felt himself begin to fall. Grunting with the strain, Tamlin held him in place until he achieved a firm grip. The gelding ran back up the street with the wizard half draped acrossjts neck and half dangling beside its shoulder.

Brom looked back. Their enemies were sprinting after them, and the troll in the lead was nearly close enough to reach out and grab the palfrey’s streaming tail. Certain the pursuers were going to catch up, the wizard wondered if he could possibly cast a spell from his present precarious position, and whether he should drop back into the street and let the gelding race on unencumbered by his awkward and unbalanced weight. Then Tamlin dug in the spurs, shouted encouragement, and somehow the horse found the strength to gallop even faster than before, leaving their foes behind.

They rounded a corner and almost collided with Vox and Escevar hurtling back in the other direction. “I’ve got him!” Tamlin cried. “Follow me!” The retainers turned their steeds around.

They kept galloping until, Brom judged, there was no danger of their adversaries catching up with them, at which point Tamlin called for a stop in a spacious plaza. At the other end of the square, urchins were flinging snowballs at one another and any passersby unwary enough to wander into range.