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...