A Harlequin of Hate Read online

  Contents

  A Harlequin of Hate

  Map of Varkas

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  "A Harlequin of Hate" is a work of self-published short fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to to actual persons, living or deceased, events or places is entirely coincidental.

  A Varkas Tale

  Copyright © 2018 Deck Matthews. All rights reserved.

  A Harlequin of Hate

  Deck Matthews

  A Varkas Tale

  The window was open just enough to let in the cool night air. The currents were pleasant, ripe with the fragrant aroma of evening rose wafting up from the gardens below. Amara Hollyth glanced longingly toward the velvety darkness, wishing she could be strolling between her shrubs and flowers, rather than seated here in the house's small library. Such was the burden of responsibility—and the Nine knew that House Hollyth had been in sore need of responsibility since her father had passed beyond the Morning Gate two years prior.

  With a quiet sigh, Amara turned back to the man sitting across from her.

  He was a quiet and stoic sort. His long black hair was gathered in a topknot, and the emotionless line of his mouth was framed by a neat, crisp goatee. He wore a simple grey jerkin over an open linen shirt, tied loosely over his chest. His imposing, two-handed sword—fashioned in the manner of the sentinels—lay on the table before him. Amara wondered if he'd trained with that very weapon during his time with the order.

  His name was Tolias Loh, the once-sentinel. It was a dangerous name.

  "I'm afraid your arrival is most unexpected, Master Loh," Amara said, absently drumming her fingers against the arm of her chair.

  "I recognize that, your Ladyship. I don't expect you to understand. You are, I'm certain, a devout supporter of the Sanctum. I'm well aware that I have a certain reputation." The man's lips twitched in the bitter mockery of a smile. "What is the word they like to use? Heretic?"

  "I believe I've heard it used before," Amara admitted. "Are you?"

  "A heretic?"

  "Yes."

  "The Sanctum believes so," he said, pulling aside the collar of his shirt to reveal the ugly scar where the shape of three inverted triangles had been seared into the flesh of his chest. The Traitor's Brand. The mark of heresy. "I honour the Nine and my vow to the Guardian, but I cannot deny the reality of what I know to be true."

  "That you are touched by the Midderlight."

  He nodded.

  Amara shifted uncomfortably. She understood little about such things. Midderlight was a form of magic, and though it was neither as hated or reviled as the fell arts of Shadowcraft, its use was still widely condemned by the Sanctum. But far be it for her to reject a power other than that of the Flame. She employed several melded Karinth warriors in the house guard, and she knew just how the Sanctum felt about that. If she ever forgot, Magister Oronmon was always all too keen to remind her.

  "It is what it is," she said. She meant it to sound profound, but it came out sounding ignorant and dismissive.

  Father would have done this better, she thought, wishing the burden of leadership hadn't fallen on her shoulders. But Parten would have already offended the man a dozen times over I'm sure. She sighed and resolved herself to the burden.

  "You've come to offer your sword?" she asked.

  He nodded. "I've come at the behest of the whisper that guides me. I can only guess at its intent."

  "I see," said the heirocrat woman thoughtfully. Something in the way he spoke troubled Amara. "I'm afraid I have no place in my personal guard at the moment."

  "I understand, your Ladyship. I can only follow where the whisper leads. I thank you for your time."

  He started to rise, but Amara reached out to place her hand on his own. He flinched at her touch. Too late, she realized that this was not a man used to physical contact.

  Too forward, she chided herself.

  "There is, however, another matter that you might be able to assist me with."

  Tolias Loh sat again, curiosity reflected across the stoic warrior's face.

  "It could be dangerous," Amara warned.

  "Danger does not concern me."

  "No," she said, "I don't suppose it would. There's an old ruin not far from here. Perhaps twenty miles north and east. It's always been a place shrouded in rumours. Ancient treasure and long-forgotten terrors. Typical romantic drivel. Mostly, it's ignored. It's too weathered and decrepit to be of any real value and the land around it may be one of the few truly desolate places in all of Valicrast—bleak and barren.

  "Parten, my fool of a brother, took a group of his friends and set out to explore it. That was nearly a week ago. We've heard nothing from them since."

  "And you want me to go looking for them?"

  Amara shrugged, feigning disinterest. "It was you who came to me."

  "True enough."

  "I can pay. A sum of thirty gold falcons?"

  The figure was galling to her. She'd always prided herself on the frugality with which she managed her father's affairs now that he was gone. It's more than Parten's worth some days. But father charged me with crafting my brother into a true lord. While she held out little hope in ever achieving that end, she knew it would be impossible if he weren't present—or if he'd managed to get himself killed.

  It seemed an unlikely thing. Amara had never held with any of the nonsense whispered about the ruined old castle, but maybe sending the once-sentinel after Parten would teach her brother a lesson.

  And maybe tarpin will fly.

  "That's very generous," Tolias Loh responded. He considered her for a long moment, his dark eyes searching and thoughtful. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and grave. "Tell me more."

  Parten Hollyth wasn't ready to die. There was too much he hadn't done, too many places he hadn't seen. He'd planned to travel. To see the soaring peaks of the Stonewall, the white expanse of the Icerange or the emerald jungles of the Pargamine. At twenty years of age, he had yet to accomplish any of those things. All the hours he'd spent planning with his oldest friend, Selliar Rosen, had come to nothing.

  Or worse than nothing. Selliar was trying to kill him.

  We should never have come to this cursed place.

  The room in which he hid was cold and dark, ripe with the stench of old earth and stagnant water. He glanced at the barricade of half-rotten shelves piled across the door. It prevented them from leaving the room, but it also kept Selliar out. And the ghasts. The damned things.

  From somewhere deep within the ruined castle, a voice sang.

  Laughter. Laughter. Tara tara trill

  The fool is a-coming,

  A-coming for the kill!

  "By the Nine," rumbled Treg, Parten's only surviving companion. "Will he ever shut up?"

  The little, mousey stablehand groaned, clutching at the ugly gash on his side. His shirt was little more than blood crusted tatters. Even in the shadows of the dark, musky room, Parten could see that his friend's face was two shades too pale.

  "Can't he just let us die in flaming peace?" Treg groaned.

  "Doesn't seem so," said Parten. "How's your side?"

  "Still hurts like hells," muttered the stablehand. His face twisted in pain.

  "Need me to soothe it?" Parten reached for his Soulblaze and the magic of the Flame. There were still faint reserves of power there, though it was running dangerously low. As a Cinderborn, he could offer some temporary respite from the pain, but he'd already spent most of his power on an evocation of healing to tend to Treg's wound. He would have done more if he could, but letting his Soulblaze run dry would result in a b
urnout. With no fires from which to draw fresh strength, the only outcome would have been his own death.

  "Save your strength," muttered Treg. "I'll manage." Another chorus of manic laughter echoed through the darkness. "Ashes and bloody embers, why not let him in? Think I'd rather die than keep on listening to that."

  "Are you kidding? Do you remember what he did to Nickon?" Parten shuddered at the thought and pushed it from his mind.

  Treg grunted. "How could I forget? But at least Nickon's passed through the Morning Gate now. Probably feasting in the Afterlands. I'll be joining him soon. I wonder if they have roast mutton. Or candied peaches…."

  "Don't talk like that!"

  "Oh come off it, Par. We're trapped in here. We have what? One mouthful of bread each? Half a skin of water? We can't hold out, and last I checked, the halls were full of flaming ghasts." He winced as he shifted position, leaning back against the old, grimy wall. "Where'd they come from anyhow?"

  "I don't know," said Parten. "The whole place was empty. Until…"

  Treg spat. A film of bile and blood caked his cracking lips. "Until Selliar put on that damned mask."

  The five companions had been walking through the ruin for more than two hours when Burr found the hidden room. They had halted in one grime-crusted corridor, where huge, two-handed swords of rusted steel were fixed to the walls. Selliar and Nickon were busy arguing about where to go next. Parten was listening to it all with mild disinterest, while Treg was using his quarterstaff to poke at the copper urns they'd found spread out across the castle. Always one to keep himself apart from an argument, Burr simply leaned against a piece of the wall.

  The ancient stone shifted under his weight.

  "Ashes and bloody embers!" he muttered, barely avoiding tumbling to the ground.

  "What happened?" asked Parten.

  "The bloody wall's falling apart!"

  "Let me see," said Selliar. He was tall and lithe, his self-assured gait the result of years of drilling at swordcraft under his father's watchful eye. He strode forward, shifting his blade to one side as he ran his hand across the dingy wall. "I can feel air moving between the cracks. Just a light current, but I wonder…"

  Before anyone could think to stop him, Selliar raised his boot and drove his heel into the wall. If any of the rest of them had tried it, they'd have come away with a broken ankle, but Selliar was Emberborn, a reality that allowed him to draw power from his Soulblaze and augment his physical strength.

  The wall crumbled beneath his assault, revealing a small chamber beyond. It was no more than eight feet square, dark and oddly damp, though free of much of the filth that filled the rest of the castle. Two more of the strange urns rested in each corner. Otherwise, the room's only other content was an unusual mask hanging on the wall. It appeared to have been carved from oddly-marbled jade. Inky black fringed the eye holes and marked the exaggerated curve of the mouth. The very sight of it sent a chill down Parten's spine, as though he were looking upon the Sightless One. When he tore his gaze away, he felt as though the mask was laughing at him.

  "What the hells is that?" asked Selliar, seemingly unaffected by the mask's gaze.

  Not to be outdone, Parten squared his shoulders and stood a little straighter, trying to ignore the growing pit in his gut.

  "Looks like a mask," muttered Treg, yawning and scratching the whiskers of his pointed chin. A full day of exploring the ruins had left them all feeling worn and weary.

  "I see that, horse face," Selliar quipped, laughing too loudly at his own jest. "But what's it doing here?"

  He approached the wall, curiosity painted across his handsome face. Parten found himself taking a step backward. He chided himself for his sudden and irrational fear, refusing to allow himself to feel like a coward because of Selliar's breezy confidence.

  "Looks to be in better shape than anything else we've seen so far. I wonder if it's worth anything?"

  He was standing directly before the mask. Slowly, his hand rose toward it.

  "Stop!"

  Parten could have sworn the word burst from his own mouth. It took him a moment to realize it was Nickon who'd cried out. Old, reliable Nickon, as steady and unshakeable as the walls of Havenhome itself. Nickon, who'd spent an entire year behind those very walls, learning from the Hands of the Servant. His vows forbade him from carrying weapons, and he'd only joined their company as a balance to Selliar's recklessness. Nickon's plain, square face was usually so calm and stoic. Now, it was flushed with the colour of fear.

  "Hells, Nic," said Selliar. "What's wrong with you?"

  "I don't think you want to be messing with that thing," replied Nickon.

  "Why not?"

  "It feels… well, it just feels wrong."

  "Feels? Ashes and embers! What did they do to you in Havenhome? Strip all the bone from your spine? Stop being so yellow-livered. It's just a stupid old mask."

  "I dunno, Sel." Burr—Castor Burlington by birth—was the fifth and youngest of their company. He was standing close to Nickon and carried the same look of concern on his face. Or at least the parts of his face that could be seen through his shock of melon-red hair.

  "You too, Burr?" laughed Selliar. "I thought we came here for some excitement. Adventure! And here your knees are knocking over an old mask. It's embarrassing! Here, let me show you."

  Before Parten could stop to think, his oldest friend was reaching out and closing his hand around the edge of the mask. As Selliar lifted it off the wall, Parten thought he felt a chill blow like a whisper through a dense evening fog.

  A whisper of ruin.

  Selliar Rosen screamed.

  "Sel!" Parten cried.

  The swordsman laughed. "See? It's harmless. Just a stupid old mask."

  "Yeah." Treg chuckled nervously.

  "Want to try it on?" Selliar offered.

  "I'll pass."

  "Might make your ugly mug more popular with the ladies."

  The stablehand shrugged. "Haven't had any complaints yet."

  "You're probably weren't listening." The swordsman turned to Parten. "What about you, Par?"

  "I'll pass."

  "Am I the only one with any flaming balls?" Shaking his head in disgust, Selliar raised the jade mask. Its black-rimmed eyes seemed to flash, dark and glossy. Then, Selliar pressed it against his face. He laughed, his voice clear and bright. "Oh, no! It's got me! I can't get it off!" He fell to his knees, clutching at his face and laughing.

  "Okay, Sel," Parten grumbled. A flash of irritation sparked in his mind. "You've made your point. You're braver than the rest of us. You can knock it off now."

  The swordsman continued to laugh, rolling onto his back and smashing the floor with one fist so that if it hadn't been for the sound of his howling mirth, he might have appeared to be suffocating.

  "It's not that funny," grumbled Nickon.

  Abruptly, Selliar started to sing.

  Tara tara trill. Tara tara troll

  Run to the garden

  When you hear the bell toll

  "What the hells?" muttered Burr. "Has he been drinking? I thought we used up the last of the brandy yesterday."

  "Seriously, Sel!" Parten shouted. His irritation sparked into burning anger. "You're being an ass. Knock it off and let's be on our way."

  Selliar laughed again—a loud, manic cackle. He writhed and twisted, as though in some depraved glee. He hooped and howled until there couldn't have been a single breath left in his lungs. Then, all at once, he snapped. His shoulders twisted and his back contorted. He sprang to his feet with a single blood-chilling shriek.

  Burr was the first to die. His blood splattered over the mask. Its terrible, black smile grew wider, and the laughter echoed on and on.

  Treg moaned in pain. He'd been unconscious for several hours now, turning and muttering, caught in the clutches of some dark dream. It was not so different from waking.

  Parten sat alone in the darkness, listening
to the slow drip, drip, drip of water somewhere nearby. A small form darted out from the shadows, scurrying across the floor with tiny claws and a quiet squeak. Parten paid the rat little mind, leaning against the cold stone of the wall and gazing up into the gathering gloom. Narrow beams of light streamed down through the broken fragments of the ruined old castle. Night would be coming soon. It was the worst of times, when the ghasts clicked and hissed—wretched sounds that left Parten with the impression of a hundred thousand locusts all droning together. It was also when Selliar's mocking song built to its loudest.

  For the moment, however, everything was silent.

  Eerily silent.

  There was no singing. No sounds of the ghasts stalking the halls. There was only a deep, pervasive hush, as thick and saturating as the deepening darkness. The longer he sat, the fuller it grew. Parten stood, stretching out his weary muscles. He paced the length of their small sanctuary. The tap, tap, tap of his boots was obscenely loud. Treg's ragged breathing was like a rattle in his ear, the dripping water like a beating drum.

  "We shouldn't have come," he told himself. "Amara was right. We should never have come." It galled him to think of his sister's stern lecture on the folly of youthful adventure; it galled him doubly to realize that she'd been right. "What a fool I was."

  "Perhaps," answered a quiet voice. "But you still have a chance to live."

  "Who's there?" Parten whirled, expecting to see some new terror emerging from the shadow. The room was empty.

  "I'm above you," replied the voice, level and self-assured. Parten looked up, squinting against the gloom. His eyes found nothing but shadow.

  "I think I can get you up here."

  "And then what?" Parten grunted. "The whole place is crawling with bloody ghasts."

  "I'd noticed," said the voice. "Getting around them wasn't easy. Where'd they come from?"

  Parten hesitated. He didn't know—not really. He had suspicions, of course, but how could he be certain? There was no way to be sure, but he remembered the mask.

  The horrible laughing mask.