A Harlequin of Hate Page 3

  Of all the rooms in the ruined castle, the vaulted entrance retained the greatest glimmer of its former glory. A broad marble staircase climbed up from the ground floor, narrowing as it reached a spacious balcony. Another chandelier hung above it all, nearly identical to its sister in the library. A few shards of translucent crystal still clung in place; the rest had fallen and shattered into a thousand fragments that glittered like a sea of diamonds in the single shaft of light beaming down from a hole in the roof.

  And there, in the middle of it all, was the mask—still wearing Selliar's body.

  "Leaving so soon?" he cooed.

  "Don't talk to me!" Parten shouted. "Don't you bloody well talk to me." Rage and anger boiled up inside of him, burning away his fear and weariness. If it hadn't been for the weight of Treg clinging to his arm, Parten might have charged.

  Instead, Tolias Loh stepped forward. He shrugged one shoulder, causing the massive sword to slide from his back into his grip. The ringing of steel filled the room, bright and clear as a redbeak's trill, as he tore the weapon from its scabbard.

  "What are you?" asked the once-sentinel.

  "What every man wishes for!" Selliar's voice sounded raw and twisted to Parten's ear. "A mask to hide behind. A chance to give release to all the anger and pain of human suffering." Somehow, the mask seemed to shift, as though emphasizing the already grotesque cut of its grin. "A true harlequin of hate."

  "A true devil," countered Tolias, "if ever there was one." He made the sign of the Guardian: tracing two fingers across his brow and down to his heart. "We're leaving. Stand aside."

  Selliar laughed. "Oh, no! Oh, no, no, no. These fools are mine. They must remain. The stablehand who thought himself a friend to his betters." Treg coughed and tensed, spitting bile and blood. "And the pampered, self-absorbed wretch. Heir to a vassal house, but nothing more than a snivelling Cinderborn bastard, living in his sister's shadow."

  The words hit Parten like a blow. Wrapped in Selliar's familiar voice, they cut fast and deep—all the more for their truth. Over the years, he'd often confessed his insecurities to Selliar, to the man who had been his closest friend. They'd talked about Parten's doubt and uncertainty, about the shame of having come from a long line of Flameborn warriors but only being Cinderborn himself. It was a hard truth, and bitter as iron.

  "I stand," said Tolias, "as a shield. I am drawn, as a sword in the hand of he who bears all arms." It was a moment before Parten realized that the man was reciting the Sentinel's Creed. "I will not falter except by the hand of death. I will not be moved unless it is beyond the Morning Gate." The once-sentinel raised his sword. "Come at me, devil. Feel my blade."

  Selliar chortled. "If you'll spare me your self-righteous drivel, this could be mildly entertaining."

  Tolias Loh charged.

  Selliar howled in glee.

  Steel clashed. A shower of sparks burst between them—yellow and blue. The two swordsmen struggled against each other, testing the other's strength before disengaging. Tolias took several steps backward. Selliar held his ground as they circled. He feinted an attack, but Tolias seemed to sense the deception and refused to bite.

  Parten watched intently, recognizing his friend's familiar step. He was as light on his feet as a snowflake on a winter's breeze. And every bit as cold. In all the years they'd known each other, Parten had never seen Selliar bested with a blade. But he'd never fought a trained sentinel—heretic or otherwise.

  Tolias was no less graceful. He moved like a rockcat, fluid power evident in every controlled step. His two-handed sword was stretched out before him, catching the light at a strange angle that made the steel blade appear as translucent as the shattered crystal over which the combatants stepped.

  Abruptly, Tolias surged forward. His blade was like a dart, whistling toward Selliar's shoulder. The lithe swordsman barely had time to dance away, parrying just enough to deflect the thrust and avoid being skewered. He twisted and countered with one slash. Then a second. A third. All found nothing but empty space.

  "Ashes and flaming embers," gasped Treg.

  Parten didn't think he could have expressed his own awe any more clearly.

  Selliar hissed and attacked again.

  Woosh! Clang!

  Tolias met every attack with a calm, practiced resolve, but he was giving up ground. Moments later, his foot touched the bottom step, and the once-sentinel found himself backing up the curved staircase. Even the advantage of higher ground seemed to have no effect on the wild frenzy of Selliar's assault. Unless Tolias could slow the attack, it was only a matter of time before a single stroke or thrust broke through his defence.

  All at once, it appeared to happen.

  Parten cried out as Selliar brought his sword down in a powerful, overhead slash. The attack bounced off the edge of Tolias' own weapon. The masked swordsman twisted his wrist, angling the tip of his blade down and thrusting at Tolias' heart.

  But the once-sentinel was gone.

  For one brief moment, Partan gaped. Treg swore. Selliar stumbled in confusion—and caught a sword in the gut.

  Tolias reappeared mere steps from where he had been standing. He frowned and tore his weapon free. Selliar clutched at his wound and sank to his knees. Once again, he was laughing.

  "A blow!" he cackled. "Has such a blow ever been struck? Indeed, I shall be a grave man! But what's this?"

  He pulled back his bloody hands. There was no wound at all, only a tear in his soiled, filthy coat. A mad giggle bubbled up from his throat.

  A thrust! A cut! Tara tara tree

  Don't you know that,

  You can never kill me?

  Tolias Loh scowled. His gaze darted toward Parten, and their eyes met for only a fraction of a moment.

  The once-sentinel renewed the attack. This time it was his blade that drove the assault. Stroke after powerful stroke hammered at Selliar's defences. The masked man parried and dodged. Eventually, a single cut slipped through sparking against the jade mask. It was a blow that would have cleaved through a normal man's skull. Selliar merely laughed and shook it off.

  "You can't kill me!" he shrieked.

  "Perhaps not." Tolias' foot lashed out, catching Selliar square in the chest. The masked man toppled, tumbling backward down the stairs. Crack! He landed hard on the crystal-strewn floor. His neck twisted to an unnatural angle. He was on his feet in an instant, his head lolling to one side.

  "Oh, well played!" he whooped.

  Tolias leapt down the remaining stairs, landing in a low, predatory crouch. He glanced once at the ceiling and smiled.

  "Parten! Do it now!"

  Parten stood dumbfounded and still as a statue.

  "Do it!" hissed Treg.

  "Do what?"

  "Whatever you had planned!"

  "But—"

  It was too late. Selliar had turned toward him. Whatever element of surprise he'd had was lost. If only he could understand what was expected of him. If Tolias had a plan, why didn't he tell me?

  It all came together in an instant.

  Tolias dashed forward, crashing into Selliar with all the force of a charging bull. They toppled forward, directly into the shaft of light. All at once, the entire room shifted, folding in on itself in a way the reminded Parten of the moment Tolias had touched him on the forehead. He had to look down to ensure that his feet were still planted firmly on the floor.

  "What the hells?" gasped Treg.

  Parten looked up. Tolias and Selliar were gone. Only the single shaft of light remained, cast in shades of gold that had not seemed so deep moments earlier.

  "Where'd they go?" asked Treg.

  "I don't… I don't know."

  Together, they ventured forward. The stablehand was still leaning heavily on Parten's shoulder. They approached the light with caution, fearing that it might swallow them up. But when Parten extended one foot, it seemed nothing more than what it appeared to be: a single shaft of luminance pouring d
own from a hole high above. The quiet sounds of clicking and hissing echoed through the silence.

  The ghasts were still lurking in the castle.

  "Time to go, lads."

  Parten whirled, nearly causing Treg to fall. Tolias Loh was descending the stairs, looking worn and haggard but very much alive.

  "How?" Parten stammered.

  "Questions for later. First, let's take our leave." He motioned toward the main entryway, a mere twenty steps from where they stood.

  Parten nodded. Together, he, Treg and the once-sentinel stumbled into the twilight of the dying day, leaving Nickon and Burr behind with the haunting memory of Selliar's mad laughter.

  "And that's the end of the story."

  Amara Hollyth could hardly believe what she was hearing; she wouldn't have believed it had it not been for the testimony of Tolias Loh and the wounds of the stablehand, Treg.

  Or the terribly haunted look in her brother's eyes.

  Parten had experienced something terrible in the course of his absence—of that she had no doubt. He seemed to have matured years in the course of a few short days. His words were softer, his demeanour more stoic and deferential. He had refused to even speak of his ordeal until Treg was safely in the care of a physicker. The old woman had assured Parten several times that his friend would survive.

  Now, with the story told, Amara could only shake her head in wonder.

  "And what happened to Selliar?"

  "He's gone," said Tolias Loh.

  "Gone where?"

  The once-sentinel frowned. "Into the Midderroad."

  "The what?"

  "The Midderroad. The space between."

  "Between what?"

  "Everything."

  "I don't understand."

  "Nor do you want to," warned Tolias. "For understanding is heresy. Suffice it to know that Selliar and the mask that consumed him are safely beyond this world."

  "And my brother is returned. It seems you've fulfilled your service. I suppose you'll be seeking payment now?" The truth was that Amara had never expected to see Tolias Loh again. She'd expected her brother and his friends to come parading home on their own. She'd expected the once-sentinel to vanish, becoming nothing more than a footnote in the passage of her life. Yet here he was, and Amara was prepared to pay. She'd never let it be said that a Hollyth refused to honour a bargain.

  "Keep your coin," said Tolias. "Better yet, pass it on to the families of those who did not return. Let their deaths be honoured. The whisper speaks, and I must heed its call and move on. " He turned to Parten, extending one weathered hand.

  The younger man clasped it firmly.

  "Remember, lad, true strength is in the heart. You're stronger now, I think."

  "I'll remember," Parten promised. "And when the time comes, I'll be ready."

  Ready? Ready for what?

  "I'll pray that it may be so," replied Tolias. A faint smile hovered about his lips, but he said nothing more on the matter. "Then I shall bid you both farewell. May the blessing of the Nine shine ever upon your house."

  With that, Tolias Loh, the once-sentinel was gone.

  "What was that?" asked Amara, turning to Parten.

  "What was what?"

  "What are you going to be ready for?"

  Parten smiled, glancing through the open window, into the velvety night beyond. "To be the man I need to be. I'm going to check on Treg." He leaned forward and kissed her softly on the cheek. For a moment, some of the sorrow melted from his eyes. "It's good to be home, Amara."

  She watched him leave, leaning back in her chair and listening to the chirping chorus of crickets and frogs. Somewhere in the distance, a loon cooed its warbling dirge. In that moment of stillness, it struck her that perhaps her brother had not returned at all. It had been a boy who had set out all those days ago—brash, impulsive and self-absorbed. The Parten who had returned was more of a man—calm, pensive and self-assured.

  A man ready to face the full weight of his responsibility.

  For the first time since their father had died, Amara Hollyth thought that maybe, just maybe, the future might not be so dire.

  The adventure continues at

  varkaschronicles.com

  Acknowledgments

  My first thanks are always to God, for creating me in His image and giving me the capacity to write and create. Thank you, Lord.

  Next, my endless thanks go to my wife, whose love, encouragement and patience seem boundless. I love you more than all the stars.

  Lastly, I'd like to thank a few specific people who helped bring this particular story to its completion.

  To Jeremy Carlson, who has been visiting this world since Kelven was little more than a name on a page and the Ravenwalker was just a boy with a bird. You've been in this for the long haul, my friend, and I can't thank you enough.

  To Amy Borel whose editing made this story stronger and more enjoyable to read. Thank you!

  To Keith Fraser, for his input on the cover design.

  And to Jamie Schroeder for the author photography.

  Thank you all!

  About the Author

  Deck Matthews is a pseudonym for one particular Matthew Ward. He is a life-long reader who fell in love with writing and fantasy in middle school. He remains an avid reader, a casual gamer and a dabbler in the visual arts. He has worked as a designer and currently spends his days neck-deep in code as a front-end web developer.

  He also holds a Master’s degree in English Literature and currently resides in Ottawa, Canada with his wife, two daughters and one little fluff ball of a dog named Wicket.

  You can follow him on Instagram, Twitter and Facebook.

  Photography by Hello Lovely Studios

  Also Available from Deck Matthews

  The Riven Realm

  The First of Shadows

  Varkas Tales

  In the Tower of the Witching Tree