“Did it work?” he asked, resisting the urge to touch his face for fear of what he might find.
Athryn said nothing, his expression remaining unchanged. In answer, he reached into his pack and pulled out the mirrored mask, holding it up for Khirro, who hesitated at looking into it. After a few seconds, curiosity got the better of him.
Khirro leaned forward to look at his face reflected in the mask. Seeing the way the curves of the mask’s cheeks and nose pulled his image into distorted caricatures always disturbed him, but this time, the face he saw wasn’t his. He saw enough to know that, even without the mirror’s distorting qualities, he would look hideous.
The mud they’d smeared on his cheeks had become black decay, the moss by his ears green mold. Athryn shifted the angle of the mask for Khirro to see the front of his armor streaked with red that would pass for blood instead of the berry juice he knew it to be. Part of Khirro wanted to smile and laugh with satisfaction at the magician’s work, but the part of him he held from recoiling in fear prevented it. He nodded once and looked away from the mask as Athryn returned it to the pack.
Now for the real test.
Khirro took a breath and stepped past Athryn, moving toward the distracted boy etching shapes and figures in the dirt.
“Graymon?” Though his appearance had altered, Khirro’s voice sounded his own. “Look at me, Graymon.”
The boy looked up halfway through drawing a line. The stick stopped moving; his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.
Graymon screamed.
***
They walked along the dirt road in silence, Khirro leading Athryn and Graymon by a short rope loosely binding their hands. It had taken half an hour to convince the boy that the undead soldier was actually Khirro, and that the disguise was part of another game-a game in which Graymon had to pretend to be a captive again, although the knot holding his wrists was loose enough to free himself if he wanted. After that, they had to convince him part of the game was not to giggle every time he heard Khirro’s voice come from the undead face.
They’d been walking for less than half-an-hour when Khirro saw a Kanosee patrol approaching. There were three of them, but others might be hidden, searching the scrub at the sides of the road. At a distance, he couldn’t discern if they were undead soldiers or men, but the prospect of encountering them made Khirro’s flesh prickle despite the disguises provided by Athryn’s magic.
“Are you sure this will work?” he asked over his shoulder with the patrol still too far away to hear.
“As long as you do not panic, Khirro. Stay calm.”
A twinge of anger disturbed Khirro’s gut.
Does he expect me to panic?
He gritted his teeth rather than reply. Surely Athryn didn’t mean anything by it. During their trip, Khirro had certainly let fear rule him at times, but he thought enough time and events had passed to dispel such an expectation.
He breathed deep, inhaling the briny smell of the sea; the salt flats must be close. On them they would find the entire Kanosee army, and beyond, the Isthmus Fortress.
If I can’t get us past three soldiers, how will I get us by an army?
Khirro cleared his throat. He’d seen his reflection in the mask and knew Athryn’s magic provided him an adequate disguise, but it left him with his own voice. If anything would give him away, speaking with the voice of the living would. He growled to himself in the back of his throat, coughed. He gurgled a word through his lips and cleared his throat again. What did the words formed by a rotted tongue sound like?
The group of soldiers drew close enough for Khirro to see that two of them were living men and the third wore the red splashed mail of the undead. He clenched his free hand into a fist, felt the tendons stretch, the tips of his fingers dig into his palm. His grip on the rope tightened and he glanced over his shoulder.
The magician’s black mask still covered Graymon’s face, but the boy’s eyes darted nervously behind it. Athryn, his face bare, sensed Graymon’s distress and moved closer beside him to comfort him. Khirro turned back to the road ahead. The Kanosee were close enough he heard them speaking to each other. He lowered his eyes, staring at the dirt road in front of his feet, hoping they would let him pass.
Uncomfortable seconds dragged by as Khirro played in his head what might happen, carefully keeping his hand near, but not touching, the hilt of his sword.
Let us pass. Let us pass.
He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, on maintaining normal breathing. When the men were close, he growled and yanked on the rope, pulling his prisoners along.
“Oy,” one of the men called. Khirro looked up. “Whatcha got there?”
Fifteen yards separated them from the three Kanosee soldiers. The two men each wore a week’s worth of beard while dust and grime covered their garb. The undead soldier wore a helmet with a nose guard mostly hiding whatever decay might have decorated his face.
“Prisoners,” Khirro growled hoping he’d disguised his voice enough to hide his accent. He yanked the rope again to keep moving.
“That’s a boy you got there,” the other man said. “Be he the one we’re looking for?”
Khirro grunted a noncommittal response and averted his gaze. If he didn’t give them his attention, maybe they’d let it go.
“Why’s the kid wearing a mask?” the first soldier asked.
Khirro shot him a look and bared his teeth. Five yards separated the two parties; the three Kanosee soldiers stopped. Khirro kept moving.
“Hold up,” the second man said. “Let’s see what you got.”
Khirro stopped, positioning himself between the soldiers and his charges. A strained squeak of worry emanated from behind the mask covering Graymon’s face; Athryn made no sound. The undead soldier watched silently.
“Must get to camp,” Khirro croaked.
The two men eyed him, then looked past him at the prisoners, and Khirro followed their gazes. Graymon’s eyes were cast down and away from the undead soldier while Athryn looked back at them, his expression one of compliance rather than the defiance Khirro knew he must feel.
“What’s your hurry?” the first said. “If these be the ones we’re looking for, we can go back, too.”
“Yeah,” the second agreed. “I could use me a pint and a joint of meat. Searchin’s hard work.”
“Why you wearin’ a mask, boy? You is a boy, ain’t you? Show me what’s underneath.”
“His face is burned,” Athryn replied. “He does not like people to see.”
“We don’t care what he likes,” the second soldier said, hand falling to his sword. “And he wasn’t talkin’ to you, so shut your mouth.”
Khirro saw Athryn tense. Graymon didn’t move.
“Well?” the first man said. “Are you going to take it off or do I have to take it off for you?”
Khirro stepped toward the men. “Leave him. We go.”
For the first time since they stopped, the undead soldier moved. He closed the distance between them and grabbed Khirro’s hand holding the rope before he realized the monster had involved himself. At this close proximity, Khirro detected the reek of decay and old sweat leaking out from beneath his armor and had to fight to keep from gagging.
“Remove the mask,” the undead thing said, the odor its words carried made Khirro wish for the smell of decay.
The first soldier glared at Khirro, his eyes narrowing as though inspecting the green rot and black decay on his face. For one panicked second, Khirro thought he would see through the disguise. Then the soldier looked away and reached for Graymon’s mask.
Khirro’s fingers wrapped around the grip of his sword.