"Honor," the senior Cloak cautioned, "this is your home, and in it we must follow your rules, but I will not stand idly by while you behead this fellow until you explain to us what is going on."
The enraged Honor tried to swing and strike again only to find the same invisible barrier. This only added further to his rage. Quickly he turned around to face Passepout.
"And you must be one of his Hawks, ready to watch his back, and follow his murderous orders. Well, at least I can rid the world of you!" the swordmaster yelled as he took a running start to strike and cleave the petrified and portly thespian in two. When he was a half-step's distance from the thespian, his blade was at the top of its arc and just about to start its deadly descent, when the dull thud of metal hitting skull was heard, followed by the thump and thud of Honor Fullstaff hitting the ground.
Volo thought he saw an oblong blur pass through the air as the long sword flew hilt over blade through the air on its intended course.
The swordmaster's former student replaced the long sword in its appointed spot on the mantle. Her expert aim, incredible ability, and indelible accuracy had guided the long sword as if it were a simple dagger as she threw it through the air. Her split second calculations had also enabled her to judge its path and orbit so that its heavy hilt would make contact with the blind man's head, knocking him out but leaving him relatively unharmed by the deadly blade.
Volo turned to the female Harper and whispered, "I heard you were an expert at heaving long swords but I never dreamed that you could pull off an incredible maneuver like that."
"Remember," she answered in an equivalent and hasty whisper, "don't believe everything you read. From what I understand, most writers are born liars."
By this time Poins and Hal had arrived, and, after assessing the situation, began to help their master into an upright position, and then onto one of the sturdy couches that was available. Slowly, the old swordmaster began to come around.
Passepout nudged Rassendyll, motioned toward the hall signaling that he was about to make a hasty escape, and turned to go, only to take a hastened step forward and immediately run into an invisible wall not unlike the one that had stopped the swordmaster's first blow.
McKern looked at Passepout and Rassendyll sternly and said, "Neither of you are going anywhere until I find out what is going on here, even if I have to call to Mulmaster for reinforcements, and something tells me that more than one person in this room would not be in favor of that."
"I don't know what got into him," Chesslyn told McKern. "Sure, I've seen him angry before…"
"Anybody who has known him has," the mage acceded.
"… but such a rage," she continued. "Only once have I witnessed such animated anger from him, and that was after a night of too many libations and reminiscences of his days in service to Selfaril's father… but this time he hasn't had hardly anything to drink."
"It would appear that the reason lies beneath the turban," McKern observed. Turning his attention to Rassendyll, he instructed, "I have been forced to cast a spell against a dear friend in defense of your life. If you wish to keep that which I have protected, remove your mask."
Rassendyll realized that he had no choice. The old senior Cloak was a formidable opponent for the best of the wizards back at the Retreat, and without the use of his own powers, Rassendyll had very little recourse.
Shaking his head in resignation, he warned, "I will remove what I can," and began to undo the turban.
Volo inched over to Passepout, and whispered, "Who is this guy?"
"Rupert of Zenda," the thespian replied, then added, "and I thought that you were a barrel of laughs to travel with."
"Where did you meet him? I thought you were going to wait for me back at the Traveler's Cloak Inn."
"Dela and I had a lover's quarrel," the thespian extemporized, "so I temporarily became a dislocated person. I ran into Rupert on the Moonsea shore. I thought we were heading back to Mulmaster, but I guess Rupert had other ideas."
Chesslyn, feeling a little guilty for bludgeoning her former teacher, had joined Poins and Hal at Honor's side as the retired swordmaster gradually came around.
"What happened?" Honor asked groggily.
Poins looked at Chesslyn, then answered, "You hit your head, sir."
"On what?" he inquired, still not thinking quite clearly.
"On… something," Hal answered carefully.
"Oh," the swordmaster said, as if the question had been answered to his satisfaction.
Rassendyll had finished unwrapping one layer of cloth, and had begun to undo the second, under the watchful eyes of Mage McKern. As he unwrapped, the shape of the iron mask became more and more defined, until, fully unsheathed, the metal head cover was fully revealed.
"That's all I can do," Rassendyll stated. "I wish I could do more."
Mason carefully examined the metal handiwork that adorned the man's head.
"Why does he have that on?" Volo asked Passepout.
"I asked him the same question," Passepout answered.
"And?"
"He ran afoul of a wizard," the thespian explained, "and now he can't take it off. Something about it being bound to his skull."
The master traveler, in his research for Volo's Guide to All Things Magical, recalled reading about such masks. If memory served him, he seemed to remember that they usually did more than just hide one's face, but also dampened one's ability to perform magic. Legend had it that in olden days such masks had been used on imprisoned wizards to render them vulnerable to torture and interrogation.
Honor had just fully regained his senses after the final covering had been removed from the mask. He sat quietly surveying the situation, the watchful and restraining presence of Hal and Poins supporting him on either side.
"Do you remember what happened?" Chesslyn asked her burly mentor.
"I remember being hit on the back of the head," he said with a twinkle, then added, "You're still pretty handy with a sword hilt, aren't you, dear?"
"I was taught by the best," she cooed.
"Indeed you were," he conceded.
"Stay right there or risk my wrath," McKern instructed Rassendyll, and then headed over to his old friend.
Honor saw him coming, and quickly put up his hand.
"I know, I know," the retired swordmaster said. "As senior Cloak you are bound by your office to protect the High Blade, but I really thought you would be allied with me on this matter. Selfaril killed our best friend, and the murder of a High Blade must be punished."
"Be quiet, you old fool," the mage said in a derogatory tone that was obviously saved for only the best of friends. "What makes you think that this fellow is Selfaril?"
"I'd recognize that voice anywhere," Honor countered. "He sounds just like his father."
McKern scratched his head for a moment.
"Now that you mention it, his voice is awfully familiar," the mage agreed.
"It's Selfaril, I tell you!" Honor insisted, restraining himself from flying into the uncontrollable rage that he had previously allowed to overtake him.
"There is another possibility," Mason said turning to Passepout and Volo. "So, you two know each other?"
Volo answered, "You could say that."
"I remember clearly now," Mason stated. "The Hawks are looking for both of you. You are Volothamp Geddarm, a writer of some kind, right?"
"And if I am?"
McKern just shook his head, saying, "Let us not waste time with such foolishness. Neither of you has anything to worry about from me. Though I am sworn to protect the High Blade, I have no desire to do his dirty work. If he has dispatched the Hawks to find you, you can be guaranteed that it is dirty work indeed."
"Why are they looking for us?" Volo asked, his eyes surreptitiously darting across the room to make contact with Chesslyn. She was equally attentive for the answer.