by Tee Morris
Taking a deep breath, he cast a squinty glance from one end of the corridor to the other. So far, it appeared that no one but us had heard the Boss’ name dropped, or the reason why I was there. That reassurance gave him enough courage to keep his shield up…battered and dented as it might have been.
“Mr. Baddings,” he asserted in his best “official” voice, “as curator of The Ryerson, my priority is this institution. I am not obligated in any way to divulge confidential matters to hasten your current investigation.”
“And being a private eye doesn’t obligate me to let you know that Capone is watching this precious institution of yours, and has been for a long time,” I fired back. “Now you know who’s the visiting team in your ball park. You might even live longer because of it. So quid pro quo, Doc, and I give you my word as an honest dwarf, it stays with me. Tell me what I want to know: What was lifted?”
Judging from how fast those gears in his noggin were working, Dr. Hammil was caught between a rock dragon and a hard palace. He didn’t like it, but he knew he owed me, and he could tell I wasn’t one to be two-timed. Perhaps he had been thinking of going to the police, or even hiring some of my competition to recover this package. But if he truly wanted to make The Ryerson his priority, why hadn’t he called anyone yet? Seeing as how the Doc was being so secretive, whatever DeMayo pinched must’ve been one hell of a score.
Dr. Hammil replaced his spectacles on the tip of his nose, the thin crack across the left lens catching the late-afternoon sun filtering in through the cathedral-like windows. Loosing a heavy sigh, he motioned for me to follow him into his office.
For a scribe’s office, this was impressive. The room resembled one of Dunheim’s main reading rooms, a veritable fortress of books in which you could virtually feel the magic in the air. Most of the wall space was taken up with awesome oak towers of bookcases, and where the shelves were full, other books were stacked horizontally across their brethren. The vaulted ceilings looked closer than they truly were, and any sunlight coming in through the windows appeared as flying buttresses of light, lending an air of romantic mystery to this cramped cubbyhole. (Had Dr. Hammil’s office housed apprentices muttering ancient languages to create balls of fire or to turn toads into bats, I think I would have shed a tear out of sheer nostalgia.)
On the bookworm’s desk, a tiny fan’s futile attempt to circulate the still air was overpowered by the smell of mold from long-unopened books and the fresh ink of new editions. The books covering most of his desk were thick and monstrous, with a dozen or so bookmarks stuck at various points. Five huge tomes remained opened and stacked on top of one another. Dr. Hammil set three of these volumes aside, still opened to their respective places.
I recognized this kind of setting straight from my own office, only with fewer bookcases and a little less impressive of architecture. It looked like I wasn’t the only one handling a tough case as of late.
I could tell the crack in his eyeglasses was making it hard to read what appeared to be long Latin passages in the open book before him. Emitting another heavy sigh, Hammil shook his head, looking up from the book and then down to me.
“To be frank with you, Mr. Baddings,” he began, keeping his finger at the last place he had read, “I wish I knew exactly what was stolen. I know what the artifact was, of course, but as to its origins and its proper name, I have no earthly idea. I do know this much: There is no documentation of this piece anywhere in recorded history. If something like this turns out to be authentic, it would completely turn the academic world on its ear.”
“You mean your museum got a hold of something that ain’t in the history books? Some kind of Grecian urn, or something prehistoric?”
“No, this artifact was forged well after the Bronze Age, and perhaps even the Iron Age. If we could only authenticate it with a written reference or even a simple hieroglyph, this find could predate the Scottish Rebellions of the thirteenth century. In short,” he concluded exasperatedly, “this artifact is either one of the greatest mysteries of our age, or an extremely elaborate hoax intended to discredit the Ryerson.”
Standing on tiptoe to get a glance at the open books surrounding Dr. Hammil, I was surprised to find that they were all turned to sections concerning weaponry…my kind of weaponry. He had marked passage after passage on swordmaking, styles of blades, and the application of various edged weapons.
These etchings and woodcuttings brought back memories of my part in Acryonis’ Great Race Wars, when dwarves battled against elves, elves battled against humans, and then finally the Allied Races battled against the Black Orcs. Days like that began with pristine armor, kissed with that smell you can only find in leather. On the setting of the sun, the leather’s deep, rich brown color was soaked with a darker red, giving your armor a brilliant sheen of black, and that comforting smell of leather was replaced by the sharp tang of blood belonging to you, the enemy, and your buddies. Death always covered you, one way or another; when you bowed your head and closed your eyes to give eternal thanks to the Fates for making it to the end of the day alive, you would find graphic images awaiting you behind those closed lids of yours, goblins’ howls of horrific surprise at the feel of a battle-axe to the chest faintly echoing in your ears.
Yeah, those were the good times.
“This might surprise you, Doc, but I’ve got a bit of a background in…ancient weaponry.” Hell, this had been Basic Training for me. “Mind if I ask about the particulars of this ‘artifact’? Are we talking about a sword here?”
“You are a perceptive one, Mr. Baddings,” Hammil remarked with a sneer as he motioned to all the sword-related books and papers about his desk.
“That’s what I get paid the greenbacks for, Doc. Now how’s about dropping the Enchanted Gauntlet of Snobbery and telling me something about this item you’ve lost track of?”
You know, people who think they’re better than others never like being called on it. You ever want to cut someone down to size (and with a comment like that coming from a dwarf, pardon the pun), just call them on their bluff. Makes you a hell of a card player and an even better private dick.
Problem was, a guy like Dr. Samuel Hammil had the power to escort me out of the prestigious Ryerson Library. He was the clout and the authority. On the other hand, he now knew he had Capone keeping an eye on his hallowed halls, and he could tell I had no problem standing up to Capone…all four feet plus one inch of me.
Hammil went to say something. Paused. Then went to say something again, but paused again. Finally slumping his shoulders, he handed me a series of notes scribbled onto a couple of yellowed sheets of paper.
“These are notes from an archeological dig in Egypt from two years ago,” he began.
I could barely make out the chicken-scratch, but what I think he really wanted me to eyeball was the sketch. The Doc walked behind me and ran his finger along the length of the drawing in my hand. “As you can see by this rendering, Mr. Baddings, this sword uncovered at the site is anything but Egyptian in its make.”
Once I had gotten into the seventh- and eighth-grade level reading in the library, I did some research on the weapons, both past and present, of this world. Being a soldier, you ought to know who’s armed with what, wherever you’re hanging your shield and battle-axe. I learned that Egyptians, Persians, and folks of that area preferred scimitars—real skinny, long curve, and light. And I remember seeing depictions of Chinese warriors charging into battle with similar blades, drawn and held high above their heads.
I use blades like that to butter my toast.
Anyway, the sword in this sketch resembled a two-handed broadsword, more reminiscent of European than Egyptian make. Now I knew the Persians and Chinese liked their swords pretty and elegant, but this one was decorated beyond the point of gaudy, with jewels all over the guard and carvings along the blade and the hilt. There was no chance it was a true battle weapon, although its size and visible sturdiness suggested it could take a solid hit from my battle-axe. Nah, I
figured this weapon was better suited as a wall hanging in some Prince’s bungalow, something to impress one of those virginal princesses before taking them to bed and making them just a princess. With this sketch, the ambiance of Dr. Hammil’s office, and all these books on weapons, Miss Lesinger’s case was adding some serious asphalt to this Memory Lane of mine.
“There is very little we can tell about how a sword of obvious Anglo-Saxon style and make found a home in Ancient Egypt, ages before the Crusades,” Dr. Hammil remarked. “Since its discovery, we have been trying to find any reference to this weapon in the tomb’s hieroglyphs.”
“The Romans made it to England. Maybe the Egyptians did it beforehand and brought back some souvenirs?”
“If that were the case, this would suggest the existence of an Egyptian empire older and larger than Caesar’s!” the curator replied with more than a measure of skepticism. “This would have to be an occupation that, once it fell, had all signs of it eradicated. Tell me, Mr. Baddings, of a civilization that could simply revert to its origins after the fall of a regime?”
He had a point there. During the Elvish Occupation years, the haughty ones imposed a lot of their culture on us. Some of it—such as how to build structures into a mountain as opposed to on top of a mountain—was useful. Their wine? Well, it made a great cleaning solvent, I’ll give it that. We still have some structures in our villages with Elvish carvings and their haughty mottos and philosophies. If the Egyptians were feeling that ambitious, there was bound to be some lingering influence in both the conquered and conquering lands.
“And so therein lies the mystery,” I mused, flipping through the notes associated with the sketch. “How does a sword of European make find its way across the continent to finally come to rest in Ancient Egypt?”
“This is just the top layer of the mystery, Mr. Baddings. According to the amount of sand and dust on it, the sword had not been there long compared to the other items we have found at the site. A few years, at most. It was as if it just happened to find itself there in the middle of the Valley of Kings, inside a sealed tomb. Our original goal for the excavation was to find out more about the dynasty associated with our site, but now we are simply trying to find any reference that could authenticate this sword’s presence. If we do that, we could find an entirely new avenue to explore in Ancient Egyptian civilizations. Perhaps this is a bit over your head, Mr. Baddings—”
I looked up from the archeologist’s notes with a grimace. I’m short. Not stupid. “Try me, Doc.”
“The possibility of discovering dynasties or empires that stretched farther than Alexander the Great or Genghis Khan? From an anthropological and archeological point of view, this is quite exciting. It could completely change what is currently accepted in academic circles as the history and evolution of civilization.”
“And you’ve lost it.”
Dr. Hammil gave a deep huff, as if insulted by my limited vocabulary. The temptation to just sock him in the mouth and end this once and for all was there, and it was strong. Instead, I turned my attention back to the archeologist’s rendering. “What else can you tell me about this sword? Any other outstanding qualities about it?”
“Apart from being found in a sealed tomb?” he countered, flipping through a stack of papers on one corner of his desk. “I have a photograph in here somewhere that will show you a bit more detail. Very distinguishing. There is also the crafting of the blade itself. According to some of the participants of the dig…”
Hammil gave out a little “Ah!” as he produced a photograph sandwiched between the illegible chicken-scratch of notes. Then he paused for a moment, staring at it intently for a moment. It was the most enlightened look the dear professor had worn on his face since my arrival.
“According to some of the participants at the dig…?” I asked, reminding him where he left me in this chat of ours.
Hammil blinked. “Oh?” His eyes returned to the photo, then back to me. “Oh, yes, yes, yes, of course.” Clearing his throat, he looked at the photo again. “Yes…” The look of inspiration disappeared from his face as he continued. “According to some of the participants at the dig, the sword creates some odd harmonic anomaly when someone wields it.”
I stopped writing for a second, first trying to figure out how to spell ‘harmonic anomaly,’ then trying to figure out what the hell that was. “You want to try that again, Doc? This time in the common tongue, not in Ryerson dialect?”
He sighed heavily, rolling his eyes. “It made a noise, Mr. Baddings,” he continued, his tone now slow and deliberate, as if I were a mere apprentice to his all-powerful sorcery. Pompous ass. “Our team could not understand how or why, but theorized it was the engravings in the blade, along with its unique metal composition and the blade’s angles, that made it do so.”
“Unique metal composition?” I asked.
“It was in a sealed tomb, but there was only dust along the blade. No signs of rust or decomposition. And there were incidents reported from team members that the sword emitted harmonized tones as it cut through the air.” He let out a dry cough that I soon recognized as an academic’s chuckle as he handed me the photo with a few documents still paper-clipped to it. “It may sound a bit silly, but we call it the ‘Singing Sword’ around here. I suppose calling it that is not extremely professional, but much easier than referring to it by its catalog name—Item #EW234450-112-MM—especially in communiqués and conversation.”
“And how about these markings?” I asked, my eyes straining to see them on the wide-angle photo. “You said they were glyphs?”
He bent back the photo and a few more pages to a second photograph concealed within the notes. “This is a better photograph of markings along the blade. They appear to resemble Ancient Chinese calligraphy, but only in their writing style. They match no symbols known for any kind of ancient language we have on record.”
I took one look, and my blood ran cold.
Dr. Hammil was right about the markings. They didn’t resemble Norse Runes, the Greek alphabet, Egyptian hieroglyphs from the Rosetta Stone, or even those cave drawings found in Arizona. Nope, that would be way too convenient, and way too friggin’ easy on a dwarf like me.
I closed my eyes for a few seconds, praying everything the Doc was telling me and what I was looking at was all part of a really bad dream. But instead of waking up with my battle-axe under my pillow and a shapely redhead bringing me breakfast in bed with a smile, I was still in the Doc’s moldy, cramped office in the Ryerson, the dust from volume upon volume of references, journals, and encyclopedias just catching the rays of a dying afternoon as I held on to a photograph that trembled lightly in my hand.
The writing was Elvish. No question. The words were definitely written in an obscure Elvish script, not known in my parts for well over a millennium. A lot longer for downtown Chicago and Ancient Egypt.
Without bothering to ask, I tucked the close-up photo into my coat pocket along with my own notes. This time, I was the one who was sweating.
“Mr. Baddings,” Dr. Hammil finally spoke, a little confused (and maybe a touch curious) as to what I was doing. “That photograph is museu—”
“Doc, I’ll bring it back, but I’ve got a need for it!”
His eyes grew as huge as a Kummerian swamp lizard’s; if they were to have grown any larger, they would have probably popped out of this poor bookworm’s head. “You know what the inscription says, don’t you?”
I now had won the last thing I wanted from Dr. Hammil right now—his undivided attention. “Mr. Baddings, what is it? If you know something about this matter, I must hear what it is! This is a find of incredible signif—”
“I am sure you could win yourself and the Ryerson a goodly amount of publicity and patronage with this discovery of yours, Doc,” I said sharply, trying to mask my fear with a much-needed warning. “Just listen to me; this sword is something you don’t want to mess with.”
With that, I left his office almost at a dead run with Dr.
Hammil close on my heels. “You cannot leave here with that photo!” he shouted. “I’ll call the police!”
Now, unless you’ve got a set of hooters that I can rest a shot of bourbon on top of and a tight little butt in need a good spanking, I’m not too crazy about being touched. When I felt the Doc’s grip on my shoulder, I instantly turned into him, grabbing his wrist and striking his chest with my opposite forearm.
Dr. Hammil was hardly needing the force I exerted to pin him against the hard marble wall, but I didn’t spare a thought on how hard his head bounced against the wall, how winded he was when the air got knocked out of him on impact, or how hard his butt hit the floor after sliding down to the ground. The only thought on my mind was the writing on the blade.
“Fine!” I barked in his face. “Call the police. Then they’ll call Capone. After you talk to Chicago’s finest, you can be sure that Chicago’s muscle won’t be too far behind.”
I left him slumped against the wall, confident that I’d got in the last word. But I got to give the Doc credit: He was able to catch his breath a lot quicker than I had anticipated. He was back to shouting at the top of his lungs again, over the hurried footfalls of concerned colleagues now racing to his aid. Over the murmurs of worry and sharp exclamations at my “outrageous behavior” displayed in the hallowed halls of the Ryerson came the one thing I really hoped wouldn’t.
“Mr. Baddings, what is that writing?” Hammil shouted. “I need to know!”
“Trust me, Doc…” My voice reverberated down the hallway, “You don’t!!!”
*****
I think I slipped the cabbie a twenty, and the words “Step on it” came out of my mouth. I think I was thrown to the back of the passenger seat as he took off. I don’t remember. All my attentions were devoted to the Elvish script in the photograph. I knew enough of the language to work with it back in the day when elves and dwarves were working together for a common goal. It seemed like a lifetime ago when I was translating scrolls that held new orders for me and my boys. Since we were the Allied Races then, the orders were sometimes written in Human dialects, but occasionally I would be called in to decipher the overly flowing calligraphy of the elves, who were calling most of the strategic shots.