Sword of the Gods

by Bruce R Cordell

  The thing bit down hard. The pain was spectacular and he screamed.

  Something hot ignited behind his eyes, and suddenly glimmers danced across the length of his borrowed sword, one line down each side. On one side they were white like the full moon, and along the other, red like the sun at day’s end. The glows flickered, gone one instant, back the next, suggesting some sort of half-remembered runes or glyphs that should have been clear …

  The creature didn’t like the display, and its jaws relaxed. He wrenched his arm free from the thing’s mouth. It mewled when it lost its grip, and blood dribbled from between its teeth. His blood. He was lucky it hadn’t stripped any tendons.

  He blinked when the creature shouted, “The Eye is watching! It always watches. It searches!”

  “What eye?” he replied with a wit so sparkling he impressed even himself.

  The nightmarish thing gazed at him like an avaricious peddler who’d just realized he’d come upon a village of idiots. Then it hurled itself forward again, lashing its clawed arms in mad frenzy. The light show with his sword hadn’t cowed the monster as much as he’d expected—

  A claw clipped his temple. A spurt of blood turned everything red.

  He slipped and nearly fell, and the beast screamed louder as its claws tore at him in earnest.

  He desperately rubbed blood from his eye with his free hand. If I’m not careful, he thought, this minor dretch is going to kill me!

  … dretch? He suddenly realized it was a dretch, a demonic pest and among the very least of its kind. Why he hadn’t immediately recognized it, he didn’t know. Probably because of the odd crystalline encrustations across the thing’s upper torso, and a matching red glint in its eyes.

  It didn’t matter. His fingers tightened into a surer grip on the sword hilt.

  He angled his shoulders with a twitch and sidestepped a fraction out of the creature’s range. Then he feinted high, stomped on the thing’s foot as it tried to dance away from the blade, and struck its head from its shoulders in a spatter of ichor. The runes flashed with the death blow, then flickered out like lanterns in a windstorm.

  The body collapsed. The head bounced a few times before lodging between two stones.

  Quiet returned to the shrine. He stood for several heartbeats, marveling. It had felt so … good to dispatch the creature. Almost like drinking a draft of some alchemist’s elixir. Joy thrummed through him like lightning through the clouds.

  He moved closer to inspect the body. The eyes on the decapitated head blinked at him.

  “Dominions!” he cursed.

  The head whispered, “The Elder Elemental Eye watches …”

  His exultation billowed away like a cut sail.

  The lopped-off thing said nothing else.

  Get a hold of yourself, he thought, as his heart pounded in his ears. It’s just a dying beast, and you’ve got a sword.

  He inched forward again, ready to plunge the blade straight through it at the first sign of anything suspicious.

  But it was finally dead. Amazing it had been able to whisper at all, without any air to inflate its vocal cords. Or, maybe not. What did he know about demonic anatomy?

  The head twitched. Before he could leap back or hew it, it slumped, as if transformed into running wax. A gelatinous, melting lump that bubbled and evaporated even as it lost all shape. Then nothing remained but a damp spot.

  The headless body evaporated too. He was the only moving thing within the ring of stones.

  Memory twitched, but maddeningly refused to come clear. That wasn’t how slain demons normally decayed. Right?

  Why, he thought, does it seem like I’m trying to think through molasses?

  He frowned and rubbed his head, wincing at the touch. The dretch had tagged him on the temple. That probably explained why everything seemed foggy. He needed to find some healing.

  First things first, he thought. If I can remember how I got here, or even where here is, everything else should fall into place.

  He went back to the altar and studied the marks chiseled all over its surface. The iconography was … some variety of divine runes? No, he realized; the glyphs represented spirits of the land.

  Many of the carved sigils depicted animals: the predatory curve of a hawk wing, the inquisitive point of a fox nose, and the streaming mane of a galloping horse. All the figures were blurred by decades or even centuries of neglect. Dirt and time had nearly erased them.

  He ran his fingers across the bend of the horse’s spine, racking his mind. But no. He’d never seen the altar before. He had no memory whatsoever of coming to the place.

  Anxiety pressed a dagger-sharp point against his surface calm. Could he have been brought here against his will, unconscious? That seemed the answer that best fit the evidence. He swung his gaze around, trying to see everything at once. He ignored the whisper of dizziness that followed each motion.

  The land beyond the ring fell away into the surrounding mist in a way that suggested he was on a hilltop or mountainside. Despite the cloud cover, something in the silence and texture of the air implied daybreak was nigh, not sunset.

  He shivered, scanning the wide landscape. Nope, he thought. Never seen it before … He convulsively folded his arms across his chest, careful of his sword.

  By all that was holy and sovereign, just what was going on here? Someone had laid him out on some kind of ancient altar, he was alone out in some godsforsaken wilderness, it was a miracle he wasn’t dead of exposure already, he didn’t have any clothes—

  “Stop!” he said to the air.

  Panic will get you nowhere. Everything will be fine.

  “And now you’re talking to yourself. That means you’re probably crazy on top of being forgetful. And cold.”

  At least he could remedy the last. Though they couldn’t answer his many questions, the dead wouldn’t be needing their garments anymore either. Besides, he should probably have a look through their pockets to see if anything rang a bell. He moved to the largest gathering of bodies and took stock.

  Most of the fallen sported whorls tracing fine lines across skin the color of coffee, or sea foam, or dull silver. They weren’t exactly human, but …

  “Genasi,” he said, suddenly recognizing that most of them shared a particular heritage. Genasi were people whose bloodline had long ago mixed with the elements. He’d known a woman once with eyes like distant storm-clouds … but had she been a genasi? No, maybe not …

  The memory slipped away like fish in dark water. He returned to his task.

  He couldn’t get an accurate count of the dead because several were heaped in a pile. More than ten, but probably less than twenty; to satisfy himself, he’d have to sort them out later to get a precise total.

  He also found a few corpses that were definitely not genasi. More demons, apparently.

  Multi-limbed, some with arms ending in pincers instead of hands or claws, and some with tentacles. They all sported red incrustations similar to the dretch’s. The comportment of the dead suggested the people and demons died fighting each other in some kind of fever of violence.

  A sacrifice gone bad, probably. If so, he was incredibly lucky to have survived it, especially since evidence suggested he’d been the designated guest of honor.

  He nudged one of the dead demons with his sword tip. That touch was all it took; the demon evaporated, as did the limp forms of all its fellows. A particularly foul wind ruffled his hair, and when it died down, only the genasi’s bodies remained.

  He shook his head. He didn’t want to think about demons and evaporating bodies until he had put together an outfit.

  Many of the genasi wore long leather coats, dyed various shades of red, with the insignia of a burning spike blazoned on one shoulder. He didn’t recognize the sign. Not that it mattered. He was so cold he’d wear anything. Luckily, at least in this one respect, he had a wide selection to choose from.

  He sorted through the articles showing the least number of cuts and blood splatters.
He bent to relieve a man of his boots, then paused. He was reluctant to disturb the deceased. It felt somehow disrespectful.

  The breeze picked up, triggering a shivering bout.

  He forced his qualms aside. His need outweighed their dignity.

  He liberated boots, a long shirt, and a pack stuffed with clean articles, including smallclothes and pants. Everything fit well enough, though the pants were a little short. He didn’t care. He pulled on each piece of clothing in turn, until he was finally warm, and covered.

  Maybe he couldn’t remember where he was or who hated him so much that they’d brought him to be sacrificed, but at least his privates were no longer waving in the wind, and that was worth something.

  His immediate needs met, he planted his posterior on the edge of the altar as the day brightened. He took several deep breaths, and closed his eyes.

  Just think. There has to be an explanation. Even if it’s not one you want to hear.

  He cast his mind back, trying to summon up some sort of clue …

  And remembered being in the crowded hold of a sailing vessel, lit by the open cargo hatch overhead. He was strangling someone! His hands clutched a long scarf that was looped twice around the neck of a man in priest’s garb. The priest struggled to get air, his mouth gaping like a fish pulled from the net.

  The man made one last frantic effort, kicking, twisting, trying anything and everything to get free.

  It didn’t make a bit of difference; he’d caught the priest by surprise, and it could only end with the man’s death. But just to be sure, he pulled harder on the free ends of the scarf, grunting with the effort.

  The priest’s life whispered away. The man fell to the ground, eyes wide in surprise at finding so unexpected a death. They stared, empty, lifeless … dead.

  The memory faded.

  He gasped, taking in a huge breath of air as if in sympathy for the man in his memory. He looked at his hands. He could still feel the scarf’s parchment-smooth texture, the man’s panicked fingers as they brushed and clawed at his face, and finally, the way all the tension and volition eased out of the man in a flowing moment …

  “Merciful gods,” he whispered. He had strangled a priest!

  He struggled to control his accelerated breathing by counting each breath. One, two, three, four—What the Hells had possessed him to …

  A new memory prowled forward.

  He was in an entirely different place. He didn’t have the strangler’s wrap this time. Instead, he gripped a sword that sported glyphs white as snow on one side of the blade, and red as blood on the other, brighter and entirely more real than the ones that had flickered half formed during his battle with the dretch.

  A creature stood before him. It was like a man in shape, save for its head, which bristled with fur striped with predator’s camouflage. Its ears were demonic flaps, and horns leaped askew from its head. It wore man’s clothing, and clutched a black dagger, like a piece of the sky between the stars, in one oddly jointed hand. The creature was laughing at him.

  It said, “Demascus. Surprised? Don’t worry, you won’t remember seeing me. You never do. Though, even I have to admit, your sin is almost unforgivable this time. You’re getting so close …”

  Demascus’s lips quirked to throw back a smart remark, and the creature moved, more quickly than he had expected by far, more swiftly than he could grasp the reins of time and pull them—

  The creature slid its dagger into his stomach.

  The memory tattered to nothing and he gasped. He slapped one hand to his belly. He pulled up the borrowed shirt and examined his flesh.

  He saw nothing to indicate evidence of such a lethal wound in his ash-pale skin.

  It must have happened so long ago that he’d recovered from the injury, though obviously with the aid of some powerful curative. Otherwise some tiny hint of a scar would remain.

  And why had the thing called him Demascus …

  “By all that’s holy and sovereign, who am I?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF THE SEA OF FALLEN STARS

  THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

  DROPLETS OF SWEAT BROKE ON HIS BROW, AND FEAR COILED so tight in his belly that he gasped.

  Burning dominions, how was it possible he didn’t know who he was?

  It was like he … it was like … he didn’t know what it was like! A hollow echoed behind his eyes, giving him nothing to compare his situation to, nothing to measure his anxiety by.

  He numbered ten full breaths. Each successive mental digit was marginally comforting. Good. More; another ten. And another … and his heart rate came under his control. That was better.

  So, what did he know?

  First, he was passing fair in a fight, even when caught off guard and pretty much defenseless. That was reassuring.

  Second, the creature from his memory had called him Demascus.

  “Demascus,” he said aloud, testing the sound. The hard consonants had a faint tug of familiarity to them … Or the familiarity was just a lie he was telling himself in order to smooth over a bad situation. If so, well … good enough for the moment.

  “Demascus!” he repeated, this time yelling it so loud his voice cracked.

  One of the corpses, a tall genasi with bluish skin, stirred and opened his eyes.

  By the gods, a survivor!

  The genasi fixed him with a glazed look. He whispered, “Who’re you?”

  “Don’t you know me? You brought me here!”

  The genasi blinked in confusion or pain, then groaned.

  Demascus helped the genasi to sit, and said, “You hauled me here as some kind of sacrifice and in the process, you messed with my memory. Why? Who are you?”

  The survivor said, his voice breathy, “I … have no idea who you are.”

  “Don’t play games with me. I’ve had a hard morning and I’m on the edge.” Demascus resisted the urge to shake the genasi. A warning voice of conscience whispered something about attracting more flies with honey than vinegar. He settled for asking, “What happened up here?”

  The genasi’s head lolled around to take in the carnage. His eyes widened. He screamed, “The Eye! The dreams, they find me even now!”

  “Eye? What do you mean?”

  “You …”

  “Yes?”

  The genasi went limp in his hands. It was horribly similar to how the priest he’d strangled had gone loose and heavy when he’d died.

  “Oh, come on!”

  Demascus felt for a pulse on the genasi’s neck to be sure. Nothing. The man’s body was already cooling. He’d been barely alive in the first place.

  Grief, some for the the survivor, some for himself, bent his head until his chin rested on his chest.

  He could do nothing. Time seemed to teeter on the edge of stopping. He’d found someone who might have been able to explain the situation, only to have that person die right in front of him, like a slap in the face from Fate. Leaving him with a name he wasn’t even sure was his, a cursed memory, and a dead man’s clothes.

  On the other hand, unlike the corpse lying at his feet, he also had his life. That was something.

  He raised his chin from his chest. Enough feeling sorry for himself. He closed the man’s lids with a brush of two fingers. The only thing that will accomplish is wasting time.

  “I commend your soul to … Kelemvor the Judge,” he said. “May you find peace in what lies beyond …” He stumbled to a stop. He wasn’t really sure what he was saying. The words sounded right, but who exactly was Kelemvor?

  He was obviously damaged in some fundamental fashion.

  He shook his head. Old news.

  Morning light poured like golden honey across the grisly scene, and despite everything, his spirits couldn’t help but rise. Finally, he could see what he was doing. He made a thorough search of the remaining corpses. No pocket was too small to escape his scrutiny.

  Demascus muttered a few words of benediction over each body afte
r he finished going through its possessions. Better not to assume anything; maybe these genasi had shown up to save him, rather than sacrifice him in some demonic deal. Though, if he were a betting man, he wouldn’t put coin on their saintly rescue plans.

  While he couldn’t find any clues as to his identity, at least he was finally able to establish how many people had died: twelve genasi, plus two humans and one halfling. A total of fifteen, then. Fifteen question marks, plus himself: one brain-wiped enigma with a handful of potential clues and other goodies stolen from the dead.

  Demascus laid out the fruits of his search on the stone altar.

  His trove included some journeybread and leaf-wrapped cheese. Five wine skins, two almost full. Several generous handfuls of gold and silver coin, which he transferred to a single pouch. A couple satchels. A sheath for the sword he’d found. A lantern and a couple tindertwigs. Cunningly made leather armor that had escaped the conflict without a single cut or bloodstain. Several weapons, though none seemed any better than the sword he’d already claimed. And, the crowning achievement of his search: a bone scrollcase stuffed with a rolled parchment.

  Demascus tapped the parchment tube from the case and spread it out on the stone: a map. The sides wanted to roll back into a tight cylinder, so he weighted them with stones.

  The map’s most prominent feature was a great inland ocean filling the top of the page. It was labeled, “Sea of Fallen Stars.”

  Assuming up was north, the ragged coastline of Akanûl bordered the sea to the south. Three cities were marked: New Breen, Brassune, and Airspur.

  Demascus’s heart skipped a beat; he knew Airspur. It was a city of … genasi.

  Only one other place was marked on the map, at the northeastern tip of a range of mountains called the Akanapeaks. It was a small circle, near Airspur, drawn in by a hand different than the original cartographer’s. A scrawl of text in the same style read, “Old Shrine,” and then, “Cult activity?”

  That was all.

  Demascus squinted at the parchment, hoping the names and shapes would jog some additional memory.