Sword of the Gods

by Bruce R Cordell

  Chant frowned. He said, “Do you think they cursed you before the sacrifice, so if someone found and interrogated your body with necromancy afterward, your corpse wouldn’t be able to finger them?”

  “I … Wow, that’s morbid. But yes, I guess that’s possible. I don’t remember enough to know.”

  “Well, you remembered something when Garth attacked you out in the plaza. That light show was impressive.”

  Demascus gave a half nod. “When they all started coming at me, I remembered standing on a sort of battlefield, fighting undead. A lot of undead. It was just a fragment though. I called some kind of storm of light to engulf the deathless …” He shook his head. “And I had my scarf! Plus a few other things, including an ancient sword that pretty much screamed Power.”

  “Mmm-hmm. And that’s it? You don’t know why you were facing down an undead horde? Seems like an odd time to remember such a thing, in the middle of a glorified bar fight.”

  Demascus shrugged.

  “On the other hand, probably a good thing you remembered it; it was flashy. The way you put down Garth probably saved you from having to fight a whole lot more idiots.”

  Demascus said, “I suppose that’s true.”

  The pawnbroker fingered where Garth had punched him. It would probably leave an ugly bruise. He sighed. “Well, if you remembered your name, and your scarf, and now that bit about all the undead, it seems like your memories are returning. Maybe if you give it enough time, they’ll all come back.”

  “Maybe.” Demascus didn’t sound too sure.

  “I wonder who you really are. Obviously someone with some power to throw around.” An exciting prospect, all by itself. Because that would make Demascus someone it would be worth his time to befriend.

  Demascus said, “Gods of Shadow, Chant, no one wonders that more than me!”

  A simple idea occurred to the pawnbroker. He later blamed the ale for blurting it out before thinking through its implications. Chant said, “Hey, you know who probably knows who you are? The Firestorm Cabal. They’re the ones who left you at the shrine. They probably know all about you.”

  Demascus sat straigher. He said, “Can you take me to them?”

  “What, to the Motherhouse? Well, sure, but—”

  “Wonderful.” Demascus slapped his palm down on the table hard enough to make their tankards jump. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  AIRSPUR

  THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

  THEIR BOOTS THUDDED ON THE NARROW SUSPENSION BRIDGE that arced between floating citymotes. Below, the many-colored lights of Airspur dropped away into the night down the south cliff face. An evening breeze played through Demascus’s hair, and he was glad of his coat, despite the trouble it had caused him.

  “The Cabal has safehouses all around Akanûl,” offered Chant. Demascus could tell the man wasn’t sold on their decision to visit the Cabal. But neither had he bowed out.

  “The Motherhouse is one of these safehouses I take it,” Demascus said.

  “The biggest. Actually, the Motherhouse is the Cabal’s headquarters. It’s where the big shots meet when they’re not in the field, and it’s where new recruits are groomed, unless they’re found wanting like your new friend Garth.”

  Demascus snorted. He said, “Is the Firestorm Cabal known for summoning demons?”

  “No. Like I said before, they’re mostly freebooters. They dally in good deeds to keep up appearances. But if they have secret dealings with things out of the Abyss, that’d be news to everybody!”

  Demascus nodded, recalling the diminutive monster that had tried to eat him, already snacking on a loose foot as casually as if it had been a sandwich. He said, “The ones I found by the shrine were up to something with demons. I’m certain of it.”

  Chant said, “I know people who would pay good money to have that confirmed.” He rubbed his hands, whether in pantomime of greed or to warm them in the evening chill, Demascus was unclear.

  They reached the south face and ascended via a series of bridges and switchbacks. The hour had become late, and only a few people were around. City lamps burned periodically in lonely vigil. Finally Chant pointed ahead.

  A great granite block protruded from the cliff face, blank of any design save for the scoring of countless chiselers. “The Motherhouse,” the pawnbroker said.

  Demascus studied the foreboding structure, trying to estimate its height and breadth. Hard to tell, without any visible windows or secondary entrances besides the grand double door at street level. Orange flame burned all around the main entrance on the block’s front face.

  An elegant carriage in black lacquer was parked in the drive in front of the Motherhouse. Two winged steeds stood in harness before the carriage, and a windsoul in dark livery sat on the carriage holding the reins.

  Chant touched Demascus’s arm and said, “Hold a moment …”

  Someone exited the structure through the double doors and entered the carriage. Because of the distance and the position of the coach, Demascus failed to get a good look at the conveyance’s passenger.

  The driver snapped the reins, and the two steeds pulled the carriage around the drive. Before they hit the street, wings were unfurled, and then horses, driver, and coach took to the sky. Demascus tracked the coach upward, but quickly lost it in the dark.

  He looked at Chant. “What was that about?”

  “That looked a lot like the royal carriage Queen Arathane uses.”

  Demascus wasn’t certain who Arathane was, but he supposed the royal title told him enough to go on. He said, “And so?”

  “For her to openly visit the Firestorm Cabal, something strange must be going on. The queen normally keeps an official distance from the activities of the Cabal.”

  “Maybe it was an envoy.”

  “Yeah, could be. Rumor has it that Arathane unofficially supports the Cabal’s activities, especially along the border.”

  “Probably nothing to do with my situation,” said Demascus. He was impatient to enter the Motherhouse.

  Chant shrugged. “Probably not.”

  They walked, unchallenged, up to the double doors. The fire curling and snapping around the lintel was bright but heatless. The knocker was the sculpted symbol of a burning spike, the same symbol that decorated the shoulder of his borrowed coat.

  Demascus reached for the knocker, but Chant put a hand on his arm.

  “What?” he said.

  Chant said, “It’s late. I doubt the Motherhouse is in the habit of entertaining visitors in the dead of night. If we’re going to learn something of interest, we’ll have to sneak in.”

  Demascus said, “Does this place have any side entrances?”

  “Not that I know of, but if we take a moment to look around …”

  Demascus laid hold of the knocker, and rapped it against its metal plate, one, two, three times. The sound was surprisingly loud. He said, “I prefer the direct approach.”

  The pawnbroker frowned, and Demascus knew a moment of chagrin. It seemed Chant didn’t appreciate impulsiveness. The man said, “If you think the Cabal is responsible for leaving you to die in the wilderness, what makes you think they’ll be happy to see you’ve survived?”

  A good point, all in all. He was probably walking straight into—

  The door swung open. A genasi wearing a red coat was revealed. The jacket’s cut was different than Demascus’s. She wrinkled her brow in confusion upon seeing them on the stoop. She glanced past them to the drive and said, “Oh, I thought …”

  She trailed off, looking at Demascus.

  “We’d like to come in,” Demascus said.

  She said, “Of course, sir! Sorry, please come in!”

  His heart lurched; she recognized him!

  The woman stepped back and ushered them down a corridor over which a series of iron portcullises hung, poised to descend in defense of the structure. They emerged into a wide lobby tiled in white and green stone. Light spilled from each corner
of the grand chamber, where a sculpture of a statuesque genasi held up a bronze bowl heaped with flame. Several comfortable divans were all empty at that hour. Demascus looked around … but nothing was familiar.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?”

  “So … you know who I am?”

  “I don’t know your name, sir; should I?”

  “But you’ve seen me before, right?”

  The door warden swallowed nervously. “No, sir, I haven’t. Is this some kind of test?”

  He realized the woman was only reacting to the authority invested in his borrowed jacket or a subtlety in the design of the symbol blazoned on it. His excitement at being recognized whispered away.

  He said, “No. No …”

  Chant stepped forward and said, “My friend’s been out of touch for a while. Anything interesting going on he should know about?”

  The genasi door warden said, “Uh, just the usual. More skirmishes along the Chessentan border. Reports of some bad business along the shores of the Akanamere in the south. Oh, and, let’s see …”

  Chant said, “Anything local? We saw a black chariot pulling away as we arrived. That seemed interesting.”

  The woman frowned at Chant. She said, “And who’re you?”

  “I am Chant Morven,” said the pawnbroker. “I have accepted a commission from your organization to help track down special information.”

  “Oh. Well …” She looked at Demascus for confirmation. He nodded.

  “I guess that’s all right then. But I don’t have any comment about the chariot, on standing orders from the commander. Although … If you’re here to attend Lieutenant Leheren’s meeting, you’re late!” She gestured at one of the exits to the large room, then turned and headed back to the main entrance.

  Demascus swallowed his disappointment and glanced at Chant. He said, his voice low, “Lieutenant Leheren?”

  “One of the principals of the Cabal. One of the main figures beneath the deputy commander.”

  “Let’s go see the lieutenant. Someone so important is certain to recognize me.”

  “Leheren recognizing you may not turn out to be a good thing.”

  They exited the lobby via the corridor the door warden had indicated. They passed three side halls and a total of twelve doors; Demascus couldn’t help but keep careful track.

  Voices slipped around a door where the hallway terminated. Angry voices.

  Chant put a finger to his lips, and they walked quietly to stand at the door.

  “… is that the best you have to offer?” came a woman’s voice, tight with agitation. “With idiotic suggestions like that it’s no wonder the deputy commander put you on night duty!”

  Another voice came through the door, but it was too muffled for Demascus to make out. A man’s voice.

  The woman’s voice came again, louder, “What, you would have us do nothing? It falls to the Cabal to put right our mistake!” Mistake? That sounds promising, he thought.

  Before second thoughts could dissuade his instinct, Demascus opened the door and entered the room.

  A woman and two men were arranged around a large oak table. Maps of the city and the surrounding countryside lay across the dark-grained surface. Light from three hanging candle chandeliers gave the shadows in the room a life of their own. The men sat in high-backed chairs, but the woman was standing as if she’d been pacing. Each was dressed in a red jacket exactly like the one Demascus wore.

  His eyes automatically swept the room, noting two additional exits, four unused chairs around the table, and three tall shelves along the wall. He saw from where the woman was standing he needed to take only two paces to engage her, while the other two genasi … He blinked. What in the name of the Nine Hells am I doing?

  All eyes swiveled to fix on him. As the silence stretched, the second thoughts he’d beaten through the door caught up with him and perched on his shoulder. They whispered in his ear that he was possibly something of an idiot.

  He coughed. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m here to see Lieutenant Leheren.”

  The woman walked over to Demascus and looked him up and down. She said, “That’s me. But who’re you?” Silver lines traced swirls across the woman’s skin. She was a … stormsoul genasi.

  “I’m Demascus. This is Chant, who—”

  “And, why, Demascus, do you wear a lieutenant’s coat in the Order of the Firestorm?”

  One of the genasi stood up. “An imposter!” The scarlet szuldar running across his bronze scalp marked him as a firesoul. A jagged spiral tattooed his neck in black ink, which seemed an odd counterpart to his natural designs.

  The woman glanced at the firesoul, “It seems so, Jett. Or, at least a borrower of things he shouldn’t.” She returned her regard to Demascus. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  Demascus felt as if the wind propelling him forward just died in his sails. They obviously had no idea who he was. Unless they were dissembling. Or—

  “Answer her!” said Jett.

  Demascus coughed. These people still represented his best bet at discovering his missing identity. He said, “I … was traveling west of Airspur, in the mountains, and stumbled upon an old shrine. Something terrible had happened. Nearly two dozen genasi, along with a few demons, lay dead. One genasi remained alive, just long enough to mumble something about an ‘elemental eye that watches’ or … something like that.”

  The firesoul named Jett blanched, and glanced at Leheren like a child with his hand caught in the sweet jar.

  Leheren didn’t notice. She was frowning suspiciously at Demascus. He added, “The genasi wore jackets like this one.” He patted his coat.

  She said, “You’re saying you stumbled upon the bodies of a full patrol of Firestorm Cabal, all slain by demons?”

  “Apparently. I found the bodies of demonic monsters anyway. Plus a live one feeding on the corpses. I dispatched it with a sword I took from the dead.”

  “I see you also helped yourself to a coat,” said the stormsoul. “But this is foolishness. We’re not missing any patrols to the west. We don’t even normally send anyone that way.”

  She turned and gazed at the other two genasi in the room.

  Jett’s expression hardened. “He’s obviously some kind of spy, sent from Chessenta or Tymanther. Let me and Garel take him and his friend down to the Chamber of Questions and have a go at him.”

  The other genasi, apparently Garel, jumped to his feet. He said, “I concur with Jett. Something’s not right with this fellow.”

  “Hold on,” said Chant from the doorway. “Demascus came here to inform you, with no expectation of reward, how one of your patrols came to a bad end. And this is how you think to repay him? Anyway, you don’t have the authority to do any such thing. I’m a citizen of Airspur.” The pawnbroker folded his arms.

  “You’re trespassing in a Firestorm safehouse,” said Jett. “Which means we can do whatever we like. Plus you’re self-admitted thieves, starting with this fellow’s coat and sword. Thieves and spies aren’t tolerated in this city.”

  Demascus began to protest, but the lieutenant raised her hand, “Jett, enough. These two would have to be extraordinarily incompetent spies to wander straight into the Motherhouse and announce themselves to us, wouldn’t they?”

  Demascus wondered if his cheeks were coloring.

  Garel said, “That’s what they want you to think.”

  “Oh, please,” said Leheren. She gestured for Chant to enter the chamber and said to him, “Were you with Demascus when he chanced upon this slaughtered group of the Firestorm Cabal?”

  The human moved a few paces into the room. He said, “No. I don’t travel the Akanapeaks if I can help it. Demascus came to me in my shop and told me his story.” The pawnbroker didn’t bat an eye relaying the falsehood, which after all, was close enough to the truth.

  Demascus said, “You can have this coat and sword. I came here … to tell you what happened to your people at the shrine, and learn what it
meant. It wasn’t my goal to flaunt what I’d taken from the dead.” He shrugged out of his coat. Beneath it he wore the thin leather armor he’d also liberated from the dead. The genasi didn’t remark upon it.

  The lieutenant took the jacket from Demascus and examined it. She ran her hands through the pockets, then said, “Did you find any identification?”

  “No. None of the dead carried any papers, except a map showing the shrine’s location.” He produced the map and handed it over.

  Leheren took it and smoothed it out on the table over the other documents.

  “Nothing extraordinary; this old shrine appears on other maps. What’s more troubling,” she said, looking up from the table, “is that every Cabal member must carry identification at all times. I don’t understand why those you found did not.”

  Demascus shrugged. “It’s what I found.” When I woke up there naked, he didn’t say.

  A pensive look on Jett’s face transformed into one of calculation. He said, “If these men Demascus found carried no identification, perhaps they were the imposters! Attempting to sully the Cabal’s good name with acts of … of demonic ritual!”

  “We certainly have our enemies,” murmured Leheren. “How very odd. A place of old power, and demons. Just like …”

  “Just like what?” asked Demascus.

  The woman looked at him. Pulses of silver seemed to flow through the szuldar that threaded her skin. She cocked her head slightly, as if she were mentally weighing him. Finally she said, “Just like other stories of demons we’ve recently heard. At least, monstrous creatures of some sort. Perhaps it’s a sign that you show up now speaking of creature incursions, on the heels of a contract we’ve just taken from the queen.”

  “I knew it!” said Chant. Demascus looked at him, and the pawnbroker smirked. He said, “A royal carriage was leaving as we arrived.”

  “Yes. Well,” said Leheren, “Since you two are already involved, it shouldn’t hurt to tell you that this is not the first such incident to trouble Airspur of late. We’ve heard rumors, but the queen’s envoy laid it out for the deputy commander.”