Sword of the Gods

by Bruce R Cordell

  The lieutenant pushed aside Demascus’s map and revealed a detailed sketch of a city built up on either side of two cliffs framing a deep bay. It was Airspur. Four sites were circled in red ink.

  Leheren said, “Each marked location represents an attack by nightmarish entities. Descriptions are vague and vary wildly, so we don’t really know what we’re dealing with. This one”—her finger stabbed down to one circle on the north face—“was an attack over an abandoned temple to some dead Chessentan god. This one”—her finger moved to a lower neighborhood—“occurred within the confines of an old druid’s grove, now a city park. These other two, same thing; monsters popping out of nowhere in the immediate vicinity of places where either divine power once flowed, or where an old portal once emptied.”

  Demascus said, “The demons I discovered were in an old shrine dedicated to animal spirits of some sort.”

  “Exactly. For some reason, demonic creatures are popping up where spiritual energy once flowered. Such places are acting like beacons to these horrors. We have to find out why. Are you interested in helping us?”

  Demascus blinked. “What? Me?”

  “You seem the type; you showed up here to tell us what you’d found, as your friend indicated. In my experience, people who stumble upon an awful scene like the one you describe turn the other way and run. They don’t wonder how to fix the situation—they think only of saving their own skin. You picked up a sword and dealt with the threat that remained.”

  “Actually, it caught me by surprise. I had no choice but to fight. It was lucky I managed to kill it. I’m no hero, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  His denial tasted false in his mouth. The reclaimed memory of his stand against an undead host argued that he had faced down evil, and maybe’d been pretty good at it. His brows furrowed.

  Leheren said, “But here you are, one monster to your credit, and obviously a desire to find out more. So, I’ll ask once more: do you want to help us figure out what’s going on and put a stop to it?”

  “I want to find out what’s going on.” Including who the Hells I am, he didn’t say. “So, yes, I’d like to help, if I can.”

  The woman glanced at Chant. “And you?”

  The pawnbroker coughed and said, “I assume standard contractual terms apply?”

  Leheren nodded impatiently. “Yes, I’ll pay you, if that’s what you’re asking!”

  “Then, by all means, I’m interested in hearing what you have to say.”

  “Good, because I’ve just thought of a task for you two. Based on how easily you walked into the Motherhouse, your talents seem suited for gathering reconnaissance. I need you to look into someone for me. Someone who I’d rather didn’t find out that the Firestorm Cabal is taking a closer look at his operations.”

  Jett said, “Leheren, you’re too quick to trust these two strangers. And besides, I thought we decided not to risk antagonizing the fire wizard.”

  “That hadn’t been decided,” Leheren said. “And, yes, I’m aware enlisting these two smacks of desperation. But we need answers. And besides, I prefer to think I’d be a fool if I did not take advantage of what’s just dropped in our lap.” She pointed at Demascus and Chant.

  “You want to send us to spy for you because if we’re caught, you’ll have plausible deniability?” asked the pawnbroker.

  “Perceptive,” said the lieutenant.

  “Who do you want us to spy on?” said Demascus.

  “A wizard named Chevesh. He’s got a tower in Airspur—”

  “What’s Chevesh got to do with the demons at the shrine?” interrupted Demascus. Was Leheren sending them off in a direction that had nothing to do with his missing memory?

  The lieutenant raised a placating hand and continued, “Everyone knows Chevesh has dabbled too deeply in fire magic, and his mind has cracked. But he’s too powerful to risk annoying on mere suspicion, so people in Airspur leave him to his pursuits. But on my list of who might be responsible for summoning demons randomly into the city, Chevesh is in the top three. He’s been sanctioned before for destructive experiments involving the Elemental Chaos.”

  Something connected in Demascus’s memory. He blurted, “That’s where demons come from; the Abyss swirls at the center of the Elemental Chaos.”

  “Right.” She raised an eyebrow at him, but went on, “However, suspicion isn’t evidence. We can’t just barge into his tower with an elite Cabal strike force without some sort of proof. The Order of the Firestorm has had past altercations with Chevesh and, well, it was a mistake to let him live.”

  Chant said, “What did he—”

  “Is that the mistake you were talking about, before?” said Demascus.

  She cocked her head and smiled. “Just so,” she said. For a Firestorm Cabal member, she seemed less like a mercenary captain than Demascus had expected. She seemed like someone who really cared about threats to Airspur.

  Leheren continued, “Allowing Chevesh his autonomy back then was a decision made over my head. This time we’ll have him dead to rights, if you find evidence he’s summoning demons into Akanûl.”

  Jett grunted and said, “Leheren, the only ‘mistake’ here would be to let these two poke their noses into Chevesh’s business. If he connects them back to us, he’ll come after the Cabal. He’s dangerous.” The firesoul rubbed at the tattoo on his neck.

  “Plausible deniability,” said Chant again, in a manner that suggested he liked saying that phrase.

  “The deputy commander assigned me this task,” said the lieutenant. “And I think I know best about how to proceed. These two have no previous connection to us. They’ve shown a measure of interest in the Cabal’s well-being by warning us what Demascus found at the shrine in the Akanapeaks. We shouldn’t spit at the gifts fortune throws in our path; that’s not the Firestorm Cabal’s way.”

  Jett frowned.

  “But,” Leheren said, fixing her regard on Demascus, then the pawnbroker, “don’t mention this commission to anyone. And if Chevesh does discover you lurking around his tower, pretend you’re robbers.”

  “How will he react to thieves in his home?” asked Demascus.

  “With extreme prejudice,” supplied Jett. “If you’re lucky, he’ll kill you right off.”

  Perfect. Demons, and now crazy fire wizards. And somewhere between them, if fortune smiled, his true identity. He just had to get past the obstacles that could rob him of more than just his mind.

  “We’ll deal with Chevesh, if it comes to it,” said Chant. “I have a way with people.”

  “Then I think we have a deal.” She held out her hand.

  “Hold on,” said Chant. “What are we looking for in the mage’s tower exactly? If we’re going to break in to find evidence, it’ll be a lot easier if we know ahead of time what we’re looking for.”

  Leheren frowned. She said, “If you can find a ritual scroll inked with a demon summoning spell, that’ll be a good start. Something solid I can use.”

  “Great,” said Demascus. He held out his hand and shook to seal the deal.

  “Return if you find anything, but not immediately; return by roundabout paths. If Chevesh notices you and has you followed—”

  “I’m familiar with this wizard,” said Chant, “and following thieves seems like too much subtlety for someone like him. He’d rather just blast us.”

  “Probably. In truth, I regard you both as expendable. But if you do come back in one piece with news, you’ll be doing a great service to your city. Also, hold a moment …”

  Leheren pointed at Jett. “Jett, get a team together. Visit the shrine shown on Demascus’s map. Bring back the bodies; if some group is implicating us in foul deeds, we need to know it, and stop it. On the other hand, if you find no evidence of this man’s story being true, I would also like to know.”

  She stared at Demascus and Chant for a cool heartbeat, then added, “Because that would put a whole new spin on the conversation we just had.”

  “You’ll find th
e bodies,” Demascus said. Unless some animal has dragged them off, or more demons have shown up and eaten them, or—

  “I’m sure.” She motioned with a shake of her head at the door.

  Demascus kept his lip buttoned over all his second thoughts and followed Chant out.

  Both men maintained silence as they exited the Motherhouse. Outside, the evening chill had deepened, and Demascus was down one leather coat. He folded his arms across his chest.

  “Do you have a place to stay?” the pawnbroker said.

  “Not yet. But I have some coin. I can rent a room at the Lantern. Good thing the lieutenant didn’t make me hand over everything I scavenged at the shrine.”

  “If the bodies you found were imposter Firestorm Cabal, she wouldn’t have any more right to that stuff than you.”

  “Oh, I suppose that makes sense. Listen, I’m sorry I got you into this. You can walk away and forget it, and I won’t think any less of you. Based on what Leheren said about the fire wizard, we might end up hurt or worse if we beard him in his den.”

  “Are you kidding? We’ve stumbled into a font of covert information. And we’re getting paid on top of it. I’ve risked more for less coin.” The pawnbroker made a face at something only he could see, as if he’d just taken a bite of a bad piece of fish.

  Good, thought Demascus, I need an ally. He didn’t see that he had a choice in visiting the mad wizard. If Chevesh was behind the demon incursion, he probably also held the keys to Demascus’s missing memory. Plus, the idea of facing off against a wizard in his tower sent a shiver of anticipation through him. He should be afraid, especially since every time he tried to draw his sword, he dropped it, tripped, or otherwise embarrassed himself. But he was going to learn exactly nothing if he turned away.

  They retraced their route back to Chant’s shop. Demascus yawned. His legs were like lead weights. He couldn’t ever remember being so tired—

  Demascus stopped that line of thought dead in its tracks. He couldn’t remember a lot.

  “Nice thinking, telling them how you stumbled on the shrine,” said Chant. “But did you also make up that bit about the ‘Elemental Eye’? Because it sure got Jett’s attention.”

  “I didn’t make it up. And yes, I noticed Jett’s reaction. It was a hit. He knows something about it.”

  “Maybe. But Jett was full of bluster and threat. People who act that way do so because they’re secretly cowards, or are afraid you’ll find out something they’re trying to keep secret. I couldn’t tell whether he was concealing something or if he was actually scared. Or both!”

  Demascus made a noncommittal noise. He wondered if he had once been familiar with the phrase “Elemental Eye?” He was becoming sick of all his self-questions. He concentrated on trudging back to the shop. Because if he considered his situation overlong, he’d be forced to admit he was less afraid of being killed by an annoyed wizard or hungry demon than finding out he wasn’t the hero he hoped for.

  What kind of person strangles priests?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AIRSPUR LABYRINTHS

  THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

  RILTANA FELT LIKE A GARMENT THAT HAD BEEN HIT REPEATEDLY and enthusiastically by a drying cane to knock out laundry water. Yet she was still soaking wet.

  With an arm trembling from exhaustion, she pulled herself another foot through sucking mud. She found purchase with her boots on a protrusion. She pushed, extending her legs to their full length, trying to ignore the mud’s cold embrace, and edged forward several more inches. Dirty water dripped into her eyes. But her hands were even more muddy, and wiping at her face, she’d already learned, wouldn’t help.

  Blinking furiously, she pulled herself forward another foot. How far along this tunnel had she come? She’d lost track. Riltana knew she was making progress, but to what ultimate end? Light streamed from the sunrod clenched in her teeth. Her jaws were getting tired, and she made an effort not to bite down so hard.

  When that piss-drinking bastard flooded the cavern, she’d figured she was dead. The swirling water had knocked her around and flushed her down a drain that dropped almost vertically into the earth. She’d managed a few breaths, but not all had been of air. Her lungs still burned from the coughing jag that had consumed her after the rough water slide spit her out.

  Riltana’s head had eventually stopped whirling. So she’d shaken her sunrod from glovespace and taken stock. She had discovered she’d washed up, or down more accurately, into a tunnel hardly wider than a gopher hole. Calling it a tunnel was generous; it was composed of nearly as much mud as air. She couldn’t recall the specific series of loops, slides, and plunges that had deposited her there; she’d been too busy flailing and trying not to drown.

  So she began crawling. How long ago was that? Hours?

  At least none of Kalkan’s hired goons had washed up near—

  The tunnel gave way beneath her.

  Riltana found herself falling in a wide expanse. She gasped, and the sunrod dropped from her open mouth.

  She was in her element! Air streamed past, and she folded into it. Oh, gods—that was good! She threw her arms wide and asked the wind to bear her up. Though dank and cold, it answered, and her plummet slowed.

  Without the sunrod, it was absolutely black, except for a spark somewhere below. How close was the floor of whatever cavity she’d fallen into? That spark was coming up quick! She strained to bring herself to a complete stop.

  Not soon enough. Something came up beneath her and smashed her like a hammer. The blow knocked the air out of her, and she curled up and gasped like a fish out of the sea. Dull pain resolved from the shock of the fall in her ribs and her left foot. Once again, she was out of her element.

  When her breath came back she groaned and blinked several times. Eyes open or closed, everything looked the same. The spark, probably of her dropped sunrod flickering out, was gone. Black was her whole world.

  Moving air brushed her cheeks and tickled her nose with dust and old rot, reminding her of the cellar below her grandmother’s home. Like that, but wider, wilder … and more ominous. Plus the tang of something unpleasant. Riltana strained her head one way, then another, sniffing, and caught the offensive odor, musty and sickening, even stronger.

  She wrinkled her nose. At least she’d found a place the Akanawater hadn’t recently flooded. She hated the water.

  “Well, isn’t this a pretty picture,” she croaked. She was lost somewhere in the labyrinths of Airspur, probably in ruins of a city that had squatted there before the Spellplague had dropped a piece of Abeir over half of Chessenta.

  The sound of a pile of sliding pebbles riveted her attention.

  “Who’s there?” she called. Riltana heard an ugly note in her voice, the desperate keen of fear. Hold it together, woman. She took in a deep breath and stood. Ouch. She was going to have some bruises.

  She tried again, louder, “Is anyone there?”

  Her voice echoed into a surprisingly large distance before failing. Dread trailed cold fingers down her spine. Had she fallen all the way down to the Underdark?

  Another clatter jerked her head around. Her eyes tried to open beyond the capacity of her skull.

  She reached for the short sword sheathed on her back, and found it gone. It had been washed away! Her other hand automatically went to her calf sheath, and found the leather-wrapped pommel. A dagger was in her hand an instant later. The hilt was wet, but thank Tymora, it was good to hold honest steel.

  “All right, come on, stop hiding in the dark like a coward, I’m ready for you!”

  Nothing. Her heart thundered, and her spit dried to dust.

  Another clatter, closer this time. And a strange chittering, like the sound insects make … What was it?

  She cursed herself for a simpleton and snapped the fingers of her free hand. The curve of a miniature ceramic pot slapped into her palm. She raised it, and dashed it on the ground.

  Blue-white incandescence exploded from the alchemical f
lare. It was blinding, but she turned her head at the crucial instant.

  A heartbeat later and the flare’s illumination faded to a bearable level. Riltana saw that she stood at the bottom of a hollow shaped like an elongated teardrop, open on her left to a larger gulf of darkness. Besides the single large opening, dozens of miniature tunnels punctured the nearest wall at floor level, each one running off into lightlessness. Dust lay heaped everywhere.

  She shifted her foot, and the dust crunched.

  It wasn’t dust; the heaps were made up thousands of disintegrating cockroach casings.

  “Gah!”

  The musty odor intensified, clogging the air. A thrum, as of hundreds of tiny feet, vibrated through the soles of her boots as each of the miniature tunnels spewed a bristling swarm of squirming black cockroaches.

  Riltana leaped upward as the swarms converged to carpet the cavern floor. The attar of roaches was like a blanket of stink trying to smother her. At the top of her trajectory, her free hand grazed a sloping wall of the hollow. She corkscrewed her legs to change her facing and slammed the dagger in her other hand into a crevice in the stone even as she began to fall back. The concave slope and her improvised rock brake arrested her slide before she fell back to the floor.

  Her breath came in great gasps. The light of her flare continued to flicker in the cave’s center, throwing highlights off thousands of skittering, oily bodies. She hated cockroaches. She’d invested a serious chunk of coin in a charm for her loft expressly fashioned to exterminate the little buggers. The wriggling scene before her was like their revenge.

  Something occluded one of the miniature tunnels. A cockroach the size of a dog. The insect squirmed out into the mass of its tiny cousins, and began to unfold sooty wings. Two more scuttled out after the first.

  Time to go!

  Riltana studied the exit in the cavern’s wall, almost directly opposite the surface she clung to. She sought the wind’s regard, despite having just enjoyed its favor to save herself from a hard introduction to the cave floor. Air was a temperamental element, and calling on it overmuch exhausted its goodwill.