Sword of the Gods

by Bruce R Cordell

  A breeze answered, briefly clearing the air of the cockroach odor.

  She fell into it, arms wide to guide invisible wings of rushing air. Riltana flew across the chamber and out, even as two of the entirely-too-large cockroaches lifted off the ground in pursuit.

  She hurtled into a tunnel larger and dryer than the one she’d been forced to bellycrawl through. The wind released her and she rolled into a landing that saw her back on her feet facing the hollow. Sure enough, the alchemical flare’s failing light outlined the shapes of two monstrous winged bugs coming after her. At least the carpet of cockroaches hadn’t yet spilled out of the teardrop hollow.

  Riltana found a new dagger on her other calf.

  One roach buzzed straight for her, mandibles clacking. She ducked beneath its malodorous bulk, and plunged her dagger straight into its abdomen. It squealed, sounding far too much like a genasi child. The sound startled her so much she lost the dagger.

  The second roach came at her from behind, hovering like a giant dragonfly. She twisted away, but it managed to lacerate her shoulder with a pinching bite. White pain spiked across her vision. Riltana staggered.

  “Shit-sucking bugs!” she screamed, and reached for the two daggers hidden along her forearms. Only one was where it should have been. She palmed it and jabbed at the closer roach, but the point skipped off its dull carapace.

  It lunged for her face, mandibles straining to clutch her. She slipped left, and in a moment of inspiration, slashed her dagger through the thing’s wing. The sheared membrane twirled off one way, and the bug crashed to the floor, the intimidating drone of its presence suddenly reduced to the sound of one wing slapping the rock.

  Riltana grunted with animal rage as she kicked the thing as hard as she could. Her boot tip, steel-toed to make it a weapon nearly as fearsome as a mace, crunched through the carapace. It squealed as its sibling had, and she kicked it again. The arch of her foot lofted the roach back up the tunnel toward the hollow.

  Speaking of the bug’s sibling … she whirled. The one she’d stuck first lay unmoving a few paces up the rocky corridor. She sidled over to it, ready with her boot if it so much as twitched. It lay on its side. The hilt of a dagger in the thing’s abdomen twinkled in the rapidly dwindling light of her flare. Riltana snatched the dagger and jumped back. It remained convincingly motionless.

  Good.

  But the alchemical light was almost used up. Her sunrod was gone, probably broken.

  Riltana shuffled farther away from the hollow as the flare snuffed out. The sound of thousands of roach bodies scraping on rock persisted, but in the complete darkness, seemed to grow louder. Was it really, or was it only in her imagination?

  She gingerly reached out until her hand grazed the tunnel wall. She used it as a guide to move away from the unsettling noise.

  As the adrenaline from the fight faded, the ache in her ribs and foot returned. She was bone-weary and bruised. Hungry too. What she really wanted to do was—

  A rock caught her boot. The steel toe kept her foot safe from stubbing, but off-balanced in the blackness, she fell.

  The pinch in her ribs expanded to become a fiery bar trying to lift free of her skin. Riltana gasped. Then she swallowed the curse that came so naturally to her lips. She didn’t want to attract the swarming bugs out of the hollow. Instead she lay in the dark, tears running from her eyes, until the new pain faded enough for her to sit up.

  Too bad she hadn’t thought to double up on light sources. Her gloves, as fantastic a treasure as they were, could only hide away a total of five objects, and she always kept one space open, in case she “acquired” an interesting piece of artwork or other finery that required quick transport.

  With the sunrod and alchemical flare gone, her hidden resources were down to a small yellow marble she called the Prisoner’s Stone, and the scarf.

  She’d pried the yellow sphere from the eyesocket of a statue of the primordial named Karshimis. That escapade had nearly cost Riltana her life. But the stone had proved worth the risk. In the right situation, it was a lifesaver.

  Unfortunately, with no prison bars, cuffs, or vault doors to impede her escape, this wasn’t one of those situations. Which left the pale length of fine cloth.

  The scarf had to be more than a simple piece of fabric for her double-crossing client to go to so much trouble for it. What had that lying bastard claimed? That he’d only wanted it taken from Demascus at the “appointed” time? Crazy talk.

  She sheathed her remaining dagger and produced the wrap. She couldn’t see it, but she was able to detect its slight weight across her palms when it appeared. Riltana wound one end around her left fist, and pulled the other end tight. Even through her gloves she could discern the scarf’s silky smoothness. She brought it closer to her face and sniffed.

  The odor reminded her of a parchment shop. Without her eyes, touch, smell, and hearing were all she had to go by; she wasn’t about to lick it.

  She said in a bare whisper, “Scarf, show me your power.”

  Riltana felt stupid, huddled in the dark, talking to an inanimate textile.

  No response.

  “Damn it, if you’ve got something inside you, now’s the time to reveal it, or I’m going to stuff you in a roach hole!”

  Hairline threads of light raced through the fabric, and she sucked in a quick breath.

  More light gathered in bundles that traced through the scarf’s weave like tiny falling stars.

  Riltana was rapt as the glimmers slowed, then letters like moonlight threads scrolled between her hands. Written on the scarf’s surface were the words:

  Return me to the Sword, and I will guide you from this warren.

  Relief surged through Riltana. She was going to live!

  The scarf was an item of power, and it knew the way out. She whispered, “You bet! The Sword, I promise. Just tell me where I need to go!”

  The scarf flexed in her hands of its own accord, like a snakeskin suddenly come under some sort of spell of animation. She let go of one end.

  The loose end of the wrap rose in the air, reminding her even more of a serpent, and pointed. It produced a directed shaft of illumination like the beam of a bull’s-eye lantern.

  She pulled herself to her feet and managed a pained grin. Her rib pinched and her left ankle complained, but hope was almost as good as a sip of magical balm.

  The thief shuffled forward, and the scarf twisted to point the way.

  The tunnel was more of a fissure than a walkway. Riltana shook her head. Had she attempted to feel her way along, it seemed inevitable that she would have caught her foot in the central crevice, or fallen into one of the many natural chimneys. Even with the illumination provided by the semisentient scarf, the going wasn’t easy. She hurt too much.

  Time passed. She made progress, but her good spirits eroded with the jolting pain that burned up her heel each time she came down on her left foot, and she revised her earlier sentiment.

  Hope was not anywhere close to as good as a magical balm.

  Why didn’t she carry a healing potion in her gloves? Because her oh-so-clever plan of keeping one space empty was the strategy of a moron. As her breath hitched with a new jab from a rib that was probably fractured, she formulated a new plan. If she made it out of these godsdamned tunnels, she’d buy an elixir. If she later happened upon something more valuable than a sunrod, balm, or flare, she would simply replace one for the other. Brilliant.

  The passage Riltana followed broke into a divergence of several crossways. The scarf chose one. She hobbled in the direction indicated. The corridor she took sloped upward. A rivulet of liquid trickled down its center too. That seemed promising, but she was wary of another flood.

  She said, “Scarf, how do you know which way to go?”

  More words flowed across the length of fabric:

  I am the Veil of Wrath and Knowledge; what was once recorded, I know. Those whom the gods select for death, I authenticate.

  “What is reco
rded? Those who are selected to die? I don’t understand.”

  Apparently, that was all she was going to get. New words stubbornly failed to glitter on the wrap.

  “Fine, be that way.”

  The slope was sapping the last of her reserves. And it was getting muddy. Gravity and gunk joined forces to grasp at her boots with each step. She paused to catch her breath. The scarf twisted in her grip and almost pulled free.

  “Hold on,” she wheezed. “I just need a moment to rest.” She put her hands on her knees and let her head sag. Riltana wanted to sit, but she was afraid if she did so, getting up again would prove too daunting.

  When her breathing finally calmed and heartbeat slowed, she resumed her slog.

  She lost exact count of the number of rests she had to take; more than five, but less than ten.

  When the scarf went limp and dark, she sagged and nearly fell herself. Gray speckles impeded the edges of her vision, visible against another light flickering ahead.

  Another light?

  She forced herself up the tunnel and entered a large chamber illuminated by a growth of bioluminescent fungi on the walls and ceiling. The place smelled of garbage. Puddles of mud and water covered portions of the floor. She blinked, and realized where she was: the Sepulcher.

  She was going to live! A grin stretched her mouth, and she hobbled forward, toward the tunnel through which she first entered this cursed place, making her way around the muddy pools of slowly draining overflow. The residue of the flood that—

  “Who’re you?” croaked a voice.

  Riltana spun, and nearly fell over as dizziness racked her.

  A little man in shoddy leather armor perched on a rock. The figure clutched a ratty bag in one hand, a club in the other. The greenish skin and distorted face told the rest of the tale: it was a goblin.

  It looked cautious and ready to flee. Good. Riltana had dispatched her share of the thieving little bastards. Goblins had moved in recent years, like colonizing rats, into the dark alleys and uppermost portions of the labyrinths beneath Airspur. They were becoming more than a mere nuisance, especially for someone like herself, who also preferred to work in the shadows and underbelly of the city.

  “Scamper off, blister, or I’ll cut you,” she said in her most intimidating voice, which was ruined as a coughing jag descended.

  By the time she had her breath back, stars were dancing across her vision. At least the goblin had disappeared off the rock.

  A sinister titter behind her was all the warning she received. Weakened as she was, it wasn’t enough to avoid the brutal club that smashed into the back of her head.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AIRSPUR

  THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

  WAKE UP.”

  Demascus pulled the extra pillow over his head. Someone shook him. His dreamy lassitude frayed. He moved the pillow away from his face and said, “What?”

  The overweight pawnbroker was leaning over him holding a lantern. A purring pocket of warmth on his chest proved to be Fable, who was staring at him with a disquieting fascination.

  “Oh, right.”

  Demascus remembered. They’d decided to get some rest, then rise a few hours before dawn, when fire wizards were least likely to be stirring around their towers. It had seemed like a good plan a few hours ago. Now, with the lantern shinning into his squinting eyes, it struck him as the height of idiocy.

  “Time’s wasting,” said Chant. The human set the lantern down on a side table next to the cot. Chant had procured the frame bed from a storeroom heaped with curiosities. He’d set it up in the rear of the store, next to a display that included a stuffed moose head.

  Demascus sat up and pulled on his boots. A small platter of olives and bread, and a mug of tea lay on the table next to the lantern. On the floor next to the cot was the sword he’d taken from the shrine. A long leather jacket dyed black with scarlet stitching was draped over the end of the counter.

  “I found you a new coat. A merchant pawned it a few tendays ago. He needed the coin to pay off a hefty festhall debt.”

  “Thanks.” Demascus helped himself to the food and drink. He rose and belted on the sword, then turned to examine the jacket. It was of a finer cut than the red coat he’d returned to the Cabal, but the red pattern along the hem was especially vivid. Six silver buttons ran down the front, and dramatic epaulets erupted from each shoulder. He said, “It’s quite … attention-grabbing.”

  “Nice, huh?” Chant grinned.

  “Yeah.” He wasn’t sure what to think of it. “How much do I owe you for something like this?”

  “We’ll work it out after we see if Chevesh is harboring demons.”

  Demascus nodded. He rubbed the last of the sleep from his eyes and noticed the dark circles beneath Chant’s. He said, “Did you get any rest?”

  “Hardly. Too much to think about. I’ve got a few pokers in the fire besides this business with you and Chevesh. A business like mine has difficulties all its own.”

  “Oh.” Demascus couldn’t tell if the pawnbroker wanted to talk about it or not. He decided to let the topic go. When the man didn’t volunteer anything further, Demascus figured he’d made the right call.

  He pulled on his leather armor, then the coat over it. While he dressed, Chant prepared another meal for the cat. From the smell, it seemed Fable enjoyed a meal of dried fish. “This ought to hold you a while,” Chant told the animal.

  They left the shop. The streets of Airspur finally seemed empty. Their route took them down along the bay.

  Chant muttered, as if to himself, “If only people were like the sea …”

  Demascus replied without thinking, “People are like the sea. You can only tell what’s on the surface, and anything could be hiding underneath.”

  Chant grinned. “You’re pretty clever for someone who’s lost half his mind.”

  Demascus was surprised at the pawnbroker’s praise. He wasn’t trying to be clever; he was frustrated. With so many of his associations wiped away, reading people and their motivations was proving difficult for him.

  Finally they came to a neighborhood of wide streets and empty windows. Nestled among the dark buildings was a single tower built of wide marble blocks. Orange light fingered the closed shutter slats of the top floor.

  Chant said, “Not only is Chevesh mad, he’s also centuries old, if you can believe the stories. Despite his obsession with fire, he’s human. A human who thinks the gods somehow cheated him by not making him a firesoul.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  “I’ve heard things. He’s even crazier than rumors paint him. Which is why we must get in and out without Chevesh being any the wiser. If we’re discovered, he’ll flash fry us quicker than you can say ‘Master of Melee-Magthere.’ Think you can be sneaky?”

  “Sneaky? I …”

  Out of nowhere, a memory came to Demascus. He was hunched before a sealed iron gate with the likeness of a man’s screaming face. His sword was a comforting weight on his back, and his scarf was wrapped tightly around his left sleeve. He pushed his hair back, from which several charms dangled. A bundle of dark cloth lay before him.

  He unrolled the bundle to reveal a neatly organized selection of thin wires and tiny hooks. He withdrew a hook and a wire with practiced hands, and applied them to the lock set in the screaming face. Gold highlights flashed from the twist of golden metal he wore on his thumb as he worked on the lock with quiet, cold, effortless mastery.

  The recollection whispered away.

  Demascus blinked. Where’d that been? He’d had his scarf. And that was the second memory he’d recovered where he’d had that overly large runesword, the glittering ring, and the charms in his hair. But unlike the previous recollection, instead of wearing a panoply of silver armor, he’d been draped in leather armor so black it might as well have been sewn from night itself.

  “Hey,” whispered Chant. “Lost you there for a moment. You all right?” The pawnbroker glanced at him nervo
usly.

  “Sorry. Yeah, I have a little skill at skulking, or at least getting past locks. But I don’t have my tools.”

  “You remembered something?”

  “Just a flash. I may have once possessed passable skills as a lockbreaker. And better fashion sense.” He fiddled with the design on one of his cuffs.

  Chant studied him a moment, as if suddenly wondering whether Demascus was of sound mind. The pawnbroker apparently decided Demascus wasn’t about to lose the rest of his mind then and there because he said, “I hope your body can recall what you cannot. We’ll approach along the left side of the street. Stick to the shadows.”

  Chant advanced, and Demascus followed. The pudgy man impressed Demascus with the loose ease of his gait and his ability to slip in and out of the light. Demascus attempted to do the same.

  After a few paces, he found he could replicate Chant’s stealth nearly move for move. The darkness was like a cloak he could pull across himself, almost at will. A wave of pure enjoyment swept through him, and he had to concentrate not to grin like a madman.

  When they reached the side of the tower, Chant raised a hand.

  “What?” whispered Demascus.

  Chant shook his head, and tapped his ear.

  Demascus listened. Very faintly came the merest intimation of a regular sound from the tower. Not so much a boom, but a vibration through the stone. Each beat corresponded with a flicker of light from the shuttered windows high above them.

  The pawnbroker dashed forward, darting into an alcove along the tower’s side Demascus hadn’t even noticed.

  Demascus followed, and found the pawnbroker huddled over the lock of a small service door. The hook and wire in Chant’s hands were akin to the ones Demascus had seen in the vision of himself, if a bit rustier.

  He lowered himself so his eyes were even with Chant’s. He couldn’t quite recall the name of the little metal sliding parts inside the lock, but his hands moved in sympathy with the pawnbroker’s. He grinned.