Sword of the Gods

by Bruce R Cordell

  Demascus said to the lieutenant, “What … who … You’re the cult leader? You’ve been lying this whole time?”

  Leheren’s head moved with the same careful precision until she fixed her awful eyes on him. No, not her eyes. Its eyes. What lived behind the facade was no longer Leheren. It was Murmur.

  Murmur blanched when it saw him. Its mouth opened in a parody of a scream, and it bawled like some kind of demonic infant. The sound entered his head and beat at his mind like a hammer. He dropped his sword and grabbed his forehead, trying to hold in his suddenly throbbing brain.

  Murmur took the opportunity to bound away from him like an insect. It landed clumsily behind Jett, Garel in tow.

  “It’s him,” grated Murmur.

  Now what? Demascus felt like his brain was caught in burning, thought-deadening oil. He gritted his teeth, and yelled, “Chant! Riltana! Over here!”

  But Chant and Riltana were fighting off a new wave of cultists.

  Demascus bent, and retrieved his sword with one unsteady hand. The Veil fluttered and shone, while its shadow lengthened and wriggled like a live thing.

  Murmur screamed, “The molting is at hand!” and slapped a hand on Garel’s forehead.

  “What’re you doing?” said Jett, backing away.

  Murmur said, “This one’s oath to the Elder Elemental Eye has come due!”

  Then Garel and Murmur both screamed as every szuldar line on Leheren’s body split wide. Her skin sloughed off, revealing raw muscle, viscera, heart, lungs, and brain. Instead of blood, liquid crystal percolated up from between every crevice and fold of tissue, shining with abyssal red brilliance.

  As the liquid crystal inundated Leheren’s organs and form, Garel’s body deflated. His scream dwindled to a choking whisper. His limbs crinkled and folded up on themselves, then disintegrated into so much dust. His last utterance was, “No, my soul …”

  He was gone. As was Leheren.

  The thing that had lived in Leheren remained. It had become a terror of rubbery black limbs veined all over with pulsing arteries of incandescent red crystal. Its lower body was wreathed in a tumble of scarlet crystalline tendrils. Its jaws dropped open nightmarishly wide, and it loosed a birthing call of triumph. The sound was piercing and hideous, and sent a jolt of terror through Demascus every bit as painful as a dagger thrust to his stomach.

  “The molting is complete!” it crowed.

  Then it said, “Things will go differently this time, Demascus.”

  This time? It didn’t matter. Murmur was obviously some kind of demon, and trying to play with his mind. Either way, I should kill it, he thought. Now.

  He grasped the shadow of the Veil and let its trailing end drape across Murmur. Through the shroud of gloom that apparently only he could see, Demascus studied the demon.

  “Gods,” he whispered, as his certainty withered. “I can’t fight this!”

  Seven points of energy blazed through the creature’s partly insubstantial, changeable form. It was equal parts flesh and illusion, but the liquid crystal that was its blood and life-force was wrong in every way. It did not belong on Faerûn. Or even … in this universe.

  Murmur, larger than it had been, reached a red-veined black limb into the cells on either side of it. Quick as stooping eagles, each taloned hand plunged into the head of a captive. When they emerged, each one gripped a writhing, incorporeal nightmare.

  Demascus stepped back. It was all too much. He was out of his depth. He had to—

  Murmur released the entities it had just ripped from the minds of the captives. They inflated as they writhed, and took on demonic shapes. One was a hybrid between a scorpion and a ram. The other some kind of squealing, bubbling mass of slime. Each was a foul monstrosity. Each apparently wanted to eat Demascus.

  The slime mass slid straight for him. The scorpion demon jumped then skittered along the ceiling, faster than its sibling, and threw itself down on him.

  Demascus deflected the first monster with his sword. But he couldn’t evade the second. It engulfed him with its wet, cold embrace. The venom of its body numbed his skin on contact.

  Demascus yelled, “Run!” to his friends as he lost feeling in his legs and arms. He heard Murmur laughing.

  He screamed one more time. He tried to tell Chant, Riltana, and Carmenere to save themselves before it was …

  Too late.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  AIRSPUR

  THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

  SOMEONE HAD KICKED HER IN THE HEAD, RILTANA thought, then dragged her, scratching and bumping, across broken rock. She tasted blood in her mouth.

  She groaned and opened her eyes. Flickering, greenish light stung her eyes. She tried to rub her head, but a manacle clanked tight. Chains bound her wrists, securing her to the front of her cell. The memory of the cultists flanking her and beating her senseless came to her in blunt echoes communicated by her ribs, her back, and her aching head.

  She was in a cage, one of a dozen or so around the periphery of a subterranean chamber. Some cells were sunk into the stone, others hung from the ceiling like aviaries. Many contained ill-used captives.

  A man she didn’t recognize was manacled next to her. His clothing was mere tatters, his eyes were wide, and a constant babble of mumbles fell from his lips.

  “Be quiet, you leech-licking lunatic,” she hissed. But the man wouldn’t shut up.

  Beneath his mad stream-of-consciousness she detected a clicking, buzzing drone.

  Riltana bent her head to a painful angle to see what was behind and below the cage.

  The cell overlooked a cavity in the chamber’s center that was the source of the droning noise.

  The cavity churned with insects! Bees, ants, moths, scorpions, and scurrying beetles. And cockroaches! She hated roaches. Especially ones as large as Chant’s cat, Fable. Fireflies, or something like them but with mandibles, pulsed with pale greenish radiance, bright enough to light the entire chamber.

  Bones littered the pit’s edge, each one pocked as if scoured clean by thousands of insect mandibles.

  You’ve got to be kidding me, Riltana thought, her gorge rising.

  She jerked her gaze from the pit. Where were her friends? Oh pus in a bucket, where was Carmenere?

  There! Two enclosures from her own cage. The earthsoul slumped from cuffs around her wrists, and her head rolled to one side. Someone had removed her armor and her weapons. She was smeared in dirt, blindfolded, and blood stained her forehead.

  Fury built and then burned away her bowel-loosening fear. They’d hurt Carmenere! Someone was going to answer for that.

  Her armor, with all of its concealed daggers, lock-picking wires, and other tools of her craft, was missing. But her captors had failed to remove her gloves. Which meant she would soon be free! But she had to get Carmenere out too. She had to be careful, and make sure no one saw her get free. Where had they stored her belongings—

  “Tell us what you want!” echoed through the room. The voice was … it was Demascus!

  She gazed left and saw the man two cages over. His dangled directly over the swarming pit. Manacles on the deva’s wrists and ankles suspended him spread-eagle in midair inside his cell. They’d left him only his smallclothes. She saw the tattoolike designs on his arms extended up his shoulders, then plunged down the center of his back, creating a design that looked an awful lot like a sword.

  His eyes were covered. Whoever had covered his eyes obviously didn’t know the significance of the Veil of Wrath and Knowledge, because they’d used the Veil as the blindfold.

  She couldn’t see Chant, but she decided to assume the human was in a nearby cell. Unless his bones numbered among those on the pit’s edge …

  “Murmur!” yelled Demascus. “Answer me!”

  A mixture of cries, prayers, and pleas for salvation, plus a particularly loud bout of gibberish from Riltana’s cellmate, was his response. No cultists, or that awful thing that had been Leheren, were obviously present.
r />   She debated calling out to Demascus. His voice sounded fragile, as if he were on the edge of some kind of break. Acknowledgment from her that at least one of his friends remained alive would give him something to focus on … No. It would be stupid to draw attention to herself. If she could escape her cell without any of the cultists realizing it, then she might be able to release him too, after she saved Carmenere. He’d appreciate freedom better than a friendly voice in the dark.

  Riltana rubbed her finger and thumb together and concentrated on her gloves. A yellow marble swelled into her grip. The Prisoner’s Stone, as she called it, which she’d stolen from an image of the primordial Karshimis. Relief made her giddy for a moment.

  She whispered the phrase that had come to her in a dream, “Neither cage, nor chains, nor prison walls shall keep me from salvation’s light.”

  The manacles slipped off with hardly a jangle. The bars beneath her feet parted like water, and she dropped lightly to the dirt beneath. Free!

  The maddening drone from the pit vibrated through her; its edge was only a pace away from her boot tip. She retreated from the rim until her shoulder blades brushed the cavern wall. So far, so good. Nothing had reacted to her escape, and she still couldn’t see any cultists. A fierce grin touched her lips.

  She stashed the Prisoner’s Stone back in glovespace, then raced for the exit tunnel.

  Belongings from recently interred prisoners might be stowed near the captives in a guard chamber, she thought. When she’d been caught three years ago by the Airspur peacemakers, they’d had one. She hoped the cultists operated similarly.

  Her cellmate began to scream, “Don’t leave me, Lady! Come back for me!”

  That insane turd! No time to go back and quiet him.

  She ducked into the exit tunnel. Torches set in black metal wall sconces wound down around a natural curve, providing light. A side chamber gaped just a few paces down it.

  Ah ha! The guard chamber, had to be.

  She padded forward and peeked in. The chamber’s flickering illumination came in through several arrow slits that looked back out onto the chamber of the pit. She’d missed seeing them earlier.

  Lucky no cultists were here, she thought. They would’ve probably seen her drop out of her cell.

  Riltana darted into the guard room. She pressed her eyes to the nearest aperture. Demascus, Carmenere—and there was Chant too—remained secure in their cages. Don’t worry, she silently promised. I’ll get you out.

  Wooden trenchers scabbed with dried food tumbled from the stack on a high shelf. Several sealed casks of lamp oil hunkered along the opposite wall, competing for space with two larger barrels, both open, one filled with brackish water, the other with rancid stew. Three wide chests were pushed up against the wall beneath the slits.

  Riltana flipped open the lid of the nearest chest.

  Yes! She extricated her leather armor from the jumble. She slipped on the black one-piece and reveled in the comforting weight of her secreted daggers and tools. Even the snowflake-inscribed short sword she’d bought from Chant remained in its scabbard.

  She recognized Carmenere’s bulky armor and her mace, and Demascus’s noble’s jacket. The other weapons, armor, and bits of equipment were probably theirs as well. Too much to carry in one trip.

  She grasped a handle on the chest’s long side and pulled. The chest scraped along the ground easily enough, and the sound of metal on stone was drowned out by the pit.

  Riltana checked to make certain the exit tunnel was still clear, then hauled the chest out of the guard chamber. She dragged it into the chamber of the pit until it was positioned beneath Carmenere’s dangling cell.

  She closed the lid, stood on the top, and slid the bolt in the cell door. Not particularly well secured, she thought. She flipped up and into the cell, and set to work freeing the unconscious Carmenere from her manacles with her set of picks and wires.

  “Lady! Lady! Lady!” screamed her insane cellmate over and over. She gritted her teeth and finished the job, promising to kick the crazy man until he stopped babbling.

  Carmenere slid to the floor of the cell, still limp.

  Riltana produced the curative draft she’d purchased from Chant. She gave the contents to the lolling silverstar.

  The earthsoul opened her eyes. Riltana’s heart felt light as a feather in an updraft. She smiled down at her friend, but put a finger to the woman’s lips. Carmenere took a moment to take in her situation. She rubbed her wrists.

  “I’ve come to save you,” Riltana whispered.

  “Thank you,” replied the earthsoul. “Thanks for coming back for me.”

  “As if I’d leave you!”

  Carmenere smiled, and Riltana felt her heart become lost at sea all over again.

  “Greetings, Scour,” came a voice ripped straight from Riltana’s nightmares.

  Murmur was in the chamber!

  It was standing at the edge of the pit, gazing into it as if the cavity were a reflecting pool. The strobing flickers of the firefly radiance gave the demon’s already ghastly silhouette a guttering, crawling texture.

  A wave of fearful cries and whimpers swept the room.

  Murmur said to the mass of scurrying bugs, “Can you hear me?”

  Carmenere looked at Riltana. The woman didn’t dare speak, but the desperate question in the silverstar’s eyes was clear: What should we do?

  Riltana draped a placating hand on Carmenere’s shoulder even as she tried to control her own howling fear.

  The demon had failed to notice Riltana had gotten loose and into a different cell than the one she’d been put in. Or that someone had dragged a chest out of the guard room and positioned it beneath a hanging cage. If her luck held, maybe the thing would return whence it had come when it finished playing with the bugs in the floor. Please, she thought, just turn around and leave, and don’t look this way.

  “Murmur!” yelled Demascus, as if to spite her hope not to draw the demon’s attention. “I can hear you! What do you want with me? How do you know me?”

  That pig-straddling leech fondler! What was the deva doing? Not all of us get reincarnated when we do something stupid!

  Murmur’s crystal-veined bulk turned so that its gaze fell on the deva. Its eyes swirled like whirlpools, light and dark red crystal, down to a vanishing point. Riltana shuddered, but the nightmarish regard flicked past her and Carmenere.

  The demon undulated on a bed of scarlet tendrils, moving as lightly as a dream despite its bulk, until it was directly before Demascus’s cage.

  Demascus craned his blindfolded gaze right and left, sniffing the air.

  “I am here,” said Murmur, its voice a cavalcade of scurrying rats. “But you already know that, don’t you, foul entity?”

  The deva jerked. He said, “My name is Demascus.”

  “I recognize you whatever your name. I saw you outside the Motherhouse. You’ve hunted me across creation. You nearly managed to catch me unawares while I was still weak and awake only while my host dreamed. But I saw you first! Now look where your devotion to duty has gotten you: alone and soon to be food for the pit!”

  Demascus’s chin dropped. He said, his voice low, “I don’t remember you. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Riltana looked away from the drama and squeezed Carmenere’s shoulder. She pointed at the cage where Chant was chained. She dropped her head to the silverstar’s ear and said in a bare whisper, “I’m going to free the pawnbroker while the demon-thing gloats. Be ready to run for the exit.”

  “When?” Carmenere whispered back.

  “You’ll know when. Your equipment is in the chest beneath this damned aviary.” Riltana slunk to the hatch, her eyes fastened on Murmur’s broad back. She was ready to freeze in place should the demon turn her way.

  Murmur shouted to Demascus, “Don’t lie to me! You and your band disrupted the ritual and blasted us into oblivion. And now you’re here to tidy up loose ends.”

  Riltana reached the ed
ge of the cage, then leaped into the arms of the air. They bore her like a silent breath in an arc that grazed the cavern roof, then down. She alighted silently on the cage holding Chant. Her eyes darted back to check on the demon. It still hadn’t noticed her. Keep it talking, she thought.

  The deva said, “I don’t know you. My first … clear memory is from a shrine west of Airspur. Dead Cabal members everywhere. But that’s not my first memory of Faerûn. I remember other things … Just not you. I didn’t come looking for you. If you know me, you must have drawn me here. Why?”

  “A shrine west of Airspur?” said Murmur. As the demon spoke it stretched one rubbery limb until it touched the cage next to Demascus’s. “Surrounded by a ring of stone columns?”

  “Yes,” said the deva.

  Murmur’s elongating fingers slid the latch on the cage. It said, “I know that shrine well. I sent a group of servitors and nightmare scions there.”

  Riltana quietly rolled off the top of Chant’s cage. The human inside was awake. His eyes darted between her and the demon. He knew enough to keep quiet.

  “I found your cultists and monsters,” said Demascus. “They were all dead. Except for one hungry little biter I dispatched. Why did you send them to the shrine? I thought I’d been kidnapped as a sacrifice for some kind of demonic ritual …”

  Murmur’s tarry limb snaked into the cell and wrapped around a boy. The boy’s head lolled. His eyes bulged in fear, and he uttered a guttural cry of distress.

  The nightmare demon said, “One of my servitors told me of the place. So I sent them to collect a portion of the spiritual energy building there.”

  “Spiritual energy?”

  Murmur withdrew the boy and raised him over its head. The kid’s struggles became more frenzied, but the demon’s resilient grip held him without strain. What can I do? Riltana thought. If I show myself, the thing will just grab me too.

  She swallowed and turned away from the scene. She threw the bolt of the pawnbroker’s cage, entered, and produced her wires and picks.