Sword of the Gods

by Bruce R Cordell

  “Something more significant than a doctrinal difference is in play,” Demascus said. “Trust me; the gods don’t call on my services merely to serve as an arbiter for misbehaving children. Your factions may have quarreled for decades, doing slow damage to the overall faith. However, something truly dire must have occurred recently if my intercession is necessary.”

  “Then I wish the avatar would have simply explained as much,” said Tarsis.

  He must be tired to openly criticize his god, Demascus thought.

  On the other hand, maybe not. He’d learned in the tendays since he’d accepted his latest commission that it wasn’t unusual for an Oghmanyte to question pat answers, especially newly revealed knowledge. They were also given to discussing facts that others accepted without question. Tarsis, Brenwin, and even Landrew didn’t seem like dogmatic adherents of “ancient truth” like so many other religious authorities he’d dealt with. For that reason, the Oghmanyte faith was like a breath of fresh air, regardless of whether it called itself the Orthodox Church or the Church in Exile.

  Which made the emergence of factions all odder. If differences in interpretation of the observed world were celebrated and discussed in the church, the long divide over doctrinal differences was more than an anomaly. It was a fundamental sickness.

  Actually, it was probably an assault.

  Which explained why an aspect of Oghma had finally contracted Demascus to put an end to the troubling division, and had explicitly chosen one faction over the other when he’d aimed the Sword of the Gods at the former leader of the Church in Exile. Sort of the ultimate “no confidence” vote, really.

  “How much longer do you think we can keep Landrew guessing?” Tarsis said.

  Demascus shook his head. “I’d hoped the man would slip up on the passage from Procampur, and provide me some actionable intelligence.”

  “Still nothing?”

  Demascus shook his head.

  Tarsis said, “It doesn’t surprise me, I guess. Landrew’s played the part of a loyal lorekeeper to perfection. Just last night he, Brenwin, and I traded anecdotes of the faith. I went further than I’ve gone before; I called out the old decrees of Undryl Yannathar as blasphemy. Landrew didn’t bat an eye; he joined in with me and Brenwin denouncing the so-called Great Patriarch.”

  “I heard.”

  Demascus rubbed his eyes. Lords of light, he didn’t know what to do next. What use was an avenging sword and assassin’s contract when the target refused to show himself, and his one lead failed to slip up?

  He said, “This entire trip may be a bust, Tarsis. Undryl Yannathar may not even be in Akanûl.”

  “But the avatar said he was!”

  “No, the avatar said that Undryl’s ‘most dangerous agent’ was in Akanûl.”

  Tarsis opened his mouth as if to disagree, but paused. Then he said, “Binder forfend! Enough with the pretense. Let’s just grab Landrew and … and make him tell us what he knows!”

  “Don’t think I haven’t considered that. A half-dozen times, truth be told. And doing so still remains my last resort, though I have a feeling that even if we put Landrew to the question, he’ll refuse to give up anything. Fanatics are like that, even in the face of persuasion.”

  The priest’s features went pale. “Wait, do you mean torture?”

  “That, or magical inducement. Neither works particularly well in my experience. The innocent end up implicating themselves to escape the pain or compulsion, and the fanatics die before they talk. In a great many cases, compulsion is only useful for forcing false confessions. Which is too bad, because otherwise my job would be a lot easier.”

  “Ah. Yes, I suppose.”

  Demascus said, “Don’t worry, I’m mostly joking.”

  “ ‘Mostly’?”

  He shrugged. “I do what the gods need doing and attempt tasks they couldn’t ask their goodly servitors to accept. Sometimes that means getting my hands dirty. I don’t enjoy it.” Usually I don’t anyway, he kept to himself.

  “I would hope not.”

  “Believe me, if I ever find myself edging close to the line, I’m hanging up Exorcessum. If I lose my principles, my existence is forfeit, at least as I am now. I’d find a punishment too ghastly to describe.” Again, he kept his doubts to himself. In truth, he sometimes luxuriated in his abilities so fully he risked everything. It was only by Fate’s grace he retained the thread of his purpose when his body challenged the energies of divine retribution. That exultation was too fantastic to give up, no matter the risk.

  “Sorry, I didn’t meant to give offense,” said Tarsis.

  Demascus said, “I know.” The priest merely wanted to know more about his role as the Sword of the Gods. Asking questions was part of the man’s nature. But Tarsis seemed too pleasant a fellow to burden with the ambivalent truth.

  Time passed. They watched elementally colored genasi load and unload ships in the shadow of towering cliffs.

  Finally Tarsis said, “Then we need to take a desperate measure.”

  “If you’ve got a new idea, I’d love to hear it.”

  The priest’s complexion grew a shade paler. He said, “The avatar said that if things remained as they were, the entire Oghmanyte church would come unraveled.”

  Demascus nodded.

  “I can’t allow that. I’d give my life to preserve the church, in Oghma’s service. And I’ve just thought of a way to convince Landrew that you’re on his side, not mine.”

  “If I could gain Landrew’s confidence, that would certainly help,” Demascus said, and waited. The priest was wringing the symbol of his faith and his mouth was twisted with indecision.

  Tarsis blew out a breath and said, “All right. You’ve got to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you’ve received secret instructions from the Binder. You have to convince Landrew that you’ve broken with the Orthodox Church and want to meet Undryl to pledge yourself to the Church in Exile.”

  “Words aren’t going convince—”

  “Kill me.”

  “What?”

  “Confront Landrew with my body and tell him you’ve made your choice.”

  “I’m not going to kill you!” Demascus said. He reassessed his earlier opinion—Tarsis was a lunatic.

  “Just hear me out,” said Tarsis. He licked his lips and continued, “I’m a senior priest in Oghma’s Procampur temple, on a mission to save the church from dissolution. If I die, my fellows will pluck me from Kelemvor’s judgment, in the name of the Binder of All Knowledge.”

  “Tarsis, rituals that tread upon the territory of the lords of the dead are not guaranteed. Kelemvor is jealous of his perquisites. I’ve seen such rituals fail more often than not.”

  The priest swallowed and said, “I know that. It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

  “I’m not,” Demascus said. “This is a crazy, ill-considered plan, and I’m not going to give it another moment of discussion, because it’s off the table.”

  Even as he denied Tarsis, Demascus realized the scheme had a certain lethal merit. In the face of the failure of all their other tactics, it might be their only option. He knew then, with a sick certainty, what he would have to do.

  He wrangled with Tarsis for another bell anyway. He hoped their heated words would pry some new idea loose. They walked the ship, as they traded arguments in low, hushed tones. Finally, as they walked the length of the hold, Tarsis convinced him.

  He decided nothing would be gained by waiting or planning for the deed. It had to look authentic, and to that end, the assassination had to be authentic.

  Demascus stepped behind the man and looped the Veil twice around Tarsis’s throat before the priest realized they were done talking. Demascus pulled the scarf tight into a garrote. Tarsis’s eyes went wide. He tried to say something, but his air was already cut off. Demascus leaned back, and with his height advantage, lifted the priest an inch into the air. Tarsis kicked. The priest dug beneath the folds of the fabric constricting the blood flow to his bra
in, but to no avail. He twisted, worked his mouth, and bucked. Even though it was his own plan, and despite his assurance that he could be brought back from death’s far shore, Tarsis panicked.

  The man’s demise had to look authentic.

  The priest made one last frantic effort to live.

  It wasn’t nearly enough, because the scarf was wound with an assassin’s precision. But just to be sure, Demascus pulled even harder on the free ends of the Veil, grunting with the effort.

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

  Merciful lords …

  Don’t think about it, he told himself. He picked up the body and slung it over his shoulder.

  He turned, and trooped straight to Landrew’s cabin. He passed several crew on the way, but a concealing shroud of shadow rendered him and his burden unseen.

  He didn’t pause at Landrew’s closed cabin hatch; he merely stepped through it along the narrow lane of shadow that stretched beneath the door.

  Landrew was there. The dark-haired dwarf had cleared away his cot to make room on the floor. He sat in a lotus position, eyes closed, humming a tuneless song.

  “Landrew, I want in,” Demascus declared, and let his shroud of concealment whisper away.

  The dwarf’s eyes slammed open. He took in the specter of Demascus standing over him in the too-close cabin, and lurched to his feet.

  “What’re you—” Landrew began.

  Demascus tossed the limp, purpled body of Tarsis on the splintered planks and said, “Did you hear me, priest? I know about your secret alliance, and I want to join it.”

  “My … secret alliance?” The dwarf’s eyes swiveled between the body on the floor and Demascus, back and forth.

  “Yeah. Fate’s decreed it.” Demascus pointed to the Veil, which he’d wrapped around his right forearm in wide strips.

  Landrew cleared his throat. He said, “Your palimpsest of truth. It told you …?”

  “That you’re actually an acolyte of Undryl Yannathar. And that I was working for the wrong side when I accepted a commission to root out the old Great Patriarch. I never ignore what the Veil of Wrath and Knowledge reveals because it deigns to communicate so rarely.”

  “So, you … killed Tarsis? Why is that exactly?”

  “To prove I was serious. So that you’d know, by looking at Tarsis’s cooling flesh, that I wasn’t dissembling. I’ve just shown myself to be an enemy of the Orthodox Church in the most fundamental fashion available to me; I’ve burned all my bridges. And I’ve done it all for one purpose—so you’ll bring me to Undryl and vouch for me.”

  Landrew bent to his dead mentor. He rolled the man on his back and checked for pulse, breath, and spirit.

  When he looked up, his manner was different. Demascus could tell by the set of the dwarf’s shoulders and the openness of his expression that Landrew believed him. The dwarf said, “You really killed him; strangled him, looks like. Amazing.”

  “So what’s next?” said Demascus. He pushed the image of Tarsis kicking at the end of his coiled Veil from his mind.

  Landrew smiled. The dwarf said, “Come with me tomorrow.”

  Relief that he hadn’t killed the priest for no reason almost made him miss Landrew’s next words.

  “I was planning on slipping into Airspur at dawn to secure horses and a wagon. We need to travel to an old shrine west of the city, up in the foothills of the Akanapeaks.”

  “A shrine to Oghma?”

  Landrew said, “No, hardly. Some old stone where hill orcs used to worship spirits.”

  “It must be important to Undryl. He’ll be there, then?”

  “The place is only important because it retains a residue of spiritual energy from centuries of spirit worship. And no, Undryl will most definitely not be there to meet us.”

  A tremor of concern touched Demascus. He said, “Oh? But I thought—”

  The dwarf’s mouth crooked in amusement, and he shook his head. “Undryl Yannathar started us down this path when he left the Church in Exile, that’s true. But he’s been out of the picture for a long time. He died, and we, his agents, took up the path Undryl set us on, though I think we went much farther down it than he ever guessed we could. And we’re about to reach our destination! We will—”

  “Who’s we?” Demascus interrupted. It sounded as if the dwarf was working himself into some sort of fanatical sermon.

  “We have formed a new group. We’ve broken away even from the Church in Exile. We are the Church of All Tomorrows.”

  Demascus tried again, “And who makes up the Church of All Tomorrows?”

  “Me, for one. Many others, though I don’t know their real names. But all of us are celebrants who wish to pledge themselves to a new understanding. Oghma had the right idea, but failed to go far enough. If you’re the god of knowledge, why restrict yourself to what’s already happened—why not peer into the future too, and access all knowledge? That is true power, and that is what our new faith offers!”

  Because the future is uncertain and can never be known with certainty, Demascus wanted to say. To trust the future is to trust a changeable lie.

  “And I know why you, Demascus, were drawn to us,” continued Landrew. “Why you’ve decided to foreswear Oghma, and join us.”

  “Really?”

  “I know something of your Veil of Wrath and Knowledge. It is an instrument of Fate. And to be so accurate, it must peer over the lip of now, and into the valley of what may be. Just as we propose to do!”

  Demascus blinked. That was the second time Landrew had referenced his scarf, with a touch more familiarity than he should have possessed.

  Time to move things along. Demascus asked, “Why come all the way across the Sea of Fallen Stars to move your new faith forward into this, what, ‘new phase?’ If all you required was a site still leaking residual magic, surely some hilltop or gravesite closer to Procampur would have worked as well?”

  Landrew shrugged and said, “It was what Kalkan decreed. He was entrusted with finding the most suitable site, and Akanûl is where he chose.”

  Demascus started at that name. He said, “Kalkan. I don’t think I know that name …”

  The dwarf said, “Kalkan is new to the Church of All Tomorrows, but he possesses a remarkable ability to predict upcoming events. It’s almost like he can see the future, as if he has already become what the rest of us desire to be. Plus, the Voice of Tomorrow vouched for him.”

  The dwarf waited, apparently to see if Demascus would ask who the Voice of Tomorrow was. Demascus kept his face studiously neutral and merely nodded for the dwarf to continue.

  “So Kalkan was entrusted to prepare a place for the ceremony of transfiguration and joining. We will shrive ourselves from Oghma’s tutelage and move on to a god who offers so much more! We will pledge ourselves to the Voice of Tomorrow. And the time is nearly upon us. We are in Akanûl at the appointed time. Tomorrow we go to the appointed place, and have only to bring … suitable sacrifice.”

  A degree of the animation went out of Landrew’s voice as he said the last, and he looked confused.

  “What?”

  “Kalkan said the only sacrifice that would do to launch us into the new realm of foreknowledge would be the offering of a powerful acolyte of Oghma to the god who will become our Binder of Tomorrow. I was planning on using Tarsis.”

  “Ah. Had I known …”

  Then the dwarf grinned and said, “But I suppose Brenwin will do!”

  Demascus restrained himself from striking the priest. He said, “If you say so. So you know the way to the site?”

  “I’m an acolyte of knowledge; of course I do. I have a map!” The dwarf reached into the fold of his robe and produced a piece of parchment.

  “Show me,” Demascus commanded. The dwarf bent his head to the map. In that instant Demascus swept Exorcessum from his back. The runesword sheared through the dwarf’s neck
, and Landrew’s head came off.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  AIRSPUR

  THE YEAR OF THE FINAL STAND (1475 DR)

  DEMASCUS SNATCHED THE MAP FROM LANDREW’S TOPPLING body before the spurting scarlet touched it. The corpse thudded to the boards.

  He sheathed Exorcessum and heaved the loose form of Tarsis back onto his shoulders. He closed Landrew’s door behind him, then swiftly carried his burden to Tarsis’s cabin. He laid the man out on the cot, and closed his bulging eyes with gentle fingertips.

  “If Oghma wills, your sacrifice will see you back into the realm of life, my friend. If not, your reward will be great in whatever life waits for you beyond this one.”

  A reward forever denied me, he thought. When death claims me again, no matter my deeds, I’ll just pop up again somewhere else, almost completely ignorant of my past unless I take pains to prepare for the transition …

  Which he should probably do. Because he shouldn’t have slain Landrew. In doing so, he’d given all the more impetus to a metaphorical ore cart rushing down the tracks. Things were accelerating out of control … A familiar feeling.

  Demascus left Tarsis’s cabin and secured the door behind him as he’d done to Landrew’s. The ship was chartered by the Orthodox Church out of Procampur, and the captain had worked with Oghmanytes in the past, and was a trusted ally. But Demascus didn’t know how he would react upon finding two of his four passengers slain.

  He let himself into his own cabin. He sat down at the small table and set the map he’d retrieved from Landrew before him. With a flicker of concentration, he lit a candle and studied the map until he had the landmarks memorized. Then he fed it to the candle flame.

  Demascus went to his chest. He pulled from it a small strongbox of dull metal. It was decorated with a relief sculpture of skulls and flower petals, and he wasn’t sure of its provenance. However, it was a uniquely secure coffer, and had a knack for turning up again even after apparently being lost beyond all hope for recovery.

  The deva slipped off his golden thumb ring and placed it into the strongbox. Then all his charms, untangled from his braids one by one, went into the cavity. All except for the scroll-shaped charm he’d received from Oghma’s avatar. It seemed fitting that it, of all his collected charms, should remain with him, regardless of the risk to himself. On the other hand, the Whorl of Ioun he wore on his thumb was the most important relic to keep safe—all the others were mere decoration compared to its function. Though each of his deaths might rob him of the specifics of each job he completed, the Whorl of Ioun kept safe the continuity of his abilities. Each time he retrieved it, the full weight and knowledge of all his fantastic power became his to wield again.