Sword of the Gods: Spinner of Lies

by Bruce R Cordell

  “Necromancer,” she said, “Your specialty is death. Why did Demascus kill me?”

  The two-dimensional mouth squirmed. The painting whispered. Her stomach lurched.

  “… the Sword serves only those to whom Fate is an ally …”

  “That makes no sense! Fate wants … wanted me dead?” Her confusion commingled with the nausea that seeing the painting induced. And her headache was back. Unlike before, it didn’t break down the doors of perception; the pain seemed like a live thing, chewing on her brain from inside her skull.

  “… the Sword may also serve those who can bend Fate, or deceive it with a tapestry of interlocking lies …” The pain was unspeakable. Her memory of Demascus, telling her again how sorry he was before he broke her neck, danced and mixed with the crazy-quilt image of the Necromancer.

  She screamed. The draping fell back over the painting. She dropped into a shuddering fit.

  The pain … was receding. She found herself with her face pressed against the dirt floor. The sour smell of grave dirt was literally in her nose. She rolled onto her side. The Necromancer hadn’t answered her question. Instead, it’d whispered some nonsense about Fate. She rubbed her temple. It’d also said something about lies—

  “Why are you lying on the floor?” A silver mask floated into her field of vision. Fossil was home. It’d apparently missed her conversation with the whispering painting. The thing was a manipulating liar, first and foremost, but it was also ruthless. If it thought she was going behind its back, it would act. She was still safe, but she’d have to be more careful in the future.

  Madri pulled herself into the chair. She smoothed her hair and said, “Pain like an avalanche overwhelmed me.” She swaddled the lie around the truth with expert delicacy.

  The mask vibrated a moment, perhaps with excitement. Though how could one tell with an inexpressive silvery facade? It could have been confusion just as easily, or fear.

  “So,” Fossil finally uttered. “Kalkan’s prophecy has nearly run its course.”

  She waited only a heartbeat before giving Fossil what he wanted, and asked, “What do you mean by that?”

  “The Swordbreaker saw far. But even his damos isn’t infallible. Despite its marvelous reach, Kalkan couldn’t foresee whether Demascus would discover his sword has more than a single configuration. Your genesis, Madri, as an unquiet spirit, lies in the power Exorcessum generated when Demascus retrieved it. You are both memory and spirit, a figment-ghost.”

  Fossil’s words overstuffed her head with knowledge. What sort of gods-abandoned nonsense was the relic spouting—about her being undead after all, except not really? And …

  “What’s a damos?” she said.

  “A relic of the Imaskar empire. A portal that vouchsafes the future course of history to its owner who is willing to risk its venomous shackle. The damos is what Kalkan used to devise Demascus’s route into dissolution and ultimate defeat. But we’ve finally reached the frayed ends of Kalkan’s original damos-derived prophecy. He foresaw the possibility that Demascus would discover how to split his sword into two blades. If that happened—and it has—then everything becomes a bit … touch and go.”

  It was too much to understand. Madri wished she had parchment and quill so she could take notes. Future course of history? Two blades in one? Touch-and-go prophecy?

  Time to wrest the course of conversation back herself while Fossil was in a talkative mood. “Wait. You said I’m both a spirit and a memory? How can that be?”

  “Do not concern yourself. It does not matter what you are, does it? All that matters is that we execute our plan to bring Demascus down.”

  “I … suppose you’re right,” she said. Though it did matter. Her odds of coming out of this with something more than ashes after they dealt with Demascus depended on her true status. Or so the Necromancer had whispered. She couldn’t press too hard for that particular truth. If Fossil suspected she was lining up her own agenda, the relic angel would “erase” her and begin anew, as it suggested had happened before. Unless that was just a lie to keep her in line …

  “Well, tell me more about this damos, then. Where is it?”

  The mask rotated toward the heap of earth. “In there with Kalkan’s regenerating shell.”

  A surge of excitement drew Madri to her feet. “It’s right here? If Kalkan used it to create a prophecy that saw all of us this far into the future, let’s dig it out and use it again, right now. We’ll just tell this ‘damos’ that the sword split after all, whatever that means, and have it start a new prophecy from there!”

  The mask settled its hollow regard on her, saying nothing.

  “What, now you’re back to giving me the silent treatment? You know, we’d get on so much better if you’d just be honest. Like you keep saying, Fossil, we both want the same thing.” Except, what was it the Necromancer had whispered, right before she’d collapsed? Something about lies motivating Demascus to accept a commission involving her. But what of it? No exonerating evidence would ever change the fact he had killed her. Of course, she wanted to know why, whatever the answer was … why Demascus had wrapped his fingers around her head and twisted.

  Fossil’s voice broke into her reverie. “True enough, figment. We want the same thing. And were it possible to craft a new prophecy now that Demascus has rediscovered how to switch between the most brutish shape of his blade and a more adaptable configuration, I would consider it. But it won’t work. Only a living creature can call on the Voice of Tomorrow. Neither of us qualify.”

  “I guess that’d be too easy.” She snorted. “Just out of idle curiosity, how many configurations does Demascus’s gods-abandoned sword have, anyhow?” The more she heard about the blade, the more she wished she’d had something like it when she’d been plenipotentiary to Halruaa. She’d had to undertake more than a couple of tasks in her country’s defense that could have benefited from a divinely amorphous weapon.

  “It is not recorded. More than two. An assassin’s weapon must be versatile. Kalkan Swordbreaker once claimed even gods should fear Exorcessum’s final configuration.”

  “Why?”

  “Only one thing is as strong as that explosive configuration: the flame that burns at the heart of a star.”

  Oh. Madri imagined a celestial fire touching down in the heart of Airspur, a blaze so hot it would melt even a god’s flesh from its bones. Such potency, once unleashed, would race out in all directions, burning even the air …

  She put her hand to her mouth and closed her eyes. No one should have that kind of power. “But that would kill Demascus, too.”

  “Only for a time.”

  “It’s madness—what demented deity gave such a weapon into one man’s hands?” she demanded, suddenly angry at the incongruity of it all.

  “Gods, not those of Toril, fabricated the implements for the deva Demascus. When he came to Toril, the gods here created a counterbalance—Kalkan Swordbreaker. Though what we propose to do now goes beyond Kalkan’s original remit. We shall permanently deal with Demascus.”

  Being permanently dealt with was what Demascus deserved. How many other innocent people had he killed, deluded by the same force that had turned him against her? If she had any second thoughts about her vendetta, learning about the “final configuration” convinced her that the deva must be put down for good. She didn’t know exactly how Kalkan planned to do it, but apparently her involvement was somehow important. Maybe even critical … something Fossil had said earlier, about having to “start over” with her, as if having the help of just any half-ghost, half-figment wouldn’t do. Kalkan and the relic angel needed her. Someone who’d been betrayed and killed by Demascus himself. Curious. She promised herself to give it more thought.

  “You have a task to perform,” Fossil said.

  “I don’t recall—”

  “It was predicated on whether Demascus split his sword, which was uncertain. Now he has accessed the dual-blade configuration, and you must do as Kalkan decreed. Are y
ou ready?”

  “What else do I have to fill my hours? Get a manicure at the salon? Have tea with the noble ladies of Airspur? Just tell me.”

  Fossil studied her for a moment, perhaps wondering if the time had come to erase her after all. But then it said, “Go to House Norjah. Tell them where they can find the thief, Riltana, with her accomplice. Tell them the thief who stole one of two paintings missing from their gallery stands at the newly connected threshold of the Demonweb.”

  THE CITY OF AIRSPUR, AKANÛL

  18 LEAFFALL, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

  THE GATEKEEPER WAS GONE. A SWIRL OF SAND, BLACK ON black, was all that remained of the ebony golem. The windsoul and deva were alone in the courtyard, bleeding freely from dozens of slashes and ragged cuts. Riltana’s consternation was mirrored on Demascus’s face. He held two swords, twin to each other save for the color of their pulsing runes.

  Chant waited until he was certain the sand wasn’t about to swirl back into solidity. Then he broke cover. He motioned Jaul to follow. They walked into the courtyard of the structure, which looked like an internment house for the dead.

  Demascus glanced at Chant. “What do you make of these?” he said, twirling the swords for effect.

  “Gaffing blue!” said Jaul. The expression was new to Chant.

  “Yeah, nice trick,” Chant said. “How’d you break your sword and come out with two?”

  Demascus shrugged. “Inspiration?”

  “Accident, you mean,” suggested Riltana.

  The deva laughed. “The golem had two hearts. Well, not hearts, but as good as. I needed something that could pierce both at the same time. And—”

  “And naturally, you split your sword,” Chant finished.

  Riltana said, “Surprised me as much as it did the golem.”

  “Caught me off guard, too, honestly,” Demascus said. Then his brow furrowed. He peered at the sword with the white symbols.

  “What?” said Chant.

  “Each rune holds a specific stored enchantment. These blades hold the same runes as Exorcessum did. Except a couple I used earlier are still faded. Do you think they’re gone for good?”

  “Sharkbite, how would I know?” asked Chant. Though he had to admit, he’d like to. The deva and his sword, scarf, charms, and other missing implements of his previous profession fascinated the pawnbroker. Demascus was a veritable trove of secrets, made all the more so by his missing memories.

  “Go easy on the runes, then,” said Riltana. “Though if you’ve got any left for wounds, you and I both could use it.”

  Demascus glanced at the webwork of blood dripping from his arms and frowned. “Now that you mention it, I do feel a little … unsteady.”

  “Sit down!” said Chant. He waved at a stone block low enough to serve as a bench. “I have something the two of you can share. Riltana, didn’t you once tell me you were always going to carry a vial or two with you?”

  The windsoul shrugged. “Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly get around to restocking. Not all of us take coin from that leech-fondler Master Raneger to sit on our butts all day.”

  “Hey!” said Jaul. “Take that back! What’s wrong with Master Raneger?”

  So ends Jaul’s imaginary romance, thought Chant. The pawnbroker was used to the thief’s vernacular, but he had to admit, her comment was a bit below the belt. He agreed with her assessment of Raneger, even if Jaul didn’t. She knew Chant was ashamed to be taking pay from the crime lord, and now she’d thrown it in his face.

  But Chant swallowed a biting retort. Instead, he approached Demascus first with the glass vial from his belt pouch. He whispered, “Take a little more than half, why don’t you?”

  “Thanks, Chant,” Demascus said. “Let’s sit awhile, then, before we push through into the portal. I don’t want to run smack into Pashra and Chenraya until I’ve caught my breath.”

  Chant took a seat. He packed his pipe with some particularly noisome tabac he’d acquired a few weeks ago. Now, if he could just find a coal … where’d he put his pot? It was especially enchanted to keep a fire halflit for days without tending.

  “We should see how it works,” said Jaul.

  The young man walked across the courtyard to the misted archway.

  “Jaul, don’t mess with that!” Chant said. He stuffed his pipe away and went to his son at the arch.

  “Don’t treat me like I’m an idiot, Pa,” said Jaul, his voice quiet.

  “Sorry. The Gatekeeper rattled me. And with Demascus and Riltana still hurt, I’m a little overexcited. I didn’t meant to—”

  Jaul waved his hands. “Whatever.”

  Chant felt the headway he’d been making with his son pull back like a retreating tide. “No, you’re right, Jaul. Let’s have a look at this and see if we can figure it out together.”

  The pawnbroker lifted a finger and began to trace the line of symbols decorating the arch. He knew a fair bit about secret alphabets.…

  “Do you know what it says?” said Jaul.

  “Something about this portal leading to worlds other than our own,” he lied, though he expected it was true enough, anyway.

  “Gaffing,” Jaul replied, his voice awed.

  Chant nodded. “Exactly.”

  “How do we activate it?”

  Sharkbite, Chant thought. How should I know? Probably just walk in … Except that this entrance could be part of a network, not a direct link to someplace else. Raneger had suggested such might be the case. If they just walked in, who knew where they’d end up? They should try to figure out how to specify an endpoint.

  He glanced back across the courtyard where Demascus and Riltana were trading friendly insults. “Hey, take a look at this, will you?” he called. “The arch seems straightforward enough. Jaul and I think we’ve got it under control, but we’d like a second …”

  Something wasn’t right. Gray mist carpeted the entrance tunnel, low and dark, spreading toward his friends. “Demascus!” Chant yelled.

  The deva glanced up at Chant and Jaul, looking away from the fog. Chant frantically gesticulated and said, “Behind you!”

  The deva glanced back to the courtyard entrance, just in time to see a figure resolve in the mist. A woman with red fingernails like daggers and colorless eyes with tiny voids instead of irises. The red-nailed woman leaped, smashing into him before the deva could get to his feet, and bore him to the sand-strewn floor. She clasped the deva’s head in both hands and tried to bite his neck.

  Behind her, dozens of humanoid shapes popped up like mushrooms after a rain. They charged into the courtyard, a flood of pale flesh. Their thrashing limbs blocked Chant’s view of Demascus. From their throats issued jubilant howls.

  Waukeen’s empty purse, he thought. We’re trapped! Unless …

  “Jaul, through the portal!” he yelled. “Now!”

  Chant’s crossbow was in his hand. He didn’t remember drawing it. He aimed at a black-skinned genasi with blood-colored szuldar looking his way. He fired. The single bolt became three, multiplied by the wizardry forged into his weapon. The wooden bolts struck home, and the vampire howled as it burned to ash.

  A half-dozen vampires on the periphery turned to look at him and Jaul. His son, meanwhile, stood slack-jawed, too surprised to be properly afraid.

  “Through the portal, Jaul!” Chant shouted again. “I’ll cover you.”

  “We … we don’t know where it goes! It might—”

  “Anywhere’s better than here. Don’t worry, I’m right behind you!”

  He hip-checked his son. His girth against Jaul’s lean frame was no contest. The young man tumbled into the mist and was gone. Chant slapped another bolt into his hand crossbow, cranked it back with practiced speed, and fired another three-shot salvo at the advancing, leering vampires. Two went up with satisfying whooshes of flame. The other three paused, expressions of concern flitting over their features.

  A voice, possibly female, bellowed, “Where are the paintings, thief? Norjah has sent me
to collect them.”

  Demascus was suddenly next to Chant, as if he’d been there all along but just edged out of an obscuring shadow. Several of the wounds closed by the healing elixir were laid raw and dripping again, with several new ragged red scrawls.

  “Demascus, through the portal!” Chant said. He fired another bolt. This time he dusted three vampires, but only because they were so thickly clotted in the courtyard it would have been more remarkable had he missed.

  Demascus took a deep breath and did not go through the portal. Of course not, the damn deva had a hero streak that ran a mile deep. Which was even more evident when he wasn’t channeling the residue of his former glory.

  “There’s Riltana!” yelled Demascus, pointing with the tip of his red-runed sword.

  The windsoul was running toward them from the far corner of the room, using the heads of the massed vampires like stepping-stones. It was so ridiculous that Chant half gasped, half laughed at the sight.

  And then a black iron blade nearly skewered him, barely stopped by a parry from Demascus to a viperquick strike by a vampire in a ragged leather jacket. With a whirl of swords too quick for Chant to follow, the deva disarmed the vampire with one sword and lopped off the creature’s head with the other. Tar-colored blood spattered them both.

  “Get her!” screamed the red-nailed leader of the horde. Fanged faces turned in confusion. Of the three or four dozen enraged vampires in the crush, only a few thought to look up. By then the windsoul was past, and more than a few got a heel to the face for their trouble. She reached the arch and dove through. Gone, just like Jaul.

  “I hope this goes someplace,” said Demascus, “and doesn’t just disintegrate us, like that green devil face.”

  “Devil face? What—?” said Chant.

  “I’ll tell you later,” said Damascus, as he fell rather than stepped into the mist.

  “Great,” muttered the pawnbroker, stepping through. Vapor, the hue of summertime blooms, swamped his vision.

  When the mist cleared, Jaul, Demascus, and Riltana were waiting for him.