Mendices saw that he had only two choices: Trust Aeldryn via Thaxus, or return to the miserable cell and wait for a death that might be far too long in coming. It was no choice at all.
“Where are you taking me?” Mendices asked. Thaxus led him by the elbow up the stairs at the end of the corridor. Here the smells of human waste and suffering were replaced by the scents of deep earth and ancient stone. Somewhere above lay the splendor of the palace halls.
“Heed the words of Aeldryn and have faith in me,” said Thaxus. Mendices asked him no more questions. Soon the prisoner was able to walk on his own, and the stairs had brought them to an intersection of subterranean passages. Mendices followed Thaxus into a labyrinth of corridors, stairwells, and vaulted chambers of granite with little decoration. In a short time he was lost in the catacombs, and only regained his sense of direction when they reached the threshold of the royal crypts. Thaxus’ torch guttered, shedding orange light across wall niches filled with sarcophagi and tomb-galleries where generations of royal corpses slumbered beneath the golden lids of a thousand coffins. The smell of ancient rot filled the dusty air.
Thaxus led him into the lowest levels of the crypts, where the most ancient of skeletons had fallen from their niches and mildewed sarcophagi had long ago vomited up piles of bones. Hollow-eyed skulls watched Mendices, and the walls were crusted with nitre, the ceiling sharp with dripping stalactites.
There must be some hidden exit in this forsaken maze of death.
Mendices followed his guide without question. At last Thaxus paused before a great door of black stone. Its edges had been sealed centuries ago, and runes of ancient power were carved across its obsidian face. Despite the portal’s impassable appearance, Thaxus waved a hand before it and uttered a few words, causing it to swing open with a gravelly groan. The ceiling trembled, raining dust and cobwebs. Mendices coughed and followed Thaxus into the musty chamber beyond.
The tomb was an oval room with a flat floor and ceiling. A single sarcophagus of white stone sat on a pedestal at its center, carven into the life-sized image of an armored warrior in repose. The dust of ages lay about the place, and the coffin was adorned with inset rubies, emeralds, and purple agates. A tomb-robber’s dream, this forgotten sepulcher. Yet Mendices’ eyes were drawn instantly from the jeweled sarcophagus toward the room’s true treasure.
It lay horizontally upon a double-pronged stand at the head of the coffin. A longblade of ancient make, sheathed in a scabbard of scaly black Serpent-skin encrusted with gray pearls. The sword’s iron handle had been dipped in gold, its pommel shaped into an eagle’s talon clutching a great fire opal.
Thaxus walked near to the blade but did not touch it. He faced Mendices and held his glowing torch above the sword. “Behold: Earthfang, the Blade of Gyron the Protector, greatest warrior of the First Century.”
Mendices leaned in close to examine the superb hilt. The dust and spiderwebs of ages lay upon it, yet they did nothing to dim its brightness. He ran a trembling finger along the edge of the sarcophagus. “Gyron…” he repeated the name. “This tomb was built in the Age of Heroes. Fifteen hundred years ago.”
“Nineteen hundred,” said Thaxus. “And it has lain undisturbed since Gyron’s death. How well do you know your legends, Mendices? Do you know this blade?”
Mendices shook his head. “I know that Gyron was a slayer of sorcerers. A knight in service to the Third King of Uurz. In the end it was no sorcery that laid him low, but the treachery of his own men who were jealous of his fame.”
“I have not led you here to admire the bones of this great hero,” said Thaxus, “but to claim his blade. If you would have it.”
Mendices looked into the shadowy face of Thaxus. The wizard looked like any normal highborn man; there was nothing of the sorcerer about him. Mendices was certain that he had never seen Thaxus before, but that was not unusual in a city the size of Uurz, where thousands of highborn inhabited hundreds of broad estates. Thaxus was likely not a true sorcerer, but a magician who had found a modicum of power in ancient texts. Most of his kind were frauds, yet Lyrilan had gained his own very real power in this way. Perhaps Thaxus was more than he appeared. Certainly he had enough power to gain Aeldryn’s trust. And there were no other allies looking to aid Mendices.
“The weapon is valuable, I have no doubt of that,” Mendices said. “Would you have me rob this tomb to pay for my escape from Uurz? I will die before I flee, wizard.”
Thaxus smiled. “You misunderstand Aeldryn’s message,” he said, “and the import of this relic. We, the followers of Tyro’s dream, expect far more from you than simple escape. This sword was forged long ago by a sorcerer friendly to Men. Some say it was the work of the Shaper himself. The warrior who wields it stands immune to even the deadliest sorcery. Surely you understand that Lyrilan is a true sorcerer now. If you were to oppose him with an earthly blade, you would stand no chance. But with Earthfang in your fist, the Scholar King cannot harm you. Nor can any other sorcerer. How do you think the great Gyron managed to slay so many of them? It was the power inside this blade that protected him. Now it falls to you, Mendices. You can take the head of Lyrilan with this blade.”
Mendices stared at the sword, only half believing what he heard. “If you have not the stomach for avenging Tyro’s death, I can lead you from the palace. You may begin a new life as a commoner in some distant kingdom. I hear Yaskatha is lovely this time of year. What I offer you this day is a choice…”
Thaxus took a heavy pouch from his robe and held it in his palm. “Take this gold from Aeldryn and use it to flee the Stormlands. Or take this blade and use it to slay the Emperor of Uurz. If you choose the latter, certain of those once loyal to the Gold Legions will rally to your side. They may even choose you as the next Emperor.”
Mendices was reluctant to lift the blade from its stand. “What have you to gain from this conspiracy, wizard? Exactly how are you beholden to Aeldryn? You could take this blade yourself and overthrow Lyrilan without me.”
Thaxus smiled. “First, I am no swordsman. I have not the skill or the honor to wield such a weapon. Second, I could never get close to Lyrilan. But you, as the former Warlord of Uurz, have friends among the legions, and even among the palace guards. If you ask, they will disguise you, bring you close to the throne, and rise up with you. Of this I am certain, as is Aeldryn. Yet the final decision is yours. If you choose to leave this blade lying here with the bones of mighty Gyron, then the Scholar King will remain Emperor until his dying day, which will be long in coming.”
Still, Mendices hesitated. He thought of his three children, scattered across the southern realms. They would never be able to return to the land of their birth. Not while Lyrilan sat upon the throne. Tyro, who was like a son to Mendices, might have been killed by Lyrilan’s own sorcery in the midst of battle, yet there was no proof of it. Mendices was certain that Talondra had been killed by Lyrilan’s magic.
“Choose,” said Thaxus. He stroked the braids of his beard with nervous fingers.
Mendices wrapped the fingers of his left hand about the scabbard, and those of his right hand about the sword’s grip. It was cold as ice against his skin. He pulled the weapon from its sheath with a metallic sigh. The fire opal gleamed in the torchlight, and the black iron blade glimmered as sharp as the day it had been forged.
The words of Aeldryn’s message rang in Mendices’ head.
The future of our cause will soon lie in your hand.
“I choose Earthfang,” Mendices told the wizard. “And vengeance for Tyro.”
Thaxus smiled and offered a small bow. He led Mendices out of the deep crypts into a cold night heavy with rain. Mendices turned to offer his thanks, but Thaxus was already gone.
The palace gardens were dark beneath the storm. Mendices knew exactly where to seek refuge among the quarters of the soldiers who had so recently served him. He carried the Blade of Gyron like a terrible secret, one that would soon avenge Tyro’s death and free Uurz from the bondage of its
Scholar King.
Two weeks after his great victory, Lyrilan greeted the ambassador from New Khyrei in the Grand Hall. The celebrations were long ceased by that time, and the priests had officially ordained him as Emperor of Uurz. The City of Wine and Song was once again living up to its name. The multitudes hailed Lyrilan when he went among them on a palanquin chair, or rode upon a steed hung with golden mail. He kept a high profile in the first few days of his reign. The people needed to know that the Scholar King had won his feud with the hawks of Tyro, and that the city itself was safe from invaders.
Each day brought golden sun and silver rain to the city, and Lyrilan was glad to be back in his own land. How he had missed the bright spires and gardens, the minstrels and orchards, the simple folk that called him their own. He gave three speeches, all proclaiming peace and promising prosperity. He would do his best to keep both pledges, and he was confident in his power to do so. He visited the tomb of Ramiyah with a fresh bouquet of flowers at each sunrise, yet the pain of losing her had faded to a distant ache in the back of his skull.
It had nearly ruined him, yes, but he had found wisdom, strength, and salvation in the Books of Imvek the Silent. There he found also the means for vengeance, and a return to the throne that was stolen from him by his brother. He had accepted that the one thing his newfound powers could never return to him was Ramiyah. When he had acknowledged that fact–and it was much easier once the scales were balanced by Talondra’s death–he found himself capable of a far greater understanding. Discovering the true names of the Old Breed in Imvek’s final volume had changed everything.
Lyrilan would make sure that Imvek’s hard-won knowledge was preserved, never again lost to his people. It was the only power that would keep Uurz from falling prey to the dark whims of the original masters of sorcery. These ancient beings were fonts of untold power, and to master it was to master the Old Breed themselves. Yet contending with the Old Breed was something only to be done in the face of extreme desperation. It was far wiser for Men to make allies of them.
The threat of Zyung was gone, as was that of Khyrei. Lyrilan would not call his present mood one of happiness, but it was close enough to contentment. By joining with Iardu and the other sorcerers to face down the God-King, he had found an unexpected blessing in the company of Vaazhia. The lizardess could never replace Ramiyah. There were none in the living world who could do that. Yet he found Vaazhia fascinating, alluring, and ultimately irresistible.
Vaazhia told him stories of the Ancient World, calling up her memories like lost jewels plucked from the murky sea-bottom. Already Lyrilan had conceived the title of his next book: Chronicles of the Old Breed. He had learned many of their secrets from Imvek, and he would learn the rest from Vaazhia. When he was not enjoying one of her spellbinding narrations, he was relishing the splendidness of her lithe body. She was the first woman he had lain with since Ramiyah. Undroth and Volomses had returned from Yaskatha, and both of them approved his dalliance with the lizardess, although they did not quite understand it. Upon their advice he had refrained from appearing with Vaazhia in public, but he would not keep the relationship a secret for much longer. Her strange beauty thrilled him, and he disliked keeping it hidden. Yet there were more important considerations that needed tending before the revelation of his new consort.
Today was a banquet for the Khyrein ambassador, the first to visit Uurz in a century. The slave revolt in that kingdom had brought sweeping changes and a new King who, by all accounts, was a brave and honest man. As a former slave Tong the Avenger was bent on reforming the black city and restructuring its every institution. Never had there been a better time to forge a lasting treaty of peace and cooperation between Uurz and Khyrei.
Lyrilan wore the crown of gold and emeralds as he sat patient and silent upon the throne. The bronze statue of his father looked upon him from between the pillars. He had ordered it moved from the Plaza of Great Ones into the Grand Hall five days ago, so he would be reminded of Dairon’s wisdom whenever he sat in the high seat. A statue of Tyro was being erected in the Plaza even now, and it would stay there. Lyrilan would not trouble himself to look upon it. Not for a great while at least.
Sixty spearmen in green-gold corslets and winged helms stood in a double line across the center of the hall. Behind them lingered the usual crowds of courtiers and highborns who perpetually filled the palace. Undroth and Volomses, whose titles had been elevated to that of Warlord and Royal Vizier, stood to either side of the throne. Upon a flower-decked balcony twelve minstrels played a symphony of welcome to honor the Khyrein representative.
Hu Yuan, Hand of the Avenger, Envoy of New Khyrei, entered the hall with a modest retinue of servants as a herald announced his titles. Hu Yuan’s robes were crimson and black, trimmed with silver thread, and his almond eyes were dark and keen. His sable hair was tied into a topknot above his head, with a single braid falling the length of his back. His presence might have been menacing but for the pleasant smile on his face. He carried a golden coffer in his hands, a gift for the Emperor of Uurz.
Lyrilan marveled at the man’s distinct beauty, for he had seen few living Khyreins up close. Hu Yuan’s skin was pale as milk, a striking contrast with his black hair and eyes.
He bowed low and greeted Lyrilan in the common tongue of the Five Cities with a perfect accent. “Great Emperor of the Stormlands, Scholar King of Uurz, Lord of the Sacred Waters, Son of Dairon. This one brings you greetings from the High King of New Khyrei, His Majesty Tong the Avenger. He offers you peace, friendship, and brotherhood.”
Lyrilan returned the envoy’s smile. “You are most welcome here, Hu Yuan,” he said. “Long have I awaited the day when such a message would arrive from the black city.”
Hu Yuan lifted the golden coffer. “This one brings also a gift from his King for the Emperor of the Stormlands.” One of the envoy’s attendants stepped forward to unlock and open the coffer lid. Hu Yuan dropped to one knee, offering Lyrilan a clear view into the box. Precious stones in seven colors sparkled there like frozen flames.
Volomses came down the steps to accept the coffer for Lyrilan. Such a splendid gift was common as the first step in reaching any accord between monarchs. It was a good beginning.
As Volomses took the coffer into his bony fingers, the Uurzian guards on either side of the envoy rushed forward. At first Lyrilan thought they meant to slay his guest, but in the next second he realized they were rushing the dais, not the ambassador. One of their armored shoulders collided with Volomses and sent him tumbling. The box of jewels spilled its contents across the floor of polished marble.
A spearman rushed at Undroth, and two more lunged at the guards stationed directly behind the throne. A fourth man had dropped his spear to unsheathe a dark longblade. A great fire opal flashed on its pommel. As the swordsman leaped up the steps toward the throne, other spearmen behind him turned to strike at their brothers.
Lyrilan saw the face of Mendices beneath the visor of the winged helm. The long nose and heavy brows were unmistakable. The clangor of spears against shields filled the air, and the death grunts of impaled men. The Khyrein envoy and his attendants cowered at the foot of the dais. They were caught helpless in the middle of this sudden coup.
Undroth turned a spear-thrust from his belly with the blade of his broadsword. The dais guards engaged the two men charging at them. Mendices stepped between them all and thrust his blade at the Emperor’s heart.
Yet the Blade of Gyron never reached Lyrilan’s breast. Mendices drove his arm forward in a strike both straight and true, but his sword had become a pale vapor rising from his fist and fading into nothingness.
Lyrilan smiled at the empty-handed assassin. “You made the wrong choice,” he said.
Mendices’ eyes grew round as Lyrilan breathed another, less identifiable series of words into his face. He shivered and fell at the Scholar King’s feet, a bag of splintered bones and torn flesh. A small cry escaped his lips, and twin streams of crimson spilled from his mouth
to run along his cheeks. The winged helm fell from his head.
Undroth struck down the rebel accosting him, sinking his broadsword deep into the man’s skull. The dais defenders drove their foes backward with clever spear-thrusts, down to the bottom of the polished steps, where they impaled them almost at once. Only the most skilled of spearmen were selected to stand this close to the throne, and here was evidence of their worth.
Between the avenue of pillars, the remaining rebels were being cut down. Some attempted to flee when they saw the coup had failed. More guards rushed into the hall and skewered them without mercy. In all, fifteen rebels were killed in a matter of moments, with only three of Lyrilan’s loyal spearmen lost. Somehow, Mendices had persuaded fifteen men to join his foolish vendetta. The former Warlord lay still alive, yet broken and dying, at the foot of the throne.
Lyrilan sighed. “I gave you a choice, Mendices,” he said. “You could have taken the gold and fled my city. Yet instead you took the blade.”
Mendices shook his head, spitting blood instead of questions. Yet the questions leaped from his eyes, bright as needles.
A tapestry behind the throne rippled, and Thaxus the Wizard stepped from behind it. He walked to the throne and stood silent at Lyrilan’s side. The victorious guards were helping Volomses and the Khyrein ambassador to their feet. The minstrels had ceased playing when the fighting began, but now they started up again as a crowd of relieved courtiers streamed back into the hall.
Lyrilan observed the figure of Thaxus shifting and swirling like a pillar of gray smokes at his elbow, until it coalesced into its true form. Vaazhia leaned against the arm of the throne, her scaled skin bright as the scattered jewels of Khyrei. She lowered her horned head to kiss Lyrilan’s lips. The eyes of Mendices rolled backward in their sockets, and he writhed like a dying viper.
“I would have liked to ask what part you played in the murder of Ramiyah,” Lyrilan said to him. “Yet upon further reflection I decided that it was not important. You were only doing the work of my brother and his Sharrian witch. Both of them have paid for their crimes. So I gave you the choice to live in peace or die in hate. The enchanted blade, like Thaxus himself, was never real. And if it had been, it still would not have protected you.”
Seven Sorcerers: Book Three of the Books of the Shaper Page 36