The Sword of Midras

by Tracy Hickman

  The sorcerer glanced down at his own attire. He wore the black, hooded tunic of a sorcerer of his order. The long, more formal robes of the cabal looked nice in paintings or when depicted in statues, but were not terribly practical for purposes of craft. This costume suited his purposes far better; the hooded tunic had been embroidered with infinite care from metallic threads of gold and silver into very specific filigree patterns that wound around from his chest to the back, and ultimately up over the truss of his head. They served a number of purposes in Obsidian magic, some of which had to do with spell mnemonics and remembering the construction of incantations. There were many who believed that the tunic itself had magical properties, a deception and misdirection that the Obsidian sorcerers never corrected. Evard also still wore a riding cape of similar design, which had kept him reasonably warm on the road and occasionally had offered him shelter from the rains. Beyond these absolute symbols of his sorcery, his dress was rather commonplace, with cloth leggings and high boots to the top of his thighs.

  However, he frowned not so much at the thought of what he wore, but the state of his clothing. The intervening rains of the previous week, and mud that followed, had left both him and his clothes in a dreadful mess. He would have preferred to appear before the general in more pristine, and therefore intimidating, attire.

  Well, he thought, I’ll just have to depend on the force of my personality.

  Evard pushed open the enormous double doors with both hands and stepped into the general’s reception hall.

  As Evard expected, this room was a rotunda with a raised platform opposite the doors. To one side of the rotunda, a wooden scaffold reached up from the floor to the domed ceiling thirty feet overhead. The sorcerer glanced up at the dome, which had been plastered over in white with the faint lines of charcoal sketching over its surface. A number of lanterns were fixed at the top of the scaffolding, where a pair of figures had begun work on the fresco that would someday adorn the ceiling.

  On this platform sat four thrones representing each of the four generals who commanded the Obsidian Army. Only the third of these thrones was currently in use, its occupant surrounded by nearly two dozen members of his staff. Each of these was hovering like a moth about a flame, trying desperately not to get too close while simultaneously terrified of being too far away. The general’s voice echoed throughout the hall, thundering about the nervous chatter of the sycophants.

  Evard turned and drew within himself, calling with surety on the power he knew was there. He felt the sudden connection with nothing and with everything that was so familiar to him, and stole from the universal part of that chaos that threatened to consume him every time he approached it. He was a successful thief, for no sorcerer survived being caught by the chaos. With the fragment of chaos now taking form within him, he reached out with his hand and released it into reality with a flick of his wrist. As he did so, he felt, rather than saw, a lock of his own hair turn white.

  The enormous bronze doors slammed shut with such violence that their sound shocked everyone else in the room into silence.

  Evard turned back to the platform, striding across the rotunda as he spoke in loud, clipped tones. “I am Evard Dirae, Craftmaster of the Obsidians, and your obedience is required.”

  The wide-eyed general pushed himself to his feet. “This is a closed council of war! I gave no permission—”

  “My businesses is with General Karpasic,” the sorcerer continued in a booming voice, his booted footfalls across the polished floor never hesitating in their relentless beat. “It is a confidential matter between the general and the cabal. Anyone else who wishes to be party to that conversation will do so at their peril.”

  The staff and warriors in the room shifted their glances quickly to the general. General Karpasic considered the approaching sorcerer, watching him until he stopped at the foot of the platform. Evard gazed back at Karpasic, waiting.

  “I believe our conference is concluded,” the general said to the courtiers after a few moments. “Why don’t all you make an inspection of your commands while I consult with this Obsidian?”

  The staff members and warriors moved quickly out of the hall. Even the artisans scurried down through the scaffolding and hastily exited, closing the bronze doors behind them as quietly as possible. All the while, both Evard and the general stood in silence, considering each other. Neither of them moved or spoke until the sound of the last door closing died in the hall.

  Evard was not, by nature, a happy or outgoing man under the best of circumstances. His calm, placid features generally displayed a disdainful indifference to events around him. He had a narrow face that came down to a chin that was almost feminine in its softness. His pale-green eyes, however, were hard and cold. Everything about him was carefully ordered with the singular exception of his hair, which was a dark, wavy mane with something of a will of its own.

  Except, of course, when the magic marked it with a streak of white. The mark it left would fade back into its natural color over the course of the week, but for Evard, it symbolized his giving something back to the magic. He had never believed in getting something for nothing.

  “My apologies for not having received you personally,” the general spoke first. “We knew, of course, of your arrival, but as you can see, we are very busy with plans for the coming campaign and—”

  “The Obsidians are certainly most acutely aware of the plans for our warriors, and more particularly, the plans of the generals that command them,” Evard interrupted, his voice cool with disdain. “It seems you have been busy indeed here at Hilt.”

  “Hilt is certainly the most important strategic position in all the Blackblade range,” Karpasic said, caution in his voice.

  “It is certainly strategic, I will give you that,” the sorcerer said, his eyes shifting about the rotunda. “You and your fellow generals have achieved a great deal here at Hilt. You have created a fortress—a monument, if you will—that has all the appearance of the great empires of the past, without having to bother with any of its substance.”

  “Master sorcerer, you go too f-far,” Karpasic sputtered.

  “Indeed?” Evard reached up and undid the clasp of his cape as he stepped up onto the throne platform. “The Cabal of the Obsidians would undoubtedly agree that I have not gone far enough. I must admit, it is a remarkable achievement. You have managed to divert the labor of campaign slaves entirely toward an installation that benefits only the military. I deal in sorcery, but I must admit, you generals have performed a rather phenomenal magic trick of your own. While no one was looking, to have transformed an open rock quarry into a monument to your own might and, it seems, this enormous lava cave into what passes for an underground palace.”

  “It is truly a magnificent achievement … an achievement to the greater glory of the Obsidian Cause,” Karpasic added quickly. “It is, as you say, a demonstration of the unassailable might of both the strength of arms and the arcane power of the cabal. We have even begun construction on the Tombs of Eternity, where the memory of our achievements together shall stand for all time—”

  “Tell me, General, just how deep are these caverns and lava tubes that are accommodating this installation?”

  “We … We do not know,” the general answered, his eyes studying the floor as he spoke.

  “You don’t know?” Evard’s eyes narrowed. “How deep have you extended your construction?”

  “We have constructed ten levels so far,” the general continued. “The lowest are where we have set those magnificent tombs to the honor of the Obsidian Cause. Those are constructed in a winding maze of lava tubes, but the workmen have not reported finding an end to them. It is, perhaps, another reason why we call them the Tombs of Eternity, as they seem to go on—”

  “And so, as I understand it,” Evard said as he folded his arms across his chest, “you sent Captain Bennis into the Hellfire Rift searching for a path that almost certainly does not exist when you have unknown underground passages in the
foundations of your fortress.”

  “Captain Bennis is performing his duty,” the general asserted. “Besides, he is carrying a cursed sword. I thought it best that he remove it from our encampment … For the safety of our other warriors.”

  “Ah, very noble of you,” Evard spoke in more of a hiss through his clenched jaw. “Unfortunately, the Cabal of the Obsidians have a considerable curiosity about such cursed swords.”

  “Oh,” the general said quietly. “That is unfortunate.”

  “General Karpasic,” the sorcerer said with emphatic fidelity. “You will recall Captain Bennis at once, and you would do well to remember that—”

  “I am sorry, Master Sorcerer,” the general said, shaking his head. “That is not possible.”

  “Not possible?”

  “The captain and his guide were due back two days ago,” the general said, licking his lips. “I myself sent runners to retrieve them. They’re missing.”

  Evard clenched his teeth, screwing tight his eyes in frustration. “You have lost the captain and the sword?”

  “Captain Bennis was performing his duty,” the general reiterated as though, if he said it often enough, it would somehow save him. “It is a dangerous place. Things happen.”

  “Yes, General,” Evard said, casting a cold and calculating look at Karpasic. “And sometimes even to generals.”

  * * *

  Evard stood atop a partially completed watchtower. All of Hilt, and its partially completed glory, lay beneath him. Only the peaks of the Blackblade range were above him, each shining in the light of a brilliant sunset.

  Evard began to whistle. It was a strange, simple tune. Its notes were not entirely precise nor was the sound so loud that it might attract attention of the many warriors or artisans moving in the courts below.

  But it was heard.

  A dark shape flitted among the peaks. It suddenly rose, bounced, and plunged in the unpredictable winds across the mountain face against which it struggled. With great effort, it crossed over the tower wall and landed without grace at the foot of the sorcerer.

  Evard reached down as he leaned over, extending his arm.

  “There you are, Monk!” Evard smiled.

  The homunculus scampered up the sorcerer’s arm and quickly came to perch on his right shoulder. Evard reached up, stroking under the monster’s chin. “Well, my friend, it looks as though your master has gotten himself lost. There is no need to worry. I’ve known Aren since he wasn’t much bigger than you. He’s too stubborn to die. But now it seems he stumbled onto something that’s a matter of prophecy, and I fear he’s in over his head.”

  Evard reached back and lifted the homunculus. He set the creature on a section of the battlement wall in front of him. He consulted one last time the embroidered markings on his tunic, then reached deeper within himself than he had for a long time. Both satisfied and shaken, he raised both hands above his head, weaving them down in front of him in precise patterns, then focusing his palms toward where the homunculus shifted nervously on the wall.

  Expanding spheres of light erupted all around the homunculus. The creature screeched, then two screeched, then four screeched … Eight … Sixteen … Within moments, more than five dozen of the small winged creatures were flitting about the top of the tower, each one identical to the first, and each answering to the name of Monk.

  Evard collapsed to one knee, a wide swath of his hair suddenly gone brilliant white. He staggered to his feet and reached up with both hands toward the cloud of homunculi circling above him.

  “We’ve got to bring him home before any more damage is done,” Evard commanded of the creatures. “Find him and tell me where he is.”

  Sixty-four homunculi exploded across the evening sky.

  CHAPTER

  11

  Mistral

  “Where am I?” Aren moaned.

  “So the sleeping warrior awakens,” came a familiar voice from somewhere beyond the overwhelming pain that encompassed his head. Aren screwed his eyes shut tightly against the light that threatened to explode if he allowed it into his throbbing skull. He could feel that he was sitting with his back against something uncomfortably hard. Some protrusion was digging into his back, next to his spine.

  “Why won’t the ground hold still?” he asked, his mouth dry.

  “Because you’re on a boat,” Syenna said.

  Aren’s eyes flew open despite his better judgment. The brightness of the day nearly overwhelmed him, but he had to get some sense of his surroundings. After an agonizingly long moment, the glare resolved itself into shapes and colors.

  That they were on a ship he had to accept largely on the evidence that, so far as he could tell from where he sat, they were surrounded by water. He had seen ships before, but he had never been this close to one, let alone on the deck of one.

  He tried to take it all in. While everything looked extraordinarily well ordered, he could not make sense of his surroundings. It seemed to him an extraordinarily complex conglomeration of various sized pegs, pulleys, beams, masts, and enormous canvas sheets all held together by metal bands and an incomprehensible web of ropes. Above his head, there were men—sailors, he supposed—moving like spiders about this web of ropes, listening to the barked orders of their master at the back of the ship and answering back with tugs on various ropes or shifting the beams from which the masts hung. Everything seemed to be connected to everything else.

  “A boat … of course,” Aren answered with a calm he did not feel. He carefully and deliberately got to his feet but was suddenly unsure as to what he could safely touch without upsetting the balance of the entire, incomprehensible system. He concluded that the railing appeared both solid enough to support him and not critical to the operation of the vessel. He gripped it as though it were the only stable object in his life.

  “A ship named the Mistral,” Syenna said, her eyes fixed on him, watching him carefully as he regained his senses. “She is a bark, to be precise.”

  Aren swung his head with deliberation away from Syenna, still gripping the railing hard to help him remain upright. As he did, he could see a dark, mountainous shoreline that appeared not more than half a league in the distance, filling the horizon.

  “Where are we?” Aren asked, peering at the coast.

  “It’s not important for you to know that right now,” Syenna said in flat tones.

  Aren turned to look at her as though she were joking with him. “Do we have to play this game? You know I cannot swim.”

  “Even if you could, you would never make that shore.” Syenna shrugged. “Those are the Sawtooth Mountains. Treacherous, rocky shoals and heavy breakers all along their coast. Even if you managed to make it ashore, the mountains themselves are only passable if you know the routes.”

  “You seem to be familiar enough with them,” Aren countered. “Indeed, it occurs to me now that you’ve been holding back on quite a number of things from your good friend, Captain Bennis.”

  Syenna only gazed back at him.

  Aren decided to try a different tack. “So, how long was I out?”

  “Out?”

  “Yes, unconscious,” Aren continued. “I don’t remember ever booking passage on a boat, and I certainly don’t remember boarding one.”

  “It’s been about four days,” Syenna replied.

  “Four days?” Aren chuckled and then winced at the resurging pain in his head. “You must have hit me harder than I thought.”

  “Well, to be honest—”

  “That should be different,” Aren scoffed.

  “We have an apothecary who has been keeping you in a cooperative, very still, and gratefully silent condition since then,” Syenna continued, ignoring his remark. “We will be arriving in another day or so at our destination, so I thought it best to get you awake and clear minded before we make landfall.”

  Aren’s head was still spinning, but at least he was able to see through the pain. He was unreasonably thirsty, although the thought of dr
inking anything—let alone eating—still revolted him. “I don’t suppose you would be interested in telling just where we are landing?”

  “You’ll know when we arrive … in the morning or perhaps midday,” Syenna said, “if the offshore winds hold through the night.”

  “Then if you’re not interested in telling where we are going,” Aren offered, trying to appear more casual than his head would allow. Whatever they had given him, he decided, was still playing havoc with his head and his stomach at the same time. “Then perhaps we could talk about how we got here. Last thing I remember was my standing in front of you, boldly prepared to defend your honor against the enemy when you hit me from behind with something that felt rather like a war hammer.”

  “As if I needed you to defend me!” Syenna’s nostrils flared.

  “Well, all I’m saying is,” Aren said, pursing his lips into a slight pout as he spoke, “that I was trying to behave in a courteous and honorable manner when you betrayed me.”

  “Betrayed you!” Syenna’s face reflected her contemptuous disbelief.

  “You must admit”—Aren smiled at his own joke—“it was hardly honorable to clout me from behind.”

  “How dare you speak of honor?” Syenna seethed. “When have the Obsidians ever acted with honor?”

  “Actually, I think on reflection you will see that the Obsidian Empire has always acted with absolute honor,” Aren countered.

  “Their honor!”

  “Of course it’s their honor!” The argument was tiring Aren, but he certainly did not want to show any weakness before Syenna now. “What other kind of honor is there?”

  “An honor that does not destroy!” Syenna said, anger rising in her face. “Honor that does not kill … does not oppress!”