The Sword of Midras

by Tracy Hickman

  Standing near her was that strange old man he now knew as Gerad Zhal. He had a round, jovial face rimmed in white whiskers that extended up over his ears to form a ring around his shiny, bald head. Aren remembered him as the broad-shouldered man who had stood next to the baroness Gianna when he was brought into court. He had apparently packed away his blue mantle and cap for a leather vest worn over his simple, linen shirt and cloth pantaloons. Others in the crew had referred to him as Loremaster, which Aren assumed was his title. Aren was most curious about this man, as he had been the one who had suggested this little journey in the first place, and was now apparently coming along for the ride as well. Aren had thought the suggestion of taking the sword to Opalis was one that would have instigated another near-riot among the delegates of the Council of Might but, to the captain’s astonishment, all parties quickly came to agreement.

  Well, I’ve got nearly two weeks on this boat to find out why, he thought to himself.

  The Cypher was, according to the loremaster, a barque-class vessel and significantly larger than the Mistral. Zhal had also gone into a rather lengthy explanation as to just how this barque differed from the caravel on which he had arrived—whose crew had apparently amused themselves by convincing him it was actually a brigantine “brig”—and why the barque was a superior choice for travel. Zhal had continued speaking long after Aren had lost interest in the subject, but the captain did learn one thing from their conversation: the loremaster loved to talk.

  Aren’s stomach lurched slightly. He frowned. The ship’s motion across the waves was not nearly as abrupt as that of the caravel but was nevertheless disquieting.

  I am a warrior of the Obsidian Cause, Aren reminded himself. My will conquers mere physical discomfort. I will corner this loremaster Zhal and make him spill his guts before this voyage is over!

  He drew in a deep breath, his fingers gripping the railing a little tighter.

  We are far enough away from the coast, he thought. They will be turning the ship to the east any moment now.

  But the ship continued its northward course toward the dark, lightning-streaked horizon beyond the Siren Isle.

  * * *

  Evard Dirae, Craftmaster of the Cabal of the Obsidians, stood once again before the four thrones of the generals at Hilt. General Karpasic was intentionally keeping him waiting. It was a vain display of authority on the part of the general, which was at the moment, of considerable inconvenience to Evard.

  Just another knot in your noose, dear general, Evard thought, trying to keep his impatience in check.

  At last the general arrived, striding into the room from one of the numerous doors situated behind the thrones. He was, as usual, clanking about in his full armor.

  Does he have more than one set of armor, or do they just peel the general out of it every night? Evard mused. He would hardly have been surprised if the vain commander claimed to sleep in the monstrous thing.

  “My apologies, Master Sorcerer,” the general began speaking even as he stomped toward his throne. “I’m certain you understand that the pressing duties of my command—”

  “What I understand is that you are a general, I represent the Cabal of the Obsidians, and that your obedience is required,” Evard spoke in loud, clear tones that echoed through the otherwise empty enormity of the hall. “Not requested. Not asked. Not hoped for nor begged, but required.”

  “You have no right to talk to me that way!” the general sputtered.

  “I apparently have every right, as I have obviously just done so and no one has done, or will do, anything to prevent me from doing so again.” Evard spoke as though stating a fact of nature.

  The sorcerer calmly mounted the three steps leading up to the throne platform, then turned and sat down on General Karpasic’s throne.

  The general glared at the sorcerer but did not move.

  “I have orders for you, General, from the Cabal of the Obsidians,” Evard stated as he looked back at the general with cold distain. “You are to organize your armies with the reinforcements we have provided you this week and prepare to march within three days’ time. You will then proceed west through the pass into South Paladis and turn your force north. That would be on your right—”

  “I understand which way is north!” Karpasic fumed.

  “Then your ability to astonish me continues, General. Your objective is to find and secure a five-league-wide region around the junction of the Sanctus and Fortus Rivers at all cost.”

  “May I ask what is there?”

  “You may not,” Evard replied.

  “Well, is it a city or stronghold or—”

  “It’s where the Sanctus and Fortus rivers meet, General,” the sorcerer said. “It is vital to the success of the Obsidian Cause, and you will carry out your orders as instructed. Is that clear?”

  “A river junction?” General Karpasic sputtered. “Where is the glory in conquering some piece of farmland?”

  “I assume you’ll know its value when you see it.” Evard smiled darkly at the general. “Have no fear, General. I’ll be back soon enough to help you do the right thing.”

  “You’re leaving, then?” There was more hope in the general’s voice than he would have probably liked to have shown.

  “Yes, I have an errand for the cabal that cannot wait,” Evard said.

  “Where are you going?” the general asked.

  “That is of no concern of yours, General,” Evard sneered as he stood abruptly from the throne. “You have your orders. I suggest that you follow them. The cabal has been debating of late whether some magical ‘reshaping’ of our generals might produce a better, more trustworthy command of our armies. What do you think of the idea, General? Has it any merit?”

  The general blanched as Evard stepped past him.

  Evard was in a hurry. The search for Aren had taken up much of his time and too much of his powers in sorcery. He had received his friend’s message from the homunculus three days before, and it had taken those days to prepare before he could leave. Now it would be all he could do to reach Opalis by the eighteenth day.

  * * *

  The ship rolled heavily to starboard, the hull groaning as the waves crashed against it. The shrill whistle of the wind through the rigging, heard even through the four decks above Aren, sounded in his ears like the keening of angry spirits. The single lantern, suspended from the ceiling, swung wildly on its hook, causing the shadows in the room to shift and sway. Water sloshed back and forth across the floor of his cell with every bounding movement of the ship, carrying with it the bucket into which, it seemed to Captain Bennis, the contents of everything he had eaten in the last two days was destined to be deposited. The greatest challenge was to hit the bucket as it slid about the floor, carried by the ever-moving puddle of water that had somehow made its way from the torrent drenching the top deck, down to his brig cell near the bottom of the ship.

  “It was really quite a simple matter of knowing where everyone’s own interest lay,” Gerad Zhal said cheerfully, his back pressed against the larboard bulkhead of the ship, his right leg pushing against the frame of the starboard bunk fixed to the hull opposite him. The stance effectively wedged him in place. “If you know what they want and can show them how they can have it by agreeing with you, then consensus is easy to achieve.”

  Aren lay sprawled across the bunk, gripping its frame with colorless hands as his head lolled over the edge.

  Death, Aren thought miserably, would have been preferable.

  “Take Aerie, for example,” the loremaster continued. “The guildmasters there care more about profit and keeping their trade lines open than for the ancient past. They could care less about this Avatar blade of yours, but they do care about keeping Norgard trade in their pocket. So by convincing Norgard that having your relic sword in Opalis made it far more likely that they would be part of the warrior-magic it represented, well, that in turn allowed Norgard to convince Aerie to vote with them in favor of our expedition. Do you see?
”

  Aren tried to raise his head to speak but could only manage to blurt out the two things he had actually heard: “Warrior … magic?”

  “Well, warrior-magic may have been a carefully selected phrase on my part, I’ll grant you,” the loremaster admitted, but then dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “But I do believe that some form of ancient magic is evidenced by your sword. Whether that can be put to any practical use by Norgard, or any of the other factions of the Council of Might, is purely a matter of conjecture. However, so long as each of them at least believed in the possibility, then they were willing to allow the sword to be brought to Opalis for examination. Alas, it also brings the sword near the borders of Norgard’s own conquests, but I believe that is a risk worth taking.”

  The bucket had slid to rest beneath Aren’s face. The smell of his previous meals rose up to greet him. He tried to add to its contents once more, but despite his spasms, there seemed nothing left inside him to contribute.

  “The lady Miriam could easily be counted, as she is the representative of Opalis, so long as she could also be convinced that Norgard would remain behind their borders and not simply take the sword from them once it was in reach of their city,” the loremaster continued, completely at ease with the lurching of the ship about them. “That essentially left the problem of the two warlords: the paladins of Resolute and the shogun of … Is this making any sense to you?”

  The ship suddenly heeled over hard to larboard just as it pitched upward at the bow. The bucket was swept across the floor and backward along with the water, both splashing against the back wall of the brig.

  Aren was hearing the sound of the loremaster’s voice, but little else. At least listening to someone speaking to him, even if he was too sick to register the meaning of the words, was better than suffering the ship’s motion alone. Aren let out a loud belch then managed to mumble. “Keep … talking.”

  “Oh, very well then.” Gerad Zhal smiled, shifting his boot slightly to strengthen his hold against the heaving wall at his back. “As I was saying…”

  The room reeled as the bow plunged downward. The bucket tipping over at last, spilling its contents to mix with the seawater rushing forward. Aren belched loudly once again and then rolled over onto his back. His hands gripped the sides of the bunk, and he closed his eyes, trying to will the universe to hold still around him. At least I won’t have to aim for the bucket anymore, he thought.

  “Are you all right?” Gerad asked.

  “No! I mean … is it always like this?”

  “Oh no!” Gerad chuckled. “It is usually much worse! We hardly ever attempt this kind of crossing anymore. Even the best of our mariners consider it entirely too dangerous to risk. But the weather was particularly favorable, and the baroness felt the need for urgency.”

  “This … is favorable?” Aren muttered through quivering lips. With his eyes closed, he could barely manage to concentrate on the loremaster’s voice, even if his words did not make sense to him.

  “For the Baden-Fox clan? Certainly!” The loremaster smiled, and the room shuddered under the side impact of a wave. “The original Baden-Fox founded Etceter as a haven for his … well, pirate vessels. They became particularly adept at sailing just inside the edge of the storm and raiding the trade ships that passed along the coastlines between the Longfall Peninsula, Elysium, and the Perennial Coast. Even so, no one has actually navigated across the storm this way in my lifetime. It’s all rather thrilling to be part of it, don’t you agree?”

  Aren swallowed hard, keeping his eyes tightly shut as he managed a single, exhausted word. “Thrilling.”

  “You know, I think you could use some fresh air,” the loremaster decided.

  Aren opened his eyes to stare at Gerad in disbelief.

  The loremaster slid his boot from the opposing bench to stand on the still-careening deck, his feet set wide and his knees slightly bent. To Aren, it seemed that the room was moving around Gerad.

  “Let’s go up to the top deck,” Gerad urged. “We must be somewhere near the middle of the bay by now. We might even see the citadel!”

  “Citadel?” Aren blinked hard, struggling to rise up on one elbow while trying to concentrate on what Gerad was saying. “What citadel?”

  “Oh, it’s a legend passed down by the pirates and mariners of the bay.” Gerad smiled back at Aren. “They say that those who sail through the center of the Great Storm will see a great gathering of lights beneath the waves. They tell of a great citadel beneath the waves where the souls of all the dead mariners who have been taken by the storm gather in a place of quiet, peace, and perpetual tranquility. Other legends talk of the citadel, but not as a peaceful place, but a place of constant war between the souls of pirates forced to eternally fight one another. Either way, it would be something to see the lights deep below the storm of the bay, would it not?”

  “You … You go.” Aren waved feebly as he sank back into the bunk. “I can’t leave the brig.”

  “What are you talking about?” Gerad laughed. “The bars are not locked. You’re free to come up on deck with me. I’ll even help you with your safety line.”

  “No! Thank you!” Aren said with exhausting vehemence. “When I say I cannot leave the brig … I mean … I mean, I cannot leave the brig.”

  “You would feel a great deal better if you would just—”

  “Go away,” Aren said feebly.

  “But I was going to tell you all about Opalis, its splendor and the benevolence of the Titans who rule there!”

  “Just go away,” Aren said, closing his eyes once more and gripping tighter the sides of his bunk.

  * * *

  The Cypher found its way out of the tempest on the evening of the fourth day in the storm. The seas gradually calmed as they sailed on toward the north, and with them, Aren’s stomach began to calm as well. By that time, they had been at sea five days.

  On the morning of the sixth day, Aren managed to struggle up the ladders from the Cypher’s brig through the intervening decks to again see the open sky. He was surprised to see land to the northeast, but Syenna explained that it was not the Ash Coast of South Paladis but Spindrift Island—a place where the barons of Etceter had forever decreed no one should make landfall. No reason had ever been given, and legends had filled the void, but no mariner would challenge a cursed place. Aren did not remember much of what the loremaster had said to him but, much to his surprise, he realized that being on the open deck did help him feel a little better.

  By the time the Cypher made anchor off the Ash Coast that afternoon, none was more pleased to leave the ship than the Obsidian captain. Opalis was still a four days’ journey ahead of them, but at least, Aren reflected, he could keep his meals down along the way.

  However, he knew it meant that he would arrive in Opalis in ten days rather than the eighteen he had estimated in his message to Evard. He was unconcerned, though, at having to wait for his friend’s arrival.

  After all, he thought, what could happen in eight days?

  PART III

  THE SIEGE

  CHAPTER

  16

  Opalis

  The city of Opalis lay at the horizon like a beckoning mirage.

  Syenna, Aren, and Zhal, along with six of the baroness’ guards, stopped their horses in wonder on the road that crossed the plain. They had followed the Jaana River from the Ash Coast up to the crossroads village of Jaanaford, then continued up the road that paralleled West Jaana for several days. Now, in an instant, the weariness of their journey was momentarily forgotten.

  “It’s incredible,” Aren said, shaking his head. Sitting on the back of the chestnut horse they had placed him on, the vision that had caught his eyes across the plain had made him forget that his hands were tied and bound to the horn of the saddle beneath him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Syenna smiled in wistful awe. “I didn’t know.”

  “You haven’t been here before?” Aren asked.

  “If
I had only known,” she replied.

  “It is a most common reaction among those whose eyes first gaze upon the beauty of Opalis,” Gerad Zhal said, chuckling, as he urged his horse forward just enough to come alongside the captain. “I would have thought, Captain Bennis, that a warrior in the service of the Obsidian Cause would have seen many such places in the course of his conquests.”

  “No, Loremaster,” Aren said through a lopsided grin. “Never anything like this.”

  The city proper was encompassed by an impressive curtain wall over thirty feet in height. While there were numerous smaller buildings and tents situated outside of these walls—which the loremaster had informed them was called Brambletown—there appeared to be a great clear space maintained around its base. At several points in the angular twisting wall, stone turrets were fixed, rising into beautiful, slender towers both magnificent and practical. Beyond the wall, Aren could see the rooftops of buildings, many of the spires and domes gleaming brightly in polished brass.

  But it was the citadel of Opalis that was a true wonder. Its magnificent dome dwarfed all others around it, shining brilliantly beneath the sky. Yet it was not the morning sun alone that gave it light, for there was a compelling, purple aura streaked with lightning that danced on its surface. The dome was, in turn, cradled in the curved lines of the tower whose form Aren could only describe as resembling a frozen, opalescent flame that swept upward to a peak high above the right side of the dome. From this distance, it was a stunning achievement, the likes of which, Aren was certain, had not existed since before the Fall. He was suddenly filled with a wary dread; this was something that was unknown among the Obsidians. Aren knew that the downfall of every perfect plan lay waiting in the shadows of the unknown.

  “Is there something wrong?” Syenna looked at him more carefully.

  At least, Aren thought, she’s gone back to wearing the breeches and jacket. “No, not at all.”