The Sword of Midras

by Tracy Hickman

  “I very much appreciate what you are saying, Mikas.” Syenna nodded with a wistful smile. “I have already dispatched the guards to the coast earlier. I’ve tried to get the loremaster to go with them, but he is obsessed with learning the nature of the Avatar’s sword and refuses to leave before he gets some answers from the captain.”

  “And you?” Trevan asked.

  “Let’s just say that the shieldmaiden is searching for a few answers of her own,” Syenna replied.

  * * *

  Syenna stepped out of the Legion barracks and into the eastern curve of Muse Way. Behind her, just beyond the barracks, was the towering facade of the Long Wall. Directly across from her on the other side of the avenue, the towers of the citadel soared overhead. On the avenue that ran along the base of the citadel foundations, the street was crowded with citizens, but their mood had changed completely from when she had last walked the cobblestones three nights before. The people’s eyes were cast downward as they walked, the light in them now dimmed, the spring in their step dulled. There was an undercurrent of resignation spiced with desperation in the air. Some few moved with frantic purpose; most of them shuffled listlessly. War was not yet upon them, but the anticipation of it had already poisoned the city.

  Syenna, however, felt frustration more than anything else. She had come to Opalis certainly on the command of the baroness, in whose service she was dutifully sworn, but not just in her service alone. Coming here had afforded her an opportunity she had longed for, and she had taken advantage of it as soon as said opportunity presented itself. But so far, the loremistress had been unable to provide her satisfactory answers, either to the question of the sword or Syenna’s own dilemma.

  One problem at a time, she thought to herself.

  The problem most immediately at hand was finding Captain Bennis. According to Aren, the gate into the citadel moved from place to place in the city, and you did not so much find the gate as the gate found you. This was all well and good so far as getting into the citadel, but leaving it was another matter. The gate would deposit those leaving at some random location in the city—always in a hidden place out of sight of others—and, according to Aren, had a tendency to leave the person disoriented for a time. Syenna did not trust the captain; the explanation sounded like a story Aren might invent to cover his escape.

  With Karpasic’s army so close, Syenna was not about to let Aren out of her sight any longer than necessary. So, each evening after Aren visited the Titans—where he had spent the day reading, according to the captain—Syenna took it upon herself to find him as quickly as possible before he had the chance to make a fool out of her.

  She decided to walk northward this time, and try the narrow alleyways between the buildings just east of the North Gate first. She would then make her way over toward Elders Hall and try the alleys there while working her way around the inside of the city wall. She knew from the last couple of days’ experience that the citadel exit portal could be anywhere within the limits of the city wall, so one section was as good a place to start as another.

  Syenna moved quickly through the sparse evening crowd, circling past the northeast entrance to the central market, then ducked between the buildings to weave her way down the narrow passages closer to the wall. The homes here were taller and housed several families within the same structure. An open sewer ran down one of the wider alleys. She stepped over it and turned another corner.

  It was darker here than the passage she had just left. A man in silhouette was a shadow leaning against the side of a building, waiting for her.

  “There you are,” she muttered as she quickly stepped toward him. “It’s about time you gave me some answers to my questions!”

  She reached out for the man’s shoulder, turning him toward her.

  The man turned, raising his right hand. He had been slouching, but now he straightened to his six-foot height. A dim spark flashed at his fingertips, and an iridescent bubble suddenly floated at the man’s shoulder, partially illuminating his face.

  She stepped back in sudden shock.

  “I quite agree,” said the man with the pale-green eyes.

  Syenna instinctively reached for her sword, drawing it at once and knowing, somehow as she did, that she was too late. The man standing before her wore a black hooded tunic embroidered in intricate patterns with silver thread. She had long known the meaning of such clothing, and fear closed like a fist around her heart.

  The man stood perfectly still as he spoke.

  “You are looking for answers, are you not, Shieldmaiden of Etceter?” The man grinned, no humor in his eyes.

  “Stay away from me!” Syenna tried to sound strong, but the words tumbled from her quivering lips, weak and resonant with fear.

  “What happened to your sister?” the man murmured. “Why could you not stop it? What can possibly be done … to fix her? Restore her? Save her? Are these not the questions that burn to be answered for Syenna of Quel?”

  Syenna could only manage a guttural cry that lodged in her throat.

  “I have the answers for you here,” the man said. He opened both of his hands before her.

  A pair of black polished obsidian stones lay, one in the palm of each hand.

  “All you have to do is bring Captain Aren Bennis to me,” the man said. “Hand one of these to Aren, hold the other in your hand, and then touch him. That is how you will bring him to me. Once he is with me, I will give you all the answers you seek.”

  “Why … why do you want him?” Syenna said, her mouth dry.

  “Are you asking another question?” The man grinned viciously as he spoke. “Answers can be expensive … and sometimes they cost us more than they are worth.”

  “What if he doesn’t want to come?” Syenna swallowed hard, trying to think.

  “But he sent for me.” The man smiled again. “All you need to do is tell him that Evard Dirae has come for him. Is that not worth your sister’s life?”

  CHAPTER

  21

  Practical Men

  General Milos Karpasic, Supreme Lord of the Westreach Army, was utterly exhausted. He fancied himself a great warrior, an old campaigner who was tough as steel and tireless as the tide. Yet, as he stood at the flap entering his tent, watching the last shreds of sunset bleed over the horizon, he could feel the creaking ache in his bones and the stiffness of his muscles.

  Time, he thought. I am running out of time.

  For the sake of the guards standing watch on either side of the entrance to his tent, Karpasic straightened up, arching his back as he puffed up his chest. He felt several of the vertebrae crack back into place though not nearly enough of them. The guards were watching him out of the corners of their eyes. He did not dare show weakness to those under his command. He knew, more than anyone, that those who were younger, faster, and stronger could smell it when someone above them was ripening and ready to be plucked from their position. One is always the most fearful of becoming the prey one once hunted in one’s youth.

  “Sentry!”

  “Aye, sire!”

  Karpasic knew the man’s name was Coopersmith but preferred to keep the man beneath his notice. “You will find Captain Halik at once. Order him to assemble my war staff and present them here within the half hour.”

  “Aye, sire,” Coopersmith answered.

  “Do it now!” the general barked. “Move!”

  The sentry only blinked once before bolting from his post.

  Karpasic turned and stepped into his tent. There were several compartments in the large portable dwelling that not only fit his stature as master of the Westreach Army, but did duty as both his residence and place of command. His staff had set it up for him, as they always did, in advance of his arrival. They had chosen this spot according to his instructions, which, in this case, meant that they had settled the encampment at the farthest reach of their days’ march. Karpasic realized he should have been more specific in his instructions. The army had crossed the river at Jaa
naford, sweeping over the town there like a carpet of locusts as they followed the Broken Road that afternoon, but then by early evening had stopped to encamp. Upon arriving at the encampment, Karpasic realized that the army had stopped just short of their objective and that they needed to press on to Opalis that night. Captain Halik had insisted that the army needed a night’s rest before they approached the city, and pointed to his tent already erected and awaiting his pleasure. Karpasic’s first look at his comfortable retreat now beckoning him against the banks of the West Jaana River nearly overcame his better judgment.

  Now, weary from the prolonged ride and out of sight of his staff, he was grateful for at least the short respite despite the urgent thought that kept pushing at him from the back of his mind.

  “Another day,” he muttered to himself. “I cannot afford one more day’s march. Tired or not, we have to press on before…”

  The general stopped his musings, suddenly glaring at the dark-clad figure that was sitting casually on his throne.

  “Get out!” Karpasic snapped.

  “Oh, must I?” the man in the Obsidian cloak asked with exaggerated disappointment. “And after coming so very far just to see you again.”

  “I said get out, Dirae!” Karpasic could feel the heat in his face as he flushed with anger and embarrassment at once. How did he find me? How do I explain this?

  “And here I thought you and I had come to an understanding,” Evard said as the words dribbled from his lips in mock hurt. The playful pout drew tight as his cold eyes fixed on the general. “But I suppose when one misplaces an entire army of warriors more than a hundred leagues from where they are expected to be, one might be a bit … out of sorts and not prone to entertain sudden company. Especially if that company happens to represent the Obsidian Cause in whose service that general is supposed to be engaged.”

  Karpasic held very still.

  Evard shrugged and pushed himself up from the chair. “I supposed you are right. I’ll just go back to Desolis and report to the Inner Circle that I have found their missing army for them. It will be up to them to deal with those whose faulty sense of direction and complete inability to read a map has brought them so far from their expected duty.”

  Evard walked past Karpasic, reaching for the flap covering the tent exit.

  Karpasic tilted his head back toward the sorcerer as he spoke. “Master Dirae…”

  Evard stopped before the exit, turning toward Karpasic as he spoke with impatience. “Yes, General?”

  “We are both practical men, are we not?” the general offered.

  A slight smile played at the edges of Evard’s lips. “I have always considered myself so, General.”

  “Could we … talk for a bit?”

  “Why?”

  “We might both profit from some conversation.”

  “I would not mind a little give and take,” Evard replied cautiously.

  Karpasic nodded and then moved toward his ornate chair. He did not sit in it, despite his aching legs begging the rest of him to do so. Instead he rested his hand on its back for support and then turned to face the sorcerer. “We are on a resupply and forage sortie.”

  “A … forage sortie?” Evard failed to hide the laugh behind the words. “You force-marched an army of conquest for the Obsidian Empire in the opposite direction from your orders for three days just so you can resupply it?”

  “There were … There are unique objects being held by the city that are critical to the Obsidian Cause,” General Karpasic said, although the words sounded unconvincing even in his own head. “We had received knowledge of it, and it required swift action if these objects were to be secured.”

  “And I suppose that these … objects,” Evard continued for the general, “are of such a nature that you wish to keep the knowledge of them to yourself until such time as they can be properly secured.”

  “Just so,” Karpasic agreed. It was a convenient lie, of course, but the response of the Obsidian sorcerer told the general that the lie benefited them both in some way. Evard appeared to be supporting Karpasic or, at the very least, not bringing the weight of the full fury of the Inner Circle of the Obsidian Cause down on his neck.

  “It is most fortunate for you, General, that I already know about at least one of these ‘unique objects’ to which you refer,” Evard said offhandedly.

  Karpasic fixed his eyes on Evard. The story had been a pure fabrication on his part, but now the Obsidian craftmaster appeared to be supporting it. “Indeed?”

  “Yes,” Evard replied, folding his hands together casually behind his back as he took another step into the tent. “It is an ancient artifact that appears to have been lost while in the possession an officer in your command … a Captain Aren Bennis, I believe.”

  Karpasic could feel the color drain from his broad face. “Captain Bennis is … I regret to inform the craftmaster that the captain died some weeks ago.”

  “Then I am delighted to inform the general that his report is in error,” Evard said with quiet calm. “Captain Bennis was taken captive by operatives of the so-called Council of Might and carried away for interrogation regarding the artifact, which is, by the way, still in his possession.”

  “That is not possible,” Karpasic blurted out.

  “I assure you it is,” Evard said, the tone in his voice cold. “Despite the efforts of some persons to have arranged for it to be otherwise.”

  “This artifact you mention … you mean that sword of his?” Karpasic swallowed and tried to shift the conversation away from the dangerous ground of who ordered Aren’s death. The memory of holding that cursed blade sent chills over his flesh, but he knew with the sense of any merchant trader that one never gave away the value of the item being bargained over. “I believe he showed it to me once. It’s nothing, Craftmaster—just a rusting old blade.”

  “Have care, General,” Evard cautioned. “This ‘rusting old blade’ is all that stands between keeping or losing your command. I say it is an ancient artifact of immense power the recovery of which drove your decision to move your army to the south. Do you not agree?”

  Karpasic drew in a breath. “My mistake, Craftmaster. It is, indeed, the primary reason I acted with such haste for its recovery.”

  “I suspected as much.” Evard nodded and gave a pleasant smile. “Now, if I may anticipate your plans further, it was most fortunate that I found you here during your march so we could work together to execute your brilliant plan for the recovery of the artifact.”

  “It is fortunate indeed,” Karpasic lied. “And would the craftmaster care to detail what my brilliant plan might be?”

  “You will remain encamped here for three days while I extract the artifact and Captain Bennis from his captivity in Opalis,” Evard said casually. “After that, you might consider your objective completed and turn your army back up the Broken Road so it may return to where it is expected to be.”

  “An excellent plan.” Karpasic swallowed. “Even if I say so myself—but with a necessary modification.”

  “Necessary?”

  “Yes, Craftmaster,” Karpasic said, stepping toward the sorcerer. “My army was promised spoils from this march. They were promised a prize in Opalis. They are earning their wages, and they must be paid if they are to remain in the service of the Obsidian Cabal.”

  “It is a waste of your army, General.” Evard shook his head. “Even if you were to take it, Opalis will be expensive to hold and a drain on the Obsidian Empire to maintain so far from Desolis.”

  “I am afraid that my army will insist we take it,” Karpasic said with a wistful grin, “but we have no desire to keep it.”

  “Ah.” Evard nodded. “I see.”

  “We are, indeed, practical men,” Karpasic said, walking over to face Evard. “I will issue the order tonight, before I retire, for the army to encamp here for three days’ recovery from the march. Will that be agreeable?”

  “It is indeed, General.” Evard bowed slightly.

 
The general bowed in return.

  Captain Halik ducked into the tent at that moment, his breathing heavy from his exertions in coming so quickly. He was still fastening the buckle of his breastplate as he entered.

  “My thanks for your hospitality, General,” Evard said as he turned. “I look forward to our next meeting.”

  Evard passed Halik as he exited the tent. Halik looked in astonishment after the Obsidian sorcerer who had just swept past him.

  “General Karpasic! What was an Obsidian—”

  The general held up his hand to silence the captain and then quickly stepped over to him. “Follow him. Make sure Craftmaster Dirae leaves the camp. Then return to me.”

  Halik left at once.

  * * *

  Evard immediately noticed the captain of the Westreach Army following at his heels. He determined to make it only moderately difficult for the man to keep track of him as he made his way to the edge of the encampment. The exercise was barely a distraction, giving him time to reflect.

  Karpasic was as predictable as he was stupid. For Evard, that meant he could be controlled so long as the Obsidian sorcerer could keep the right leverage on the fool. He could only hope that Karpasic would give him the time Evard needed to do what he had come to do.

  He doubted it, however, since he was, after all, a practical man.

  * * *

  “He has left the encampment, sire,” Halik reported, sweat pouring from his brow despite the chill of the night penetrating the general’s tent.

  “Well done, Captain,” Karpasic said as he sat on his throne-chair. He gestured to a much smaller chair that he had ordered and that was set in front of him. “Please take a seat.”

  “General,” Halik said uneasily. “You have always insisted that your staff stand in your presence.…”

  “Was my invitation unclear?” Karpasic said, his voice rising despite its tired sound. “Sit!”

  Halik hesitated a moment longer before lowering himself onto the chair.