The Sword of Midras

by Tracy Hickman

  “Vegetables do not suit you,” Aren said. “You always seemed more of a dealer in meat.”

  “Plant or animal, it doesn’t matter,” Evard said. “We raise and harvest them both.”

  “To the greater purpose of the Obsidian Cause,” Aren said.

  “To the greater purpose of the Obsidian Cause,” Evard repeated in affirmation. “Oh, Karpasic will have to pay for his reckless insubordination. I’ll find a way to deal with him. But in the meantime, I’ve come for you as I said I would, and we can leave this butcher’s work to those who have a bigger taste for blood than we do.”

  “And just where are we going?” Aren asked.

  “Why, I am going to escort a hero of the Obsidian Cause back to Desolis.” Evard smiled, clasping his hand on the captain’s shoulder. “You are going to present this famous sword of yours to the cabal so that you may personally receive what I have already been assured to be their very substantial and valuable thanks.”

  Aren nodded. “And I’m assuming there’s something in this for you as well.”

  “Well, there certainly will be some measurable consideration for the sorcerer who brings you safely home,” Evard said with a smug grin.

  Aren considered the city in the distance. Campfires fanned out around its walls in all directions as the warriors of his own Westreach Army prepared for another assault. The magical shield fell over the city like a glowing dome. He knew that the Titans could not maintain it for long.

  “But why settle for so little?” Aren continued. “Presenting a little sword is nothing compared to a city full of slaves.”

  “Where is the advantage in surrendering the city to Karpasic?” Evard asked, turning toward his friend.

  “None, I quite agree with you,” Aren replied. “But there is considerable advantage for us both if the city surrenders to someone else. Say, someone whom we both know and trust.”

  “I see that you have someone in mind,” Evard chided.

  “Well, I never thought the title of captain suited me very well.” Aren nodded toward his friend. “Imagine the spectacle of the two of us riding at the head of a column of victory, me with the sword of an Avatar, and you with an entire city of prisoners for the Obsidian Cabal to transform into whatever form they wish!”

  “What about Karpasic?” Evard asked, folding his arms across his chest as he considered Aren’s plan.

  “Who do you think they’ll follow?” Aren asked with a twisted smile on his face. “The man who is offering them another chance to charge the walls of Opalis, or the man who will end the siege?”

  “That would solve a number of problems at once,” Evard agreed. “What is your play?”

  “Send me back into the city with the woman,” Aren said as he reached up, rubbing his chin as he considered. “I’ll convince the elders of the town that I’m leading them to safety as refugees. I figure that if Karpasic agrees, it will take three days to empty the city. I’ll lead the refugees out while delivering the city to Karpasic intact.”

  “And how am I supposed to convince Karpasic to do that?” Evard demanded.

  “Tell him he can have the city and everything in it once I’ve left with the ‘refugees,’” Aren said. “All he has to do is let us leave the city with enough food for the march to Hilt and enough worthless sentimental junk to convince the people to leave.”

  “You think Karpasic is fool enough to accept that?” Evard asked.

  “He’s fool enough to accept a great deal less than that.” Aren chuckled. “But tell him we’ll leave the weapons behind, as well as all the gold and jewels the city has to offer. Once the city is emptied, that magic shield over it will come down, and the city and everything in it are open for plunder.”

  “He’ll think you’re out to cheat him,” Evard suggested.

  “Tell him he can even inspect everything my prisoners are carrying just to make sure none of them are smuggling out anything of value,” Aren said. “In the meantime, you have three days to get to Hilt, muster the army assembling there, and prepare to receive the slaves—I mean, ‘refugees’—who I’ll deliver to you. Then, as heroes of the Obsidian Cause, we’ll be in a position to deal with Karpasic.”

  “I have to admit, Aren, I am impressed.” Evard nodded with a smile. “Are you sure about that Syenna woman? Do you really need her?”

  “She has a great deal of pull with the people in Opalis,” Aren said with a shrug. “She’s come too far not to cooperate, and her word has a great deal of influence with the elders of Opalis. I can guarantee her cooperation.”

  Evard considered the plan in silence under the stars.

  “It’s only three days,” Aren urged. “Three days and Karpasic gets his city and we will practically own the rest of the world.”

  Evard looked at him with a thoughtful gaze and then nodded.

  They both turned back, walking with long strides down the slope of the hill toward the glowing sphere that had transported Aren and Syenna from the city.

  “So, can I see this fabled sword of yours?” Evard asked as they walked.

  “I wish you could,” Aren said casually. “This one is a reproduction … something they made for me to carry around in public.”

  “A false sword?” Evard frowned. “Where is the real one?”

  “In Opalis,” Aren said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s troublesome, but it’s one of the reasons I have to go back. You did want me to bring it with me, didn’t you?”

  “Without doubt,” Evard answered as they stepped up to where Syenna stood, waiting, her eyes downcast. He turned toward Aren and took him by the shoulders with both hands. “Three days to get to Hilt?”

  “Three days and I’ll be coming to meet you,” Aren replied, beaming as he took his friend by both shoulders in return. “You know where to find me.”

  “Until that day, friend.” Evard smiled.

  “Until that day,” Aren returned. He then took Syenna by the arm and stepped into the blue glowing sphere.

  Aren and Syenna vanished.

  The sphere collapsed with a thunderclap, disappearing as well, leaving Evard alone on the slope beneath the shattered moon.

  * * *

  Aren and Syenna stood again in the barracks room of the Legion commander as the glowing sphere imploded out of existence behind them.

  The smug look on Aren’s face contorted into sudden rage. He leaned back, raising his clenched fists in front of him as he screamed at the ceiling above them.

  Startled, Syenna took several steps away from him.

  Aren opened his right fist. He had clutched the black obsidian stone so tightly that it had left an impression in the palm of his hand. The captain drew back his arm and hurled the stone with as much force as he possessed toward the wall. It caromed into the corner, rebounding off the walls several times before skittering to a stop beneath a stool by the door to the room.

  “Aren?” Syenna asked. “What happened?”

  The captain’s face turned toward her and was red with fury. “They lied … He lied! To me! To you!”

  “Who lied?” Syenna said in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  Aren rushed toward her, prying open her hand, stripping the vial from her grasp.

  “No!” she screamed, clawing at him.

  Aren held her off with his right arm as he threw the vial hard against the wall. The glass shattered, the liquid drawing a stain as it flowed toward the floor. Aren turned back to Syenna, his arms gripping the woman tightly in her panicked frenzy.

  “Poison! Poison!” he shouted at her again and again until the word registered through her pain. She suddenly stopped struggling. “What did he promise you? Exactly what did he promise you?”

  “Answers,” she said as she sagged in his arms. “I wanted to know what could be done to save my sister.”

  “I could have told you that answer,” Aren said, his voice hoarse. “Nothing. Nothing can possibly be done except to end her existence. That’s the answer he put in your hand. It�
��s the only answer the Obsidians have for their failed abominations.”

  Aren helped Syenna toward the commander’s chair that lay on its back on the floor. He reached down, righted the chair, and set Syenna down onto it. He knelt in front of her, looking into her tear-stained face.

  “We can’t save the city?” Syenna asked quietly.

  “No,” Aren said. “But we may be able to save its soul.”

  Syenna looked into his eyes, uncomprehending. “What?”

  “The Obsidians are not interested in studying the blade of the Avatar,” Aren said. “They want to bury it deep in the tombs beneath Desolis—and they want to bury me there with it. They are afraid of this blade and what it represents—the truth. The truth about them—about me—about all of us and our past. They don’t mind Karpasic and his brutes burning all the books, scrolls, and records because they want them burned—they want nothing left that would question the lies behind their power, their superiority, and their authority. That’s where the real battle is taking place. That’s the war we have to fight.”

  “How?” Syenna sighed. “You said we only have three days.”

  “We’re going to lose the city,” Aren said, looking with intensity into her eyes. “But in three days we may still be able to win the war.”

  PART IV

  THE TIDE

  CHAPTER

  25

  Bargains

  Tribune Marcus Tercius leaned back into the chair with a luxuriant stretch. The canvas of the large tent that sheltered him rustled slightly in the evening breeze. Before him the Legate of the Norgard, commander of the Fifth Norgard Army, stood glaring with a mixture of shock and outrage at the large, robe-clad man who had just materialized among them.

  Inwardly, Marcus was delighted. He had come to the tent of Legate Planus Argo, anticipating another boring evening of the tales of his military conquests. Legate Argo was an angular man with an expansive forehead and prominent cheekbones above a grim, narrow mouth. His armor often seemed to wear him rather than the other way around, but there was no questioning his strategic savvy on the battlefield and his uncanny ability to navigate the intricacies of Norgard politics. However, his skills as a storyteller were low on his list of accomplishments. Indeed, the evening had begun with the legate precisely meeting the ambassador’s low expectations. The unexpected arrival had interrupted the legate’s droning narrative with a surge of excitement. This subsided, however, when the stranger had spread his arms wide, showed his hands to be empty even though he spoke softly of bringing a great gift to the legate and his Norgard army.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the legate demanded, his right hand fumbling to find the grip of his sword that was leaning casually against his own chair. “How did you get past my guard?”

  “I am merely a humble traveler asking the hospitality of your tent,” the man answered. “And I come bearing urgent and vital information for the legate regarding the siege being conducted against the city of Opalis.”

  “I already know all about the place,” said the legate as the back of his hand brushed against the sword hilt, causing it to fall, clattering to the ground.

  “Oh, I think we should hear the man out,” said Marcus through his amused smile. “He might surprise us.”

  “I doubt that,” Argo snarled as he turned back to face the intruder and tried to look casual as he hooked his thumbs into the belt at his waist. “The Army of the Obsidian Cause has surrounded the Treasure City of South Paladis. They think it can be plucked like some ripe fruit hanging low for the taking. The West Jaana River will swell with the blood of both sides before that city falls.”

  “Which, as I recall, is precisely why we are here,” observed Marcus.

  “Indeed,” interjected the large, robed man standing before them. “There are mighty legions of the Norgard that are encamped about you. Even now they await your command with anticipation. Still, you watch like cunning crows observing a great battle from afar, waiting for the warriors to exhaust themselves upon one another, and once all is laid to ruin, you come to pick clean what remains of the carcass.”

  Argo’s nostrils flared in indignation. “How dare you come into my tent—”

  “A fair assessment,” interrupted Marcus, tilting his head slightly to the right. “I take it that you have something better to propose?”

  “In two days there will be an opportunity for the legions of Norgard to secure for themselves and for your empire not only a great victory, but the prized city itself,” the man answered in solemn tones, his eyes shifting from the legate to the tribune.

  “An intriguing prospect,” the tribune applied, raising his eyebrow. “And just who are you to suggest such an opportunity?”

  “My name is Boreus,” replied the Titan.

  * * *

  Marshal Nimbus, supreme ruler of the mountain city-state of Resolute, walked with great and rapid steps from the transept archway toward his elevated throne at the end of the Courts of Valor. Three knights of the Resolute Orders trailed behind him, struggling to buckle on their breastplates while balancing their helmets at the same time. They were the only knights available on such short notice to attend the marshal in the hall with any semblance of decorum.

  “Has Falcone gone completely insane?” the marshal seethed as he strode up onto the platform, his voice rising with every step. “I dispatched him to that counsel in Etceter with perfectly clear instructions to keep us out of anything to do with their Council of Might, and now he has the gall to show up with an emissary?”

  Marshal Gerhard Nimbus sat hastily on his throne and glared down the length of the magnificent hall. He was usually struck with the awe-inspiring beauty of the Courts of Valor, its vaulted architecture and the slanting columns of sunlight streaming in through the tall windows that gave the space different aspects, depending upon the time of the day. Now, however, the site did not give him any pleasure, for his minister was not only arriving several days earlier than expected but was bringing unexpected trouble with him.

  Gerhard was a methodical commander of the knights in Resolute. He ruled their mountainous realm of dedicated warriors with a firm and steady hand. It was said of him that the features of his square face were set as hard as flint and that the scar that ran from his forehead down his right cheek must have been chiseled there. His black, wavy hair was held in place by a simple steel band that passed for his crown. His face was clean shaven although those who had met him occasionally wondered privately what sort of metal could hold an edge that could effectively scrape the marshal’s face. It was that very stonelike immovability that now caused him to scowl. If there was anything the marshal hated, it was a surprise.

  His attendant knights were rushing to their assigned tasks. Two of them, one male and one female, quickly took their places at the base of either side of the platform, hastening to put their ceremonial armor in order. The third hurried toward the far end of the hall, reaching the great double doors there at a near run. He slid noisily to a stop just short of the doors, struggling to catch his breath.

  “Let them enter,” Gerhard bellowed, his words bounding through the expansive space.

  The knight at the far end of the hall turned toward the doors, his chest still rising and falling rapidly, and stepping aside, pulled one of them open.

  Two figures stepped into the hall. One of them was instantly recognizable to the marshal, but it was the second that immediately caught his attention.

  She was a tall woman with an exquisite shape and elegant features. There was something exotic and transcendent in the look of her face. Her hair was so light in color as to appear nearly white, and its thick, single braid extended beyond the middle of her back. The elegant robe that she wore only hinted at what the marshal realized was a magnificent figure underneath. The sight of her was so astonishing that the stone-faced marshal was completely robbed of words as she and the marshal’s foreign minister walked the length of the hall and came to stand before him.

  “L
ord Marshal,” Minister Falcone began. “May I present…”

  The stupor that Marshal Nimbus had fallen into suddenly shattered. He turned at once in his throne to face his ambassador. “Minister Falcone! You are not expected to return from your mission for at least another five days. Are we to assume that you failed in your charge to reach Etceter as was your express duty?”

  “No, Lord Marshal,” the ambassador said firmly. “I completed my charge to Etceter and was returning to your court as per your orders. I had not yet reached the Middle Downs of the South Paladis this very morning when our cadre was approached by this woman.”

  “The Middle Downs?” The marshal stared at Falcone in disbelief. “And only this morning? Then how did you—”

  “She brought us here,” Falcone said with a shrug as though that were all the explanation he had.

  The marshal’s gaze shifted to the woman. “Who are you?”

  “Sequana of Opalis,” the woman answered, bowing slightly.

  The marshal’s jaw dropped. “A Titan!”

  “Yes, Lord Marshal,” Sequana answered quietly.

  “By thunder.” Gerhard breathed in wonder. “The tales of your kind are legendary among my people. Do your brothers still live? Are the skills of your craft still as powerful and wondrous as in the stories of old?”

  “My brothers live for now,” Sequana answered with a gentle and beguiling smile. “And how our skills compare to your stories would depend upon how those tales are told.”

  “Then why, may I ask,” said the marshal, “has Sequana come to the Courts of Valor in Resolute?”

  “To surrender to you,” Sequana answered softly.

  * * *

  General Karpasic sat on his horse among his warriors on the plain north of Opalis. Captain Halik urged his own horse up next to the general as the warriors shifted aside to make room for him.

  Everyone had their eyes on the North Gate of the city.

  “Are you certain he will be coming out?” the general asked in a low, irritated voice.

  “The sorcerer said he would open these gates as soon as the refugee caravans were organized inside the city,” Halik replied. “Captain Bennis…”