The Sword of Midras

by Tracy Hickman

  It had taken the greater part of the day to break into the citadel. The flood of warriors into the city through the open and broken gates had, predictably, resulted in considerable chaos for the first few hours as such discipline that had existed dissolved into cutthroat greed. They poured into the abandoned buildings of Opalis all along Muse Way and down into the back alleys among the smaller shops and homes. The warriors spread over the city like locusts devouring a field. The crashing sound of ransacking each building grew with every moment.

  That sound was soon followed by a growing howl of anger and betrayal. There was gold and even a few gems to be rutted out here and there among the buildings, but the legendary wealth of Opalis was not evident in the shops, stalls, or homes of the city. The scavengers washed back and forth within the walls of the town like water in a bucket suddenly jarred, desperately seeking the hidden trove that would make their hardships and spilled blood worthwhile.

  It was just before evening that the focus of their frustrations fell on the towering citadel near the middle of the town. General Karpasic had been considering the problem since they first entered the city, but he had become increasingly puzzled by it as the evening wore on. He had personally circumnavigated the outer wall of the citadel a number of times, somehow unable to accept that there could be a defensive wall around the towers that had no gate at all. He considered the possibilities of a hidden gate or an underground passage. He had only two kobolds at his command—the latest of the reshaped creatures from the Cabal of the Obsidians—and he directed both of them to search for any subterranean access. Unfortunately, he had not heard from either of them since. A number of the elves had scaled the wall, only to report that there was no access into the tower from the top of the wall either. As the sun set to the west, the rage of his own army was gravitating toward the marketplace at the foot of the citadel and Karpasic. Growing frustrated himself, he knew he had to act.

  He commanded the remaining ogres into the marketplace. If he could not go over the wall or under the wall, then he would go through the wall.

  The ogres were particularly adept at this sort of work, although the masonwork of the citadel’s outer wall was particularly smooth and well fitted, making it difficult for the ogres to get a proper grip on the stone. In the end, they resorted to brute force, punching the wall to break up its surface and allow them a proper hold.

  Now, Karpasic made his way into the interior of the tower, illuminated only by the lantern in his hand. The dust was settling, and his vision down the hall was limited but clearing. The hall appeared to end in a larger, round space. He could see the shadowy form of a great statue on the other side of the rotunda.

  There, he thought, his smile broadening. There it is!

  Piled in the center of the rotunda were stacks of chests, nearly filling the central space. Many of them were filled to overflowing with coins spilling out onto the floor. Their warm shine winked back at him in the light of his lamp.

  Karpasic rushed forward, stumbling slightly over some debris scattered across the polished floor of the hall. Behind him, the satyrs stared at him in confusion. He gained his footing in the tomblike darkness, turning back to scowl at them.

  “What are you waiting for?” he bellowed. “We’re here! We’ve found it!”

  The general caught his balance and stepped quickly down the dark hall. The pool of light from his lantern swung shifting shadows over the walls, floor, and ceiling. He came quickly into the expanse of the deserted rotunda. Three statues stood at equal points at the perimeter of the curving wall. They each looked down on him, their features shifting in disapproval with the movement of the lantern light. The illusion startled Karpasic for a moment, but then he sneered both at the figures and at his reaction.

  “Ghosts,” he said. “I’ve beaten you, and now you’re nothing at all.”

  He turned to the treasure stacked high in the center of the room. He could see the glint of gems interspersed with the warm color of the shining coins. He smiled, reaching his hand forward, trying to plunge it into the pile. The coins moved at his touch, creating a small avalanche.

  The coins rang brightly as they cascaded to the floor. The sound echoed through the hall as several of the coins rolled away.

  The general frowned.

  Gold coins would have dented as they were dropped onto the marble floor. They would not have rolled away.

  General Karpasic curled his fingers around several of the coins as he pulled his hand away from the treasure. He pulled the lamp closer, keeping it slightly behind his head as he peered at the coins in his hand.

  The color of the metal was golden in the light of the lantern, but duller than he might expect from gold. He could see engraved on its face the symbol of Etceter, apparently where the coin was issued as currency. He slid several of the coins through his fingers. Another had a symbol he did not recognize, but the third was definitely the crest of the Lords of Resolute. Then there was another from Etceter.

  The general slipped a coin between his teeth. He was surprised by the bitter taste. The metal did not bend between his teeth.

  He suddenly understood why the satyrs were standing at the end of the hallway, confused. He had sent them in to sniff out the gold.

  He looked down at the coins in his hands.

  “Brass,” he murmured. “They’re all brass.”

  He suddenly cast the coins to ring against the floor and reached for the nearest of the obvious gems. It appeared to be a ruby of unusual size. He drew it close, turning it in the light.

  Scratches marked the surface of the facets.

  In a rage, Karpasic turned, throwing the object fiercely against the wall.

  It shattered into dust and small shards.

  “Glass!” he yelled. “He left me glass?”

  Karpasic charged back down the hall toward the satyrs, who, seeing his approach, drew back against the walls.

  “Bennis!” The general’s breath was ragged as he charged down the hall. His voice rose with every step. “Keep my ten percent, he said. Give us safe passage, he said. Now he’s left me here with a pile of brass coins that are good only for trading with enemy kingdoms while he rides, laughing, across the plains toward the protective arms of his sorcerer conspirator!”

  The general stopped in the hall, his shoulders shuddering in rage. He raised his fist, shaking it at the ceiling overhead. “I’ll see him drawn and quartered first! I’ll run him to ground on the plains before he even makes camp, and bleed his followers until the ground refuses to soak up their blood! Not a dog will be left alive among them before I’m—”

  “General!” Captain Odman was struggling through the rubble of the tower’s breach. His voice was considerably higher and more excited than Karpasic remembered ever hearing it before. “General Karpasic!”

  “What!” the general screamed.

  The captain might have quailed at the sound of the general’s rage any other time, but panic overwhelmed his fear. “An army, General! An army has surrounded the city!”

  “An army!” Karpasic’s eyes bulged slightly. His mind was still fixed on Bennis’s betrayal and was having trouble forming an understanding around the captain’s words. “What are you blathering about? What army?”

  “No one saw it c-coming,” the captain stammered. “The victory had been won.… Everyone was within the city walls.…”

  The general grabbed Odman by the front of his breastplate just beneath his chin, dragging his face within inches of the general’s own.

  “What army!” the general demanded.

  “They come under the standard of Norgard,” the captain replied, sweat breaking out on his forehead. “Our scouts had reported them far to the west, at the base of the mountains … the Pillars of Night. No one saw their approach—”

  “Call to arms!” the general shouted, and he shoved the captain toward the gap in the citadel wall. “Get the army to the walls! If Bennis thinks he can trap me here in a siege…”

  “We canno
t outlast a siege!” Captain Odman shouted back at the general.

  “You idiot!” the general snapped. “We own the city! The food stores here alone—”

  “Are useless,” Odman interrupted. “I’ve had several reports over the last hour of warriors becoming violently ill from the supplies they’ve liberated. I believe the citizens here poisoned their food and drink stores before they left.”

  “But our own supply wagons—”

  “Are outside the city walls,” Odman reminded the general.

  General Milos Karpasic, Supreme Lord of the Westreach Army, fell silent. His eyes shifted back and forth, his mind racing, but he was somehow unable to comprehend anything but the distant laughter that came, imagined, to his ears from across the prairie to the east.

  “Then we have to break the siege at once,” Karpasic said at last. “We have to break through the enemy lines while we still have the strength! Bring the captains to me! We’re about to show these Norgard scum what fear is all about!”

  * * *

  By dawn the next day, General Karpasic had those of his troops within the town who were not still posted to the walls prepared to charge out of the city’s North Gate. He was determined to lead with the ogres to break the Norgard line, followed by the satyrs and fauns at their flanks to open up the gap even farther. Elves would bolster those lines to help widen the gap while the bulk of the army charged through the opening to the plains beyond. Karpasic told himself that leaving the city gates open behind them, the Norgard army would abandon pursuit of him and his forces in favor of taking the town just as he had done the day before.

  Karpasic ordered the North Gate opened.

  Beyond, he could see the Legions of Norgard waiting for them.

  Karpasic smiled, telling himself that his enemy had no idea what was about to hit them.

  And, for the last time, he was wrong.

  The Titan Boreus had told them exactly what to expect.

  The Legions of Norgard were prepared.

  * * *

  Aren sat astride his horse, a cloak pulled tightly around him as he looked down the slope to the column of refugees winding in his direction from the south. They were following the trail Syenna had marked out for them along the east bank of the upper reaches of the West Jaana River and into the long mountain bowl known as Highvale.

  It had been a difficult journey. They had made an abrupt turn to the north in the middle of that first night and traveled with barely a rest for the horses and oxen before pressing on into the next evening. They wound their way around the Middle Downs and eventually through Monk’s Hood Pass into the southern parts of the Highvale. There, they found the upper reaches of their familiar friend, the West Jaana River, and followed it northward, higher into the long mountain bowl.

  “We should make camp.” Syenna sat on her own horse side by side with Aren, gazing back at the approaching column. “We’ll need to be rested for the climb tomorrow into Resolute, and I don’t think we’re likely to find a better place to stop before nightfall.”

  Aren turned around. They were both stopped just short of the tree line. The air was scented with pine from the forest to the north behind them. “Will we make it tomorrow?”

  “To Resolute, certainly.” Syenna nodded. “Sequana has made all the arrangements with Marshal Nimbus. You do realize that the Titans surrendered their people to Nimbus, not you.”

  “I may have been mistaken on that point when I addressed the general,” Aren said through a loud, exaggerated sigh. “I promise to apologize for that error the next time we meet.”

  “And when do you expect that to be?”

  “Not soon, and certainly not in this world,” Aren replied as he turned his gaze back down over the long mountain bowl beneath them. “He got the treasure he deserved, and the Titans got to keep the treasure they wanted.”

  “And what about you?” Syenna asked, turning in her saddle to face Aren. “What did you get out of this?”

  Aren grinned back at her. He reached down, patting the sword that hung at his side.

  Syenna gazed at the sword for a moment, and then her eyes widened. “The pommel! All three of the symbol’s blades are shining!”

  “Yes.” Aren nodded.

  “When did that happen?”

  “Not long after we left Opalis,” Aren replied, his gaze returning to the mountain bowl before them.

  “What does it mean?” Syenna asked breathlessly.

  “I asked the loremistress that very question,” Aren answered. “She said it had something to do with the ancient Virtues … that somehow I had honored them, and the symbols had responded. Maybe it was supposed to empower the sword, or maybe it was just a way for the Avatars to know they were on the right path. Given the circumstances at the time, she believes they each had something to do with things like truth or courage or compassion. However, she also pointed out that there are a number of other symbols on the sword that are still dull and have yet to shine … so I guess I’m not yet perfect.”

  “Hardly.” Syenna chuckled.

  “Well, the loremistress says she will have to do more research before she can say for certain,” Aren said through a smirk.

  “It’s not very complete, you know,” Syenna said.

  “What isn’t complete?”

  “Their knowledge of the past,” Syenna said quietly into the still mountain air. “So much was lost during the Fall of the Sky. I was speaking with Loremistress Lanilan earlier today. Despite the Titans’ struggle to maintain the knowledge of their own machines, for all their searching, they have not been able to find or even piece together what it was that the Avatars brought to the world. They still don’t know what caused the Fall, let alone how to prevent it from happening again. They could not even tell you now whether the Avatars were trying to prevent the end of the world that was lost, or if they caused it.”

  “Then what has been the point of all this?” Aren asked, continuing to gaze down on the refugees streaming into the meadow below them.

  “The Loremistress says that the Titans have a plan,” Syenna answered. “They believe they can use what they know of their ancestors’ machines to build a great device—an oracle of such power that it may be able to recover the wisdom and knowledge that was lost … perhaps even find a way to bring the Avatars back into the world … if they still exist.”

  “Or whether their return would be good or bad.” Aren sighed. “I’ve got the blade of an Avatar—and I still don’t know if it is a blessing or a curse.”

  Syenna turned in her saddle, looking at Aren with searching eyes.

  “You saved my sister from dying by my own hand,” she said. “You saved the knowledge of the past so it could be preserved. You saved the people of Opalis from death and misery.”

  “And, while you’re about it,” Aren said, shaking his head, “do not forget to include that all these things I’ve done will no doubt also prompt the Obsidian Cause to react in a most unhealthy way. All these currently grateful refugees may reconsider their opinion of me once the Obsidians realize that there are forces in South Paladis that can oppose them. Let us see just how heroic I appear when the full strength of the Obsidian Army falls on them because of what I’ve done.”

  “You wield a blade of the Avatars,” Syenna said with a smirk. “Something about you must be right.”

  “Yes, I am indeed such a magnificent hero,” Aren agreed, suddenly flashing his broad grin. “And would you be so good as to explain that to our guest? My old friend Nik Halik seems a bit skeptical on that score since I forced his surrender the first night after we left Opalis.”

  “Well, you can’t really blame him.” Syenna smiled at the thought. “All of us had given up our swords.”

  “All of us except one,” Aren corrected, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword.

  “All except one,” Syenna agreed, her smile broadening into a grin.

  CHAPTER

  28

  Thundering Silence

  Evard Di
rae stood at the crossroads of the Broken Road and waited, just as he had waited for twelve days. In the evenings, he would prepare a meager meal and contemplate the gathering darkness. In the night, he would lie on the ground, a stick propping up his robe over his head to shelter him from the wind across the prairie that never seemed to stop. Then, in the morning, he would awaken, prepare his breakfast, and again wait with watchful eyes looking down the Broken Road to the south for some sign of his old friend’s approach.

  Evard was, he knew, hardly alone. A detachment of warriors over two hundred strong, each he’d handpicked, was encamped near the mountain pass that led through the Blackblade Mountains back to Hilt. The captain in charge of them was awaiting only the sign from Evard—a homunculus that Evard had reserved for the purpose—before ordering the marching of his command to capture the refugees as they approached. They were prepared on short notice to march northwest and southwest, so as to encircle the approaching column of weary Opalis citizens. In that moment, their flesh would be sealed to the monstrous fate that Evard had planned for them in service to the Obsidian Cause.

  Yet nothing had come up the road from the south. It was not just a matter of missing the column of refugees—that could easily be explained as simply being slowed by the weakest from among them—but no rider, no trade wagon or caravan, no pilgrim wanderer had appeared from that direction either.

  Certainly, Karpasic would have dispatched someone with the news, someone crowing about his captured city and its treasures by now.

  As the twelfth day drew to a close, Evard stood up and whistled softly. The leather-winged form of the homunculus appeared as though it had risen from a shadow on the plain. It hopped once and, beating its wings, lit upon Evard’s shoulder, its hand resting upon his head as it craned its flat face around, peering at the sorcerer.

  Evard started to whistle a familiar tune to the homunculus.