Tenna wanted so much to share the truth with them, but dare not lest she give away Zalas as a member of the Doxy. Everyone knew they were of the Devoted, as evidenced by their attendance at Temple every Onesday, but they’d never been outspoken, and attended only government sanctioned events openly. If someone pointedly asked they would speak of their beliefs, but those opportunities were increasingly rare.
“Remember your lessons,” Zalas called to her over the screen, “all the things Juno and I’ve taught you. Think back and recall how all things are tied together. Nothing happening today is without ties to the past.”
“Yes, Father.” Tenna took advantage of the screen’s concealment to roll her eyes. Zalas tended to ramble on and on at times. “Don’t belabor ancient history for too long.”
“Hmph,” Zalas scoffed. “Do you want to know this or not?”
Tenna gave a sarcastic laugh. “Oh, please, do go on.”
“Yes, well, as I was saying, think back through the history that formed the world we see today. The races have stepped through crucial events together, beginning with the Great War after Chashak led them astray.”
“And they were banished from the world,”
“Yes,” Zalas nodded, “but not forever. Onúl eventually allowed them to find their way back. After his return, Chashak’s direct influence brought about the elven civil war—the Kith War. It was that very war that led to the creation of the treasure I’ve been seeking all these years.”
Tenna stepped from behind the screen and walked to a nearby dressing table. She noticed Zalas had added a walking cap and changed from his house shoes to boots laced halfway up his calves. His pant legs billowed fashionably.
“What’re you dressing up for?” she asked.
“Just preparing myself,” he said. “We may want to go out and celebrate.”
She smiled at his excitement. Zalas dealt in antique arms and armor, a perfect cover for his covert activities. Arms of all sorts lined the walls of his shop, everything from ancient flint and bronze blades to modern tempered steel. He’d scoured the world for ancient weapons, and it wasn’t uncommon for him to be abroad for weeks or months at a time.
A unique Zalas antique hanging in a family’s reception hall was the pride of many in Madhebah’s middle and upper classes. The pieces were often rustic swords or shields from some ancient battle in a far off land. Zalas was known to have collectors the world over come to visit his shop looking for a rarity, or to have him appraise an item from their collections.
“The great smith Xigara was a product of that slaughter,” Zalas went on. “His mother, Xilana, was a refugee from the Kith War. She gave birth alone and in despair, but blessedly, she fell in with a group of penitent humans who took pity on her and accepted her as one of their own. They were nomads looking for a secure home where they could practice the Faith unmolested.
“They founded a village on the shores of Lake Pelagos and prospered. Other exiles swelled their ranks as the war spread across the continent. Xigara’s mother fell in love with the leader of the new settlement, an already well-known blacksmith named Lorranos. His presence brought other highly skilled smiths and artisans into the growing community. They had profound influence on young Xigara.”
“Wait,” Tenna interrupted, “are you saying this sword is Xigara made? You’ve already got Xigara-made blades in your collection, I’ve seen them.”
“This isn’t just any Xigara-made Sword. It’s one of the Seven.”
A snap echoed through the room as Tenna slapped the brush she’d been using down on the dressing table. “The Seven? You’ve moved into mythic territory, Father.”
“No, child,” Zalas said, his eyes burning with renewed fervor, “the Seven are very real. Now one is within my grasp.”
Tir stood on a hill near the River Shalash, his impassive stare directed at the walls of the great city. He seemed to be looking at everything and nothing. Guards atop the walls pointed at the giant, their hearts full of fear because of his presence outside their walls. They understood what his appearance forebode.
History—crucial history—was in the making.
2
Lorranos
Tander was a plain boy living in a plain town living a plain life. He wanted more.
The oldest of five children, he was the only boy his parents had ever produced, and certain to be the last. Tander’s mother had died in childbirth earlier in the year. The town’s midwives had warned his parents that she was too old to have children, but they hadn’t listened. Or rather, his father hadn’t. Festin wanted another boy, and was determined to have one at any cost.
Festin considered Tander a failure. Their family was full of large, muscular men who grew to be master blacksmiths and weapons makers. Indeed, the town had been named for its founder, the penitent leader and blacksmith Lorranos. There was tradition to uphold; the town must maintain its standing as home to the best and brightest of metal workers.
Tander had no interest in such things.
To make matters worse, Tander’s family was directly descended from Lorranos’s brother, another legendary smith named Lonarch. The mythic brothers had served as the city’s first two Archons, chief magistrates of the city. Descendants of Lonarch had served as Archon, right up through Tander’s own father.
Tander had no interest in those things either.
With his father in the depths of grief, Tander seemed even more of a disappointment. The man-child his father wanted would never be born unless he took another wife. It was too soon to think of such things. Despite his shortcomings, Tander was sure of one thing concerning his father, he’d loved his wife with a whole heart.
The sun was setting as Tander walked down the dusty street leading away from the family smithy. Though the boy held no desire to become a smith, he knew the trade as well as any. He worked hard at the forge each day, surrounded by uncles and cousins producing pots and pans, hinges, and door latches. His smaller build prevented him from doing the harder work of weapons-making so highly regarded by his family. When his uncles were feeling charitable, they sometimes gave him some of the delicate engraving better suited to his long, thin fingers.
Since his mother’s passing, his father had ensured his uncles remained in foul tempers.
Competition with the town of Anneal across the lake was always fierce, but lately there had been a rise in the level of animosity, much of it due to Festin’s leadership. Hostilities had broken out between their fishermen over the season’s latest catch. The folks of Anneal were accusing Lorranos of encroaching on their waters, and more than one fishing boat had been sunk as a result of the fighting.
As Archon, these troubles were heaped on Festin, causing his bitterness toward his son to magnify. Tander did his best to only be home when necessary, and when home, do only what was necessary. He strove to complete chores and see to his sisters’ needs, then make himself scarce. Festin took all of his frustration and grief out on Tander, leaving the boy no time to grieve himself.
Whenever he wasn’t spending time at the smithy, or at home seeing to his chores, one could find him either wandering the woods south of town, or spending time with the old bard, Vonedil.
Tander’s dream was to be a musician. Not to be someone with musical ability, but to be known for the ability. There was no shortage of minstrels in the taverns and inns around town, but none of them made the music their own. For all their talent, they simply parroted the popular and traditional songs in the hopes of earning enough money to make it through to the morrow. None of them stirred the heart like Vonedil.
Vonedil was the last of his kind in the lake area. The people no longer cared to use their own voices to praise the Great King, but rather hired minstrels to tickle their ears for enjoyment’s sake. Recent years had brought the old bard numerous setbacks. The local chief cleric, once a close friend, had censured the bard, proclaiming him a heretic. His crime? Warning the local populace that the great conflict prophesied long ago would soon come to pass
. Out of concern, the bard used his position to persuade the people to prepare. Rather than listening to wisdom and joining his voice with the old bard’s, the cleric banned him from the local temple.
His ouster led the citizens to treat Vonedil as a pariah. No longer did they invite him to play in their homes or taverns, so his income dwindled to almost nothing in a short time. There were a few brave souls who would invite him to play in secret, but they could only pay a pittance, only enough for the bard to buy bread for his table. By good fortune, the bard was also a luthier, so he was still able to meet his basic needs.
Tander, sneaking behind his father’s back to visit the bard, found himself in a perfect position to help the old man. Before his banishment from the temple, during a time when Festin sought the old bard’s approval, Tander had sat at the maestro’s feet learning how to play and sing, and how to carve his own instruments. His skills as a smith, especially his facility at fine metal work, made him a quick study. In time, he was repairing and building instruments on his own.
Though an outcast, Vonedil-made instruments were still much in demand as there were no other luthiers within more than a day’s journey. Need and desire often overcome intolerance.
As the bard aged, his joints became so inflamed he found he could neither play the instruments nor carry out repairs. Vonedil, having no other apprentices, allowed Tander to take over restoration and repairs. Every day, once he finished his responsibilities at the forge, he spent the evening hours in the creation and mending of fine instruments. Tander helped keep Vonedil’s reputation as a quality craftsman, his former rival minstrels always needing repairs.
Each night before heading home, Vonedil and Tander would sit and make music together, the old man pointing out methods for improvement all along the way. The bard’s voice was as clear as it had ever been, the one ability age hadn’t yet stolen away. Tander hoped to be the temple bard himself one day, and there lay the root of his father’s disappointment. Any son of his was meant to follow in their ancestor’s footsteps as Archon and become a smith of renown.
Tander reached the end of the street, and turned down a narrow alleyway. It took him behind a row of two-story houses near the town’s western wall. He zigzagged his way through a series of dark back-streets until he found himself at the back door to Vonedil’s home.
Tander frowned at the lack of light coming from within. Even the upstairs window of the bard’s bedroom was dark, though the old man regularly stayed up late into the night reading his ancient tomes. Tander took out his key and turned the door’s lock to creep inside. If Vonedil was sleeping, Tander would grab his lute and head out to the forest to practice. Business had been slow of late, so he doubted missing one evening of repair work would cause the old bard any difficulty.
Once inside, Tander lit a candle and looked around the back room workspace. Satisfied he could make up the repairs tomorrow, he reached up and took his lute down from its peg on the wall, stroking the instrument’s neck with tenderness. Tander had designed and crafted the instrument himself, carving it from luminous ash wood.
He strummed a quick chord to test its tuning. He winced as he heard a soft thump upstairs, fearing he’d accidentally awakened the old man. He muted the strings and heard muffled voices wafting down between the rafters.
Neither voice was Vonedil’s.
Tander blew out the candle, dropped it, and swung the lute onto his back. Reaching back, he grabbed the headstock and give it a quarter twist. It clicked, allowing him to draw a long, thin rapier from the instrument’s neck. Though proud of the design, a melding of his metal and wood crafts, he never thought he would ever put it to use.
He drew a second blade from his belt, an heirloom passed down in his family for centuries. Despite his father’s disapproval, his mother had ensured it was given to him on his fourteenth birthday, shortly before she had passed on. It was his birthright, and tonight he might use it to draw another man’s blood for the first time.
He tried hard not to think about the more likely outcome.
The voices continued a few moments more before trailing off. Tander crept forward on the balls of his feet, moving into the next room to find it ransacked. Dim moonlight filtered through the windows. He could barely make out furniture and instruments laying askew across the room.
More thumping sounded upstairs. More overturned furniture. The voices returned, harsh and frustrated. Tander thought they’d not heard his earlier chording, so he felt surprise remained his advantage. He began a slow, quiet creep up the stairs, stopping at the landing to stand before a trio of doors.
No light showed from under the doors. Tander stopped to listen, hearing the voices coming from the left hand and center doors. The three rooms were interconnected, so he moved into the right hand room. He knew he was risking his life, but the old bard was closer to him than his father, and more than worth the danger.
Opening the door, he slipped into the room, stepping over more toppled furniture. He froze when he noticed the doorway to the adjoining bedroom standing ajar. Through it, he spied a tall man with a thief’s lantern standing over the bed of Vonedil. In the pale light he could see the bound and gagged form of the old man.
He wasn’t moving.
Tander’s blood ran cold when he saw the shoulder insignia of the big man standing over the bard. He was wearing the garb of the Archonim, marking him as a member of his father’s personal guard. Had his father discovered his secret? Had they come to threaten the old musician into leaving Tander alone?
Tander was enraged.
He sheathed his rapier, moving to act on a plan only just beginning to form. He sneaked up behind the big man and slashed at the man’s hamstring as hard as he could.
The soldier went down in a heap, dropping his lantern to grab the back of his leg with a loud cry. Lantern oil splashed all over the side of the bed and down to the rug covered floor. The lantern’s small flicker of flame spread, the rug’s woven straw acting like a wick for the spilled fuel.
Writhing on the floor, the wounded thug took a swipe at Tander, but the boy slipped out of the way and kicked the man in the face. He moved around the bed and cut Vonedil’s bonds, breathing a prayer of thanks when he found him conscious and relatively unhurt.
“Tander…” Vonedil started, but the boy shushed him and helped him to his feet. Tander turned toward the adjoining doorway, assuming the second assailant might burst through any time.
Tander took the chance and led Vonedil straight out the bedroom door. He paused at the landing to listen, but the only sounds he could hear over his own heart beat were the growing flames and the thug moaning on the floor behind them.
The fire spread rapidly, the bedroom already half gone in flames. Tander chose speed over stealth, pulling a groggy Vondeil down the stairs as best he could. Pausing at the foot of the stair to listen once more, he squinted into the darkness looking for the missing assailant. When he heard rustling from the workroom he bolted out the front door, dragging Vonedil along.
“Stop!” came a rough cry from the missing guard. Tander glanced back to see the big man burst through the workroom door. The boy sheathed his dagger as they fled into the night, leaving the pursuing guard tripping over fallen furniture in his mad dash to catch them.
The old man barely kept pace, but managed to stay on his feet. Tander chanced another look back when he heard the door behind them crash open, the guard cursing as he broke into a heavy sprint. They wouldn’t make it. Tander angled them toward a wider street and prepared to stand his ground in the hopes a more public venue would temper the Archonim’s wrath.
But why would it when he could claim he was simply doing his job to protect the Archon?
Would he dare harm the Archon’s son? Did the guard even know who Tander was?
A great wall of dust met them as they rounded the corner. It was swirling, kicked up by some unseen force. Tander hesitated before diving into the whirlwind, thinking to lose the guard, while hoping he was leading them
down the middle of the street.
Just as the dust began to clear, Tander ran headlong into a metal wall, or so he thought. He let go of the old bard as he fell, careful to not pull his mentor down with him. Then he looked up to find himself staring into the fiery, swirling eyes of a massive dragon.
“Sidero!” cried Vonedil.
A dragon! The iron dragon.
Though immense, the iron dragon was the smallest of his kind. None of his larger kin could have landed on the street without knocking down walls on either side, but Sidero managed to squeeze himself into the space. To Tander’s eyes he was a leviathan, bigger than any one creature had a right to be.
A deep but silvery voice filled the air. “Come now, old friend. You’re no longer welcome here, so I will take you where you are very much wanted.”
Vonedil turned and grabbed the boy by the shoulders. “Come with us. There’s nothing left for you here.”
“But my family...”
“Cannot be trusted to be your family any longer. Think, lad! Those soldiers were members of your father’s personal guard. You can’t place your trust in anyone in this town a moment longer.”
Sidero caught a glimpse of the knife handle angling up from Tander’s belt. “Come, Blade Bearer. I’ll carry you to your destiny.”
The archonim came rushing around the corner, forcing Tander to make a snap decision. He chose flight over standing his ground alone. Vonedil was already climbing up the dragon’s riding harness. Tander leapt up after him.
Upon seeing the dragon, the guard skidded to a halt as his face turned white. Rooted in place by his fear, he couldn’t manage the will to run.
The Foundlings (The Swords of Xigara) Page 2