The Foundlings (The Swords of Xigara)

by J. Mark Miller

  His passengers secure, Sidero spread his wings and launched himself into the night.

  3

  Madhebah

  Tenna jumped when a sharp knock sounded on the office door.

  Her father raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen you this jumpy before,” he said. “What’s got you so agitated?”

  She bit at a fingernail as her cheeks flushed. “I think I might have been marked by an imperial auditor.”

  “What?” Zalas stepped toward her. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

  “Because I’m sure I wasn’t followed, or at least if I was, I lost them in the bazaar. I was probably just nervous, seeing things that weren’t there. Could be I was just nervous, seeing things that weren’t there.”

  “But you’re not sure, are you?”

  She looked away. “No.”

  Zalas frowned down at her, then shrugged. “Well, there’s nothing to be done for it now, is there?”

  More than anything, Tenna hated disappointing her father. If he ever let a matter slide it was a measure of how much she’d let him down.

  A second knock sounded on the door, and Zalas moved to open it, revealing the shop manager standing beyond.

  “They’re here, sir,” he said.

  “Thank you, Juno,” Zalas responded. “We’ll be out shortly.”

  Tenna turned back to the table and brushed the last bits of frizz from her hair. She chose two lapis-inlaid gold combs to match her dress. The current popular hairstyle, swept up and back behind the ears, was easy to achieve in this way. She added a touch of color to her lips and cheekbones and nodded to herself, satisfied it was primp enough for an afternoon visit with whoever waited in the shop.

  She spied her Father in the mirror, his hand hovering over the doorknob in hesitation. She went to him and slipped a gentle hand around his arm.

  “What is it, Father?”

  His suspended hand trembled. “Everything’s about to change,” he whispered. “When we walk through this door, if my agents have truly found what they’ve been looking for, then everything I’ve worked for is about to come to fruition. Nothing will ever be the same.”

  Tenna slipped her hand down his arm and pushed his hand down onto the knob. “Father, I’ve never seen you anxious before, but remember what you’ve always taught me. Ofttimes, leadership is simply taking the next necessary step when no one else can or will.”

  Zalas nodded and took a deep breath. He squared his shoulders and turned the knob to pull the door open. He strode through with renewed purpose.

  Juno looked up from his work as they entered. Two men stood nearby, their clothing weathered and dusty. Tenna doubted there were two more dissimilar men in all the empire. One was a tall elf, his long golden hair drawn down his back in a single long braid. The other was swarthy and broad shouldered, a dwarf with fiery red hair atop a face covered in tribal tattoos barely visible against his dark skin. Both turned as they heard Zalas and Tenna enter, their faces bursting with excitement.

  “Zalas,” the pair greeted in warm unison.

  “Any problems, gentlemen?” Zalas asked.

  “Only heart failure,” laughed the elf.

  “Heart failure?” asked Tenna, “what do you mean, Cedsul?”

  “Hah! Where d’ya begin to tell a tale like ours?” the dwarf laughed. “We might be able to go on and on for days if you’d let us, but I don’t see it happenin’.”

  “Uh, no, Onahim,” responded Zalas, “I think my own heart would fail if you did. Just give me the best parts, you can give me a full report some other time.”

  “Your information was dead on,” Cedsul began, “but it must have been very old. We found the cave precisely where it should have been, in the northern environs of The Breaks, but a rock slide had covered it long ago. It was overgrown with wild grass and scrub brush. If not for your map when would have never known it existed.”

  “How’d you get it open?” asked Tenna.

  Onahim’s broad face broke into a toothy smile. He stuck a grimy hand inside his vest and pulled out two small pouches, one red, the other yellow. “Dwarven blasting powder,” he winked at Tenna.

  “Remember when we left?” Cedsul laughed “What was it you said, Juno?”

  Ever unflappable, Juno raised a calm eyebrow and said, “I asked when would you ever have need for that much blasting power.”

  “Over-preparation,” Onahim laughed louder, “it’s the dwarven way!”

  “How much did you take, dare I ask?” Zalas asked.

  Cedsul snorted. “At least two pounds. Do you have any idea what that amount can do to the side of a mountain?”

  Tenna’s eyes went wide, “You didn’t!”

  “Boom!” Onahim bawled, his hands splayed in mock exhibition of the blast.

  “The explosion was so loud my ears are still ringing,” Cedsul grinned. “Rocks rained from the sky and I thought we were in danger of being buried alive. We hid under a ledge until the dust settled, then stepped out to find the cave mouth standing wide open.”

  “How did you set it off?” Tenna asked. “Don’t you need some kind of a spark or fire to trigger the blast?”

  Cedsul reached over his left shoulder and drew a tarred arrow from his quiver. “Flaming arrow.”

  “The wards you warned us about were either too old to be active, or crumbled under the force of the blast,” Onahim continued. He held up a hand to show an ebon ring on his finger. “Our rings never gave the slightest glow. There was no trickery left.”

  “We found our way through the labyrinth of tunnels easily,” the elf added. “That map was worth ten times whatever you paid for it. In all my years of hunting treasure, I’ve never been given such precise information. We walked in, found what we were looking for, wrapped it up, and walked out. It was as if it had been left for us to find.”

  “Perhaps it was,” Zalas whispered.

  Cedsul cocked an eyebrow. “What?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” the merchant waved his hand in the air. “I’ve heard nothing in your tale so far that would cause your hearts to give out.”

  Onahim growled, his easy smile disappearing like the sun covered by sudden storm clouds. “We were moving out of The Breaks, taking our time since everything had gone so well. I think we were halfway through the buttes sometime the next day when we heard the roar.”

  “Uh oh,” Juno said.

  “At first, we thought it was one of the local malkin cat roaring at us, but Cedsul’s elf eyes couldn’t find anything. Those big cats always present themselves to intruders. The horses wanted to bolt. They grew more and more nervous and nothing we could do would calm them. The roar came again and again, getting louder. The wind in front of us was starting to kick up dust. That’s when the biggest green lizard you’ve ever seen flew right over the butte ahead us, roaring us plain deaf as it went over.”

  “Big green lizard…,” Zalas murmured.

  “Lach,” Onahim spat the name like a curse.

  “The emerald dragon,” Cedsul confirmed. “He flew over us and headed east. Thankfully, the dragon-fear was so overwhelmingly thick the horses froze in place instead of bolting. There we were in the middle of his home territory and he flew over us without a second glance.”

  “What could make a dragon ignore intruders in his domain?” Zalas asked. No one had an answer. “Any other difficulties?”

  “Once I cleaned out my breeches? Not a one,” snorted Onahim, drawing a knowing smile from his elven partner, and a snicker from Tenna.

  The conversation came to a sudden, uncomfortable silence. Without more detail, there wasn’t much left to say. Zalas couldn’t bear the anticipation any longer. When he spoke again, his voice was almost reverent.

  “You have it here?”

  “It’s already in Juno’s care,” Cedsul answered.

  Zalas stood up tall and cocked his head at Tenna. “Lock the front door. Juno, pull the curtains.”

  Tenna wasn’t sure she understood what he’d s
aid at first. Her father had never ordered the shop closed early. Juno was already in motion, pulling the thick velvet curtains closed. Another look from Zalas spurred her into motion, and she skipped toward the front door to throw the heavy bolt. When she turned back she found Zalas lighting every lamp available.

  Juno disappeared into the storeroom, returning with a plain, long box cradled in his arms a few moments later. Made of rough, unfinished wood, it was nondescript and similar to scores of boxes found in the shop’s storage. Each box held a weapon of some sort—axes, swords, lances—and most bore an inventory stamp.

  This box was bare.

  Juno set the box on the counter and drew a small pry bar from his leather apron. Zalas took it, and shoved it under the lip of the box lid, working his way around until Juno was able to lift the lid away. A long, sword-shaped bundle wrapped in red velvet was lying in a bed of straw within. As with the doorknob, Zalas’s hand hovered, as if in fear of grasping the sword.

  The moment felt almost sacred, and no one dared to speak. Tenna slipped her hand over her father’s forearm and gave him a reassuring nod.

  Zalas reached out and lifted one fold, and then another until he revealed the culmination of all his hopes, all his labor. Tenna gasped as she caught sight of the sword. Even Onahim and Cedsul, seasoned treasure hunters who had handled the sword for weeks, held their breath as if seeing it for the first time.

  Five feet long from pommel to tip, the sword was surely the most unique weapon ever forged. The more than four foot blade was covered in a rippling, water-like pattern. The metal was neither iron nor steel, yet seemed to share the look of both. Like those rarest of crucible steel blades its color was jet black, a black so deep the blade looked wet. Tenna was convinced her hands would come away damp if she rubbed the blade’s broadside.

  The sword hilt was elegant, made of two cords—one gold and one silver—intertwined with one another. Beneath the hilt was a two-handed grip covered in silvery-gray sharkskin. The butt end was completed with a medallion shaped pommel with an oak leaf stamped upon it in intricate detail, it’s fine lines inlaid with silver—the mark of a Xigara forged blade.

  “Which one is it?” Zalas breathed in wonder. “Which of the Seven?”

  “How can you tell?” Tenna whispered.

  A spark flared in her father’s eye as he drew the blade from its resting place. He ran a loving hand up and down the flat of the blade, then turned the grip end toward Tenna. He pointed at the pommel’s thick medallion with its oak leaf inlaid in gold. Then he turned the sword over to reveal the medallions’s opposite face.

  An elven rune was stamped there, inlaid in the same manner as the oak leaf.

  “Elpis,” Cedsul read the rune.

  “Faith,” her father repeated the word in Common. “This is Nephali.”

  “The sword has a name?” Tenna asked. “Why would a sword have a name?”

  Zalas handed the sword to his daughter as if holding it would be explanation enough, and in some measure it was. The sword was a wonder—light and balanced to perfection. It seemed to vibrate at her touch, as if it were trying to sing to her.

  “Oh,” she breathed.

  “Xigara named the Seven,” Zalas said. “He forged them with purpose and named them after their destiny.”

  “Th…then the myths are true,” she stammered, looking up at her father wide-eyed.

  “Of course,” her father’s smile was joyful, “what else did you expect?”

  A speck appeared on the northwest horizon. Only one with the eyes and stature of a giant would notice.

  Tir turned his placid gaze toward the city below, then nodded as if agreeing with an inner voice. He’d been right to come to Madhebah today.

  The citizens were unaware, but they would soon learn what was coming for them.

  4

  The Sea of Raamah

  A battered caravel sat in ragged condition in calm waters off the coast of an uncharted island having weathered the raging seas of the previous night. Groggy sailors came up from below decks to survey the damage: a mizzen mast torn from its moorings, sails torn into long tatters, and a missing ship’s wheel. Prayers of thanks offered up after the crew discovered the rudder intact and the mainmast whole—complete with an unconscious captain Gran Stile lashed its the base.

  Crewmen looking up into the ropes found them tangled but mostly intact, and the accompanying sails, though shredded, could be mended. Atop the mainmast, the standard of Maehdras, though much worse for wear, fluttered agreeably in the breeze. They would make it home.

  Cyril, first mate of the Sunset’s Trace, ordered a bucket of water hauled up over the side. He was unsure how the captain might react when the water hit his face, so he ordered a crewman to drench him while he was still bound to the mast.

  The crewman heaved away, and the captain was shocked awake by the chilling water and the bitter taste of brine. He floundered about, blindly fighting to free himself from his bond.

  The crew laughed at their captain’s discomfort, but only so long as he was wiping his eyes and couldn’t see. Once he gained control of himself, the captain looked at Cyril with flat eyes.

  “Untie me,” he croaked.

  The crew took the captain’s recovery as a clear signal to scramble back to their stations. Freed from his bonds, the captain nodded his thanks to Cyril and began an assessment of the damage.

  “Cap’n,” asked Cyril, “what happened up here?”

  The captain waved a hand aft as he walked. “After I ordered the crew below decks, old Jolly and I tried to lash the wheel down. We managed to get the rudder pin in place, but then a giant wave nearly washed us overboard. We held on to the rail, but one we’d recovered our wits we found the wheel was gone.”

  Stile pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tried dry his face, but gave up when it became clear the thin cloth was itself quite drenched. He looked up to the heavens in frustration and shoved the rag back in a pocket.

  “We decided there was nothing more we could do,” Stile continued, “and ran to lash ourselves to the mainmast. I tried to lash old Jolly down first, but he would have it. He’d only just tied me down when the big wave hit.”

  Cyril pulled his cap from his head and held it over his heart as the captain bowed his head. Stile choked down the bile rising in his throat enough to say, “I grabbed his arm, but couldn’t hold on. He slipped right out of his sleeve.”

  Stile pulled a grimy shirtsleeve from under his belt and held it up. Cyril frowned at the tattered seam where the sleeve had torn away, muttering something about keelhauling the tailor who’d last tended to old Jolly’s clothes.

  “The mizzen went next, then the storm whipped up the debris and something hit my head. Next I knew, somebody was throwing sea water in my face.”

  “’Twas a bad, bad storm, Cap’n,” Cyril said. “Maybe the worst I’ve ever seen.”

  Stile stopped and stared at Cyril, his eyes as hard as agates. “That storm wasn’t natural, it was foul magic aimed right at us.”

  “Magic,” Cyril made a hand sign against evil. He narrowed his eyes at the captain as if evaluating the captain’s fitness. By and large, sailors are a superstitious lot, and distrusted magic above all, almost to the point of raw hatred. Cyril was no exception. Sailing depended upon harnessing natural forces, and magic was anything but natural. “How can you know it was magic?”

  “Old Jolly—the waves take him—was an apprentice mage before he heard the call of the sea.”

  “Aye,” Cyril said, “I remember.”

  “Well, he could feel magic deep in his bones, ever since he was a lad. He could feel spellwork tingling right down to his core, and would get to aching like an old geezer that feels a bad storm coming. He was hurting bad last night.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t just pain caused by the storm?” Cyril asked. “He was getting pretty old.”

  Stile grunted and shrugged his shoulders. “Because he’s never felt a touch of pain during the hundreds
of storms we’ve weathered all these years on the open sea together. But last night he was…”

  “He was what, Cap’n?” asked Cyril.

  The captain pulled close to Cyril, so close his first mate could see tears welling in his eyes.

  “I’d never say this to any other man,” Stile whispered, “but old Jolly—the waves take him—was crying like a babe.”

  Cyril’s head rocked back as he sucked in a sharp breath. He’d known Jolly since he’d run away from home as a lad to seek adventure on the sea. Jolly had been a tough old salt, a man Cyril had witnessed take a crossbow bold in the shoulder without flinching. When the time came to pull the barb, Jolly had refused anything to bite down on, and hardly grunted was the ship’s cutter pulled the shaft free.

  Yet the captain claimed old Jolly cried. How could that be?

  “Land!” cried a voice from atop the crow’s nest.

  “What?” the startled captain yelled. “Land? There’s no land out here, not least ways any we know about.” He turned to Cyril, “Fetch my spare glass. We’ll see if there’s land out here or not.”

  Cyril went aft and Stile yelled up to the sailor in the nest. “Where’s this land, boy? Point the way.”

  The sailor leaned out over the nest’s rail and stretched out an arm. “Starboard side, captain! Looks like a wooded island, but it’s hard to tell what with all the dark clouds hanging over it.”

  “Woods?” Stile mused to himself. “If that’s true then maybe we can make some repairs. We’ve got food and water enough to last a while longer out here.”

  Cyril returned with the glass. Stile took it and lifted it to search in the direction the lookout had pointed, but found nothing. He grunted and climbed partway up the nearby ropes to try again.

  He swept the water again, finally finding a tiny island in the distance. He squinted and thought he could make out some trees. The more he stared, the more detail came into focus. The more detail he made out, the more questions sprang to mind.