The Foundlings (The Swords of Xigara)

by J. Mark Miller

The isle looked maybe a mile across. Trees seemed to surround a small hill jutting from the center, and atop that hill was a single massive tree lording over the surround wood. A smoky haze obscured the top of the tree, limiting his ability to get real sense of what he saw.

  Then the scene clicked into focus in his mind.

  “To the oars!” he cried. “To the oars!”

  “Captain,” Cyril objected, “we’ve got no wheel.”

  Stile grabbed one of the sailors dashing past by the arm. “You,” he ordered, “get below with Cyril and get my old wheel off the trophy wall. Make it quick!”

  “That’s the wheel from your first ship,” Cyril protested. “It can’t be replaced.”

  “Lives may be at stake,” Stile said, “and those sure as anything aren’t replaceable. Move!”

  Cyril obeyed and turn to run after the sailor. Stile, still battered from the storm, hobbled up to the quarterdeck and pulled out his glass for another look. Satisfied, he nodded his head and shoved the glass back in a pocket.

  A pair of grunts and a dull thump caught Stile’s attention. He turned to find Cyril and the sailor manhandling the trophy wheel against the rail. They’d brought the ship’s carpenter in tow, fresh from his survey of the ship’s damage.

  “How long, Cork?” Stile asked the carpenter.

  “To get the wheel working again?” asked Cork. “About half an hour.”

  “You’ve got a quarter. Get on it.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” Cork nodded.

  Stile turned back to Cyril. “Get below and grab all the help you need to maneuver the tiller and get us pointed in the right direction until Cork can get the wheel up and turning. I’ll yell orders down to you.” Stile pointed at the sailor standing nearby. “You, help Cork.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” Cyril and the sailor said in unison. Cyril broke away and ran below. The crew below slipped their oars in preparation for the order to row. It wasn’t long until the muffled voice of Cyril drifted up from below.

  “Ready, Cap’n!”

  “Shove off!” Stile yelled.

  “Aye!” the bosun yelled. He took his hammers and began rapping out a rowing tempo for the oarsmen. The ship jerked into motion as the crew’s strokes moved together like a finely tuned clock.

  Stile watched the minuscule island draw closer yard by tedious yard. He lost himself in willing the ship to move faster, shouting him orders down to Cyril at the tiller. A sudden tap on the shoulder startled him, and he turned to find Cork pointing at the wheel.

  “She’s done,” Cork said.

  He clapped Cork on the shoulder and shouted down to Cyril, “Lay off the tiller, hook her back up to the wheel, then get up here.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” came Cyril’s muffled reply.

  Stile caressed the wheel’s familiar shape with loving hands. He paused long enough to give it a kiss for luck, then turned her slightly starboard, placing the Sunset’s Trace on course for the tiny isle.

  The isle loomed larger ahead, and those few crewmen not actively engaged in rowing came above decks to look on. More and more detail came into view, and it became apparent there was a small tower rising from the center of the mound, not an immense tree as Stile had first thought.

  The crew also discovered what the captain had already guessed. The tower wasn’t shrouded in clouds, it was on fire.

  Oily smoke poured from the green marble tower. Fire raged on every level of the spire, sending bright embers into the surrounding wood. Nothing living could be seen moving on the island.

  “All stop!” Stile called. “Drop anchor!”

  He had the feeling they had come as close to land as he dared. He wouldn’t spare the time to order a sounding and inch their way in. He motioned for Cyril to take the wheel and ordered the launches dropped. The regular landing crews made their way to the boats, and in a quick pair of minutes they were paddling for the shore.

  Stile sat by the cutter in his boat, surveying the carnage ahead. No one spoke as they made landfall on the white sand, a beach that would have drawn comments for its beauty under differing circumstances. Today, that beauty went unnoticed.

  Mutilated bodies dressed in robes of blue and white were strewn across the beach, their lifeblood staining the white sands around them. They were clerics of Onúl.

  Their swords drawn and at the ready, the captain led his crew up the beach toward the toward. Behind them, the cutter moved from body to body in the hopes of finding someone he could save, but he was met with corpse after corpse.

  Once it was clear the murderers had escaped the island, Stile ordered Cork and to take some men and find a tree they could rescue from the fire to replace the mizzen.

  That done, Stile led another part of the crew to the tower to search for survivors. It was all too clear they’d find no one alive inside, but they were duty-bound to try. The flamed roared, their heat holding the rescue part several yards away from the entrance. There was nothing to be done.

  They circled the tower’s perimeter, searching for signs of survivors before making their way back toward the beach. As they neared the shore they heard the cutter cry out, “This one’s alive!”

  Stile broke into a sprint, rushing over to find the cutter kneeling over an unexpected sight. A tann female. She’d been stripped and left for dead, so the cutter had covered her with his own coat.

  Stile clenched his fists. “Will she make it?”

  “I’ve no idea,” the cutter said. “I know little about the sea people. She’s got bruises and scrapes all over, but she’s not been butchered like the rest, nor does she have any broken bones. It’s like they got bored and decided to let her live, or were afraid to kill her. For all I know, she’s only suffering from lack of water.”

  “Pray I’ll be so gracious if ever they cross my bow,” the captain whispered between gritted teeth.

  The girl’s eyes fluttered open at the sound of the captain’s voice. She reached out a weak hand toward him. Stile knelt and took her hand.

  “Save your strength, lass. We’ll do all we can to care for you.”

  Her eyes, solid black like the depths of the sea, met his. A kind of connection formed between them, and her lips moved in soundless urgency. Stile leaned close in an effort to hear. She managed to whisper a single word before losing consciousness.

  Stile sat back on his heels with a frown.

  “What did she say, cap’n?” the cutter asked.

  Stile looked at him with eyes full of cold fury as he repeated the lone word.

  “Ulquiy.”

  5

  Madhebah

  Zalas and his companions had retired to his office to devour a round of bread, cheese, and wine. He’d paced the floor the whole time, the excitement of the Sword’s recovery still fresh in his mind. While the others ate, he launched into another recitation of the Sword’s history.

  “As initiates to the Faith, you all know the basic story of Xigara,” Zalas said. “But what I tell you now is not common knowledge, even among members of our order.”

  Zalas paused to pluck a cheese cube from its rest and swallow it down.

  “You know the story of the great smith. Xigara forged great works in every discipline of metal-craft. Examples of his work can be found in museums in cities across two continents. My own collection boasts several Xigara-made blades I’ve managed to discover over the years.

  “That’s the public face of Xigara, the history everyone knows. Now I’ll share the private man, at least what little we know of him. For a very long time, there was nothing but a verbal account of what happened, passed down over generations. Someone, who is a mystery for another time, finally wrote it down. For today, for the sake of understanding the Sword’s origins, let me tell you a tale where only the barest sketch has been preserved.”

  Onahim, who’d refused wine and accepted a mug of ale instead, lifted it and said, “Tell on, good man, we’re listening.”

  “Only because we have no other choice,” Cedsul whispered with a smile,
forcing the others to stifle their laughs. Zalas forged ahead unperturbed.

  “Xigara suffered many tragedies late in his life, and would have lost himself if not for the love of his mother, Xilana. She rescued him and nursed him back to health, setting him on the path toward his greatest achievement.

  “In time, he found himself under the care and instruction of the mage Doulos. He was led to the ruined city of Kordas and built a forge there in the only undamaged structure remaining in the city, the temple of Onúl. Doulos helped him conceive and create a great weapon against evil, a final defense against Chashak and his evil Huwm minions.

  “One night while deep in prayer, Xigara was given a vision of a falling star, a star sent from heaven by Onúl. Doulos sent the platinum dragon Skliryno, father of his kind, on a search for the fallen star. Skliryno returned later that night with a lump a metal of a kind no man had ever before seen. Doulos named it iyshown, or star stone, and told Xigara his night of his greatest work was at hand. On the morrow he would forge his triumph.

  “The mage touched the smith, and secret knowledge—knowledge once hidden in dreams—flooded his consciousness. Xigara set to work with fierce determination. Skliryno’s dragon-fire provided the only flame hot enough to melt and purify the star stone.

  “The stories don’t record what happened that night, but an otherworldly melding of Xigara’s skill, Doulos’s magic, Skliryno’s fire, and Onúl’s blessing accomplished a work never to be repeated on this world. They produced a wonder, seven hallowed weapons in the battle against evil. The seven Swords of Xigara.”

  “Seven?” Tenna sat forward in her chair. “You mean there really are six more of these things out there?”

  Zalas nodded. “Seven swords of power. The only weapons fashioned for mortals to use against Chashak and his evil Huwm.”

  A cold chill settled over the room and Tenna grew still at the mention of the Huwm. They were holy Azur once, until they turned against Onúl, following Chashak in his rebellion to become the Fallen, the Huwm.

  Some believed the mere mention of the Huwm could draw their attention. Those who knew better remained circumspect, speaking of them rarely, and even then only in the barest of whispers. Zalas’s voice was hushed when he began again.

  “When the forging was complete, avatars of the seven holy Azur came, carried on the backs of the goodly dragons. Each of them took one of the Swords and carried it away, hiding them in the secret places of the world. Clues were left for those who would one day need to find the Swords. That time has come, and the first of the Swords has come to us.”

  Muted awe spread through the room. Everyone shifted their glance toward the Nephali cradled in its case atop Zalas’s desk. No one spoke. No one wanted to break the mood. Still, the same question bid its time in silence on everyone’s lips.

  What next?

  It was Tenna who first sat forward in anticipation of asking when she was interrupted by a loud thump on the office door. The door’s heavy lock jiggled in agitation. Someone had managed to get into the shop, and that someone was outside the office door.

  “Shards!” Zalas cursed, “it’s the Imperials. Everyone grab a blade. Onahim, the door.”

  Onahim, his broad war axe in hand, placed his wide back against the door. Tenna and Juno crouched behind Zalas’s desk. Juno drew a small crossbow and loaded it while Tenna lifted her skirts to reveal a brace of throwing knives strapped to each thigh. She drew a knife for each hand.

  Zalas squatted beside her and whispered, “If this goes bad, don’t stay and fight. I’m trusting you to get Nephali out through the escape tunnel.”

  “I won’t leave you,” Tenna said.

  “It’s not open for debate, Tenna.” She’d never heard him so intense before. “Nothing’s more important than you getting clear with that sword in hand. Understand? Nothing.”

  “Y…yes, Father,” she nodded.

  Zalas leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Good.”

  He stood up and stepped to the doorway. He and Cedsul stood on either side of the portal with swords drawn. The lock rattled again, sounding desperate and urgent. Zalas tried to steal a glance through the peep hole just above Onahim’s head but found it dark, covered from the outside.

  “Give up while you can,” Zalas shouted through the door. “You’re outnumbered and can’t win.”

  Zalas was gambling. He had no way of knowing whether there was a single intruder or an entire cohort of Imperials. The fumbling at the door stopped, followed by a muffled voice.

  “Confound it, Zalas! Open this door before I blow it into wood chips.”

  Zalas’s shoulders slumped and he lowered his sword with a tired sigh. “Let him in,” he muttered.

  Onahim raised a dubious eyebrow. “What?”

  “Get out of the old man’s way and let him in before he burns the place down around us.”

  Onahim rolled the lock and pulled the door open. A tall man wrapped in a hooded green cloak rushed into the room. Mud fell from his boots, smearing the luxurious carpet of Zalas’s office. A long black beard, shot with streaks of gray, preceded the stranger. A long sword was evident beneath his cloak.

  He stopped face to face with Zalas.

  “Is it here?” the man’s voice was low and crackling. “Did they find it?”

  “Yes, mage,” Zalas said. “It’s sitting on my desk. My men found it right where you said it would be.”

  “Excellent!” The mage clapped his hands together. “Let’s go, we’ve got to get moving. Pack up what you need and get on the road.”

  “Hold on,” Zalas raised his hands in confusion. “We’re not going anywhere. Your information was valuable, but that doesn’t mean I’ll suddenly start taking orders from you.”

  “Oh, but you should,” the old man’s eyes shimmered in the lamplight. He moved closer, and when he spoke again his voice was low and intense. “I know where the other Swords are hidden, and if you ever hope to find them you’ll listen to me. We must leave. Now.”

  Suddenly curious, Zalas refused to be swayed. “We can’t go fobbing off across the continent. Plans need to be made, preparations. We need to take the time and make sure we don’t overlook anything. And I can’t simply abandon my shop.”

  “We don’t have time!” the mage was desperate.

  “Why? Tell me why!” Zalas demanded.

  The old man drew back his hood, revealing a hawkishly sharp nose set between piercing blue eyes. Those eyes swept the room before setting on Zalas again, drawing everyone’s attention as they passed over them.

  “Because a dragon is on its way to kill you.”

  6

  Mount Uwd

  In the northeast corner of Aniycay, where the continent begins to curve back on itself to create the White Gulf, a peak stands on the most remote corner of the world. The highest peak on Awia, it’s known as Mount Uwd on most charts, but the people call it Dromos Korfi, the Dreadcrest.

  Uwd was an aberration, a lone mountain thrusting its defiance at heaven. Three millennia earlier, pioneers traveling north saw nothing but the vast marshlands called the Fen of Ezrah stretching out before from horizon to horizon. There was no sign of the mountain’s presence in those days.

  When the Huwm returned from their long exile, they raised the Dreadcrest from bones of the earth, shaping the rock and stone with power fueled by their hatred. A blight on the face of the world, pulsing and oozing like a blister in need of ointment, it served as a fortress and sanctuary in their war against the Azur.

  Hulking creatures lumbered across the jagged face of the mountain, killing all living things. Misshapen beasts pulled unsuspecting creatures to their deaths within caves and fissures. Rank scavenger fowl circled the peak, swooping low over the carcasses left by the monsters. Only the hardiest creatures could survive the fetid gasses that seeped from the crevices traced across the mount’s surface, a noxious yellow pall that choked both plants and animals without discrimination.

  Black smoke rose from the apex, ta
inting an already polluted sky. Dark wings circled the peak, flying anxious loops through the ebon reek like a man pacing a floor. Mavros the Black was agitated, and his smoldering hatred seemed to thicken the murky sky.

  Crouched in a copse of gnarled trees far below, five pairs of almond-shaped eyes kept vigil on the mountain, watching the dragon’s dance on the poisonous air. Five elves dressed in muddy hues could move about silent and unseen when they wished, but not from the keen eyes of a dragon. Mavros had senses far more acute than any bird of prey, and would pick them out with ease if they dared to move.

  The elves wore heavy woolen masks to help filter the noxious fumes. They knew the toxins would cut their long lives short, so the posting was voluntary. The assignment was considered so dangerous that no elf was ever stationed at the outpost for more than a few months at a time. Volunteer scouts would likely see this frontier once in their lifetime.

  “When will that serpent crawl back down its hole?” one elf whispered. He was lying on his back, staring up at the black clouds above. “I’ve been holding it for hours.”

  “Go ahead and wet yourself, Linil,” another elf lying on his belly growled. “I’ve done it twice since we’ve lain here.”

  “I know, Ilnumil,” Linil grinned, “I can smell you. We can all smell you.”

  “Quiet,” another voice breathed. “Our lives are worth more than your discomfort.”

  “Oh, let up, Aelsona,” Linil said. “It’s different for you women anyway.”

  “Really?” came Iluth’s dry voice. “Can you explain to us women just how it’s so different?”

  “W…well,” Linil stammered, happy he couldn’t move and find his wife’s acid scowl.

  “Hush,” their commander, Katalas, hissed. “You’ve forgotten that dragons have hearing to match their sight. Shut your mouths and keep to your duty.”

  The rangers clamped their mouths without complaint. Katalas was a fair commander, but his authority was adamant, abiding no insolence. Though they were thousands of miles from their kin, far enough away no one might ever learn of their insubordination, honor held above all.