The Foundlings (The Swords of Xigara)

by J. Mark Miller

  Drawn into the old man’s sphere, she peppered the mage with questions each night as they sat about the fire. He was forthcoming in his firsthand accounts of history, but evasive on the subject of magic. Though certain he never lied, Tenna knew he was often evasive, treating her like an adult might a child by stepping around the issue or changing subjects altogether. Tenna was used to such tactics from her father and had so learned patience. She’d learn his secrets given enough time.

  Cedsul called a halt as dusk threatened. They moved down a small defile lined with gnarly trees. Zalas forbid them from making a fire out of sudden fear that the sulfur dragon might have backtracked to search for them. Doulos assured him he would feel the dragon if he came near, but Zalas wouldn’t budge. Tenna suspected her father’s refusal was borne more of a power struggle with the old man than any real caution.

  Their food supplies were dwindling. The greater portion of their foodstuffs had been delivered to the stables and loaded into their saddlebags. Their inability to reach the stables had curtailed those supplies. Now, Zalas’s refusal to allow a fire limited their options all the more and kept Cedsul from hunting for fresh game. The night’s meal consisted of dry bread, hard cheese, and stiff jerky.

  Zalas assured them provisions would be found at the Bastion.

  Tenna’s curiosity swelled as the colossal ziggurat loomed closer. She found it hard to imagine the stronghold’s immensity. Her father said it would have swallowed up the three inner rings of Madhebah or more.

  “Doulos,” she said as she reached to tear another hunk of bread from their shared loaf, “what do you know of the Bastion?”

  Tenna saw her father’s scrutiny turn her way in the darkness. She ignored his consternation.

  “I know much,” the old man said, “more than I could share in a single evening.”

  “Can you explain why such a behemoth was built in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Even that is no small tale,” Doulos said. “The roots of the stronghold’s construction lie deep in the past, before the Great War. It was in those ancient days that the Deceiver thought to build the city of Kordas and bury the temple of Onúl. He set himself up as god over men. Before Onúl rained brimstone down on Kordas, the verdant plains stretched from the westernmost shore to the edges of the Barrhas Wood, and men cultivated those plains.

  “Mankind was forced to choose sides in the impending battle. They gathered into enclaves which became powerful city-states. There was a group of farmers who migrated to the eastern plains in an effort to escape the burgeoning strife. They sought to remain neutral, a naive notion at best, deadly at worst. Death came to them when the opposing sides used their fields as their battleground, grinding the farmers beneath their unheeding boots.

  “The farmers banded together in desperation, forming a militia in a fruitless attempt to preserve their neutrality. They learned to their sorrow that such strength only draws scrutiny. So, they choose the wisdom of defense instead, building a fortress to hide within.”

  “A bunch of farmers built that monstrosity?” Tenna pointed a thumb over her shoulder.

  “Not the structure we see today,” Doulos said, “but they laid its foundation.”

  “Then how did it become what it is now, and how did it come into the empire’s hands?”

  “When Onúl rained fire on Kordas, the resulting upheaval was devastating. The face of Awia was altered. This continent, Aniycay, was reasonably preserved, but Achowr was split in twain. Another continent named Nolava was lost.

  “Even here on Aniycay there was catastrophe. Part of the continent fell into the ocean, and the lands east of the Celadine Mountains were flooded. The waters eventually receded, but left behind the Kerem Sea. The great Ridge of Telem rose up, separating the western plains from the lands through which we now travel. The plains were broken up here in the east, reshaped into the hills and valley surrounding us now.

  “The fortress the farmers had built was ruined. Their people were decimated, but for all their grief they fared better than most dwelling around them. They set out to rebuild, determined to create a bulwark so strong they would never again be subject to catastrophe. They found dwarven refugees fleeing the mountains and enslaved them. They spent the lives of those dwarves on the vain hope of overcoming their all misery. Little did they understand they only made themselves a beacon to a world grown cruel.”

  “What could harm men who’d survived the breaking of the world?”

  “Other men,” Doulos said. “Chiefly one man named Margosan.”

  “Margosan?” Tenna said. “Madhebah’s grandfather?”

  “The same,” Doulos nodded. “He cut a swath across the continent, determined to build an empire. His army marched from city to city, bringing them to heel, draining their resources, and conscripting their young to swell his ranks. Many surrendered in the belief of a better future through cooperation. Those who would not capitulate were brought to bear through starvation and sword.

  “Margosan knew he couldn’t take the Bastion without great cost. He approached the farmer’s descendants with overtures of peace, offering to share the spoils of conquest. He softened their judgment with wine, finery, and flattery. In time an accord was struck. The Bastion would retain the right of self-governance, while supplying Margosan’s army with the supplies he needed to subjugate to the continent. In return, The Bastion would receive imperial protection from Margosan’s troops.

  “Margosan went on to triumph and peace descended for many years. Always shrewd, Margosan slowly increased the number of soldiers garrisoned at the Bastion, trickling them in by ones and twos. He assured the Bastion’s people of their importance to his realm and the love he held for them.

  “The new emperor’s final command before departing this life was to set his ultimate design in motion, leaving a gift for his son. One night, while the Bastion slept, Margosan’s soldiers slipped from home to home and slaughtered the people in their beds. The Bastion fell in a single night at no cost to the budding empire.”

  Tenna sat back, glad there was no fire to reveal the horror on her face. “Why…why would he do that? He had what he wanted.”

  “Margosan never wanted cooperation and access, he wanted submission. A man like him could never rest until all men acknowledge him as their superior, even if from the grave.”

  “Monstrous,” Tenna whispered.

  Doulos nodded. “When he came to the throne, Madhebah created the surrounding city, making the Bastion what it is today.”

  Tenna sat forlorn, tears staining her cheeks from the brutality of the tale. That men’s hearts could conceive of such barbarism shook her to the core. She knew evil existed, she knew atrocities had been committed all throughout history, but she always thought it prompted by the Deceiver and his minions. Now she understood more that men needed no prompting to violate one another.

  She looked up to find her father standing near. “I think that’s enough for tonight. Everyone get some sleep. Doulos, take the first watch with me.”

  “Hmph,” Doulos grunted as Zalas walked away. He pulled himself to his feet, and his cloak fell away. Tenna glimpsed the pommel of his sword in the moonlight, its shape holding her momentarily transfixed until she felt a hand on her shoulder.

  “Sleep, child,” the mage said. “Forget the horrors of the past. We learn from them so that we might not repeat them.”

  He turned and walked away. She watched until he was swallowed by the trees, then made her way to her own pallet, hoping sleep would find her.

  Doulos found Zalas at the entrance of the defile. Zalas had made it a point to avoid the mage since their flight from Madhebah, never attempting to hide his disdain for the bond growing between him and his daughter. The mage knew the anger but masked a deeper emotion.

  Zalas’s whisper was harsh in the darkness. “Why do you persist, old man? She’s only a girl, she doesn’t need to hear your tall tales.”

  Doulos offered only silence in return, choosing to look up at the s
tars.

  “You have nothing to say?” Zalas demanded.

  When it came, the mage’s voice was like a gentle father helping his son through his first heartache.

  “My words have been no different from yours, my friend. You’ve been both father and mentor. I seek only to aid your work, preparing her for what must come.”

  “You fill her head with stories she’s not ready to hear. She’s not ready.”

  “Zalas, hear me. I’m not some doddering old fool masquerading with a few skillful tricks. You know better, despite your characterization of me to your daughter. I’ve told you nothing but the truth since the day we met. I’m incapable of doing otherwise.”

  Zalas bowed his head. He fiddled with the rocks at his feet like a scolded child.

  The mage laid a sympathetic hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Tenna is a child no longer, Zalas. She’s a young woman whose destiny has come to call. The Swords are awakening and she must be made ready.”

  “I haven’t had enough time,” Zalas was anguished. His tears splashed on the leaf covered ground. “I did my best, but it wasn’t enough.”

  “The time has been short, but you’ve done well. You were never expected to complete the task alone. There’s time yet and I’m here to help you guide her, not take your place. Others will join us to become guides, protectors, and friends, but only you can be her father.” Doulos squeezed his shoulder. “You are her father. I could never be that for her. Only you can.”

  “But what if I lose her?”

  “You can’t lose her,” Doulos said. “Only if we fail could you lose her. If we fail then all is lost.”

  18

  The Gates

  Ancient beyond even the reckoning of his own kind, Valas, king of the Qerach elves, trembled on his obsidian throne. For so long he’d been left to his own devices, his own whims, long enough to believe he might rule in freedom once again. The Dark Fiend who controlled his life had been absent for so long that the king began to believe he would never return.

  Valas was mistaken.

  His relationship with the Dark Lord stretched back for millennia. Valas once saw him as savior, the man who’d brought him back from the brink of death. He’d revealed himself then as Chashak, dread prince of the fallen Azur. Their alliance was mutually beneficial in those early days, but over time the Deceiver revealed his true nature, becoming a tyrant who ruled the Qerach through his puppet Valas.

  Then one day the Deceiver vanished.

  Valas dared not stray from his Dark Lord’s will for many years. The demon had absented himself for long stretches in the past, sometimes only to test the fidelity of his marionette. After centuries of absence, Valas felt it was safe to take action on his own. If the Dread One returned, he could always plead that he’d done his best in the absence of proper counsel. His hopes had crumbled under the thumb of the dread tyrant’s return.

  Chashak seemed unconcerned with the elven king’s administration during his long absence. Instead, he reveled in his might, more haughty and self-assured than Valas remembered. The Dark Lord sucked in light and radiated malevolence, so much so that Valas found it hard to bear his liege’s presence. But it wasn’t this change that gave him greatest pause, it was the spiteful looking sword at his master’s hip.

  “Armies are on the move, Valas,” Chashak said. “I want this kingdom’s army on the move as well. It’s time to play your part.”

  “Against what enemy, lord?” Valas questioned. At one time he might have kept silent, but the Deceiver’s years of absence had given the king a foolish boldness, enough to question his self-appointed god.

  The demon’s dull armor creaked as he took a step toward the black throne. “Against any who dare stand against me, Valas. Does that include you?”

  Gooseflesh blossomed on the elf’s skin and he tried to shrink into the hard stone of his chair. The last vestiges of his audacity melted as he felt the Evil One’s spirit reach out to crush him. He threw himself from the throne, falling prostrate at Chashak’s feet.

  “No…no, lord. I…I only wish to serve. The more I know the better I understand. The more I understand our enemy, the better I might serve you.”

  Chashak bent down and grabbed the elf by the head. The king squealed in pain as the demon lifted him from the floor and stared in his eyes. The ancient one’s spirit blanketed his soul.

  “If you cannot obey without question,” Chashak warned, “I’ll find another to sit on your throne.”

  Valas could only whimper. “Yes, lord.”

  The Dark One dropped the king to the floor and turned away. His armored feet scraped the marble floor, the sound drowning out Valas’s sobs. When he spoke again, it was with a tinge of the honey Valas remembered of old.

  “This is the final battle, my old friend. Once we have won there will be no enemies left to defeat. There will be rewards in the world to come for those who serve me faithfully.”

  Valas wanted to believe. Chashak’s voice made him want to lift his head and believe they were old friends working to craft a better world. But he found himself paralyzed, overtaken by despair. His heart knew better. His heart knew what sort of world Chashak meant to fashion.

  “Prophecy unfolds, Valas,” Chashak said. “Prophecies I mean to ruin. I will usher in my glorious kingdom. My armies will spread across this world. And then…then…”

  Chashak began to laugh. Valas looked up from the floor in confusion. What did he mean? What else was there to conquer? What dire yearnings did the Dark Lord possess that the entire world was not enough to satisfy?

  Would there be a world left?

  Chashak spun on his heel and bent down to meet Valas face to face.

  “Ready your armies, Valas. Raise your elves and press them into service. Sane has appeared to her dwarven high priests and ordered them to obey your commands.

  “Bring me chaos, Valas. Sweep the continent clean of anyone who will not follow my banner. Push them into the sea. Then, when that’s done, go and lay siege on Nesos.”

  “But, my lord,” Valas stammered before he thought better of it, “what of the barrier?”

  Chashak turned his baleful green eyes on the elf, forcing the king’s head back to the stone floor.

  “Fret not,” Chashak’s voice sounded like a sword on a grindstone. “The barrier will fall, and when it does, Nesos will burn.”

  19

  The Celadine Mountains

  Thousands of watchfires glowed in the forest below, each of them surrounded by a dozen or more misshapen creatures who didn’t belong. The Barrhas Wood was filled with yrch.

  “This shouldn’t be possible,” Duras whispered to his friend as they crouched within the cover of the tree line.

  “I know, I know,” murmured Katalas, “but it’s happening, so now we must deal with it.”

  Katalas motioned to a pair of rangers, sending them to scout southward. They sped off into the night as silent as growing grass. Two more went north with a similar gesture.

  “We should scout too,” Duras stamped an impatient foot. “Three pairs of eyes are better than two.”

  Katalas stifled a chuckle. “We’d never get past the first sentry. Yrch may be dimwitted, but dwarves aren’t known for their stealth. Your creaky old knees would give us away.”

  Duras snorted and turned away to cover his smile

  The fires filled the forest with a red-tinged glow from horizon to horizon. The ancient wards had given way to allow swarms of yrch to infest the woodlands. Unable to fortify or renew the magical barricade, the elven mages redirected their efforts towards securing the mountain range. Children, their caretakers, and anyone unfit for the citadel’s defense had been migrated deep into the southern extremities of the mountains. From there they could flee into the jungle and make for the Shrine, or escape into the river lands of Ulquiy.

  Those who remained would fight to defend the stronghold until it was no longer defensible. Though it had been millennia since the Kith War, there were those who rem
embered those days, and would fight to the death before seeing their people slaughtered again. They would bring the place down atop their invader’s heads if necessary.

  In the years before the warding of the forest, small bands of yrch roamed through the Celadine foothills. Sometimes these bands would stumble across an entrance to the caverns, picking up the scent of the inhabitants below. Though the community was smaller in those days and the caves largely uncharted, invading yrch were usually discovered and killed before they could cause any harm.

  All that changed the day one got away.

  It returned a few days later, bringing its entire tribe to kill and plunder. The loss of life was heavy and a bitter lesson was learned. Elven mages labored for five years to ward the mountains and the western woods, while dwarven sappers mapped and secured every subterranean nook and cranny.

  Now those wards had failed, undone by some outside force, and thousands of yrch infested the forest. The mages discovered the mountain wards were stressed as well, though some believed they had caught and arrested the assault in time to prevent failure. Others had their doubts. Whatever dark powers had destroyed the forest’s wards outstripped their own knowledge and ability.

  “Want to hear what’s most disconcerting about all of this?” Katalas asked.

  “What?” Duras said.

  “I went by to see Inoun last night, and. . .”

  “Oh, you did, did you?” Duras raised his eyebrows high.

  Katalas blushed and clear his throat with a nervous cough. “Ah, well, we were sharing some wine as she told me about her research into the ward’s origins.”

  “Don’t the mages already know the origins? Some of them were alive when it was done.”

  “Yes, but she thought the histories might reveal some clue that collective memory could not, something we’ve overlooked.”

  “And she found?”