The Foundlings (The Swords of Xigara)

by J. Mark Miller

  Katalas was in motion before the ranger completed his sentence. He ordered a runner to call up a unit of rangers, and another to race to the Council and inform them of his departure.

  “Your name, ranger?” Katalas asked.

  “Iloreth, sir.”

  “I know you’ve been on the run all day, Iloreth, but I need you to lead me back to these people. Do you think you can do it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Iloreth nodded, “I believe so.”

  “We must get them to safety before the yrch find them.”

  Iloreth raised an eyebrow in surprise. “They sound important, sir.”

  The intensity in Katalas’s eyes made Iloreth take a step back. “If they’re who I think they are, they’re the most important people in the world.”

  30

  The Plains of Telem

  Black banners bearing the imprint of the golden leopard fluttered in the breeze as they hung from a hastily erected scaffold. Eldinn stood at the scaffold’s top, looking down on his wretched subjects with a munificent eye. Row upon row of tidily spaced field tents filled the plain, each holding a family of refugees from Madhebah.

  Survivors from the Bastion were beginning to trickle into camp, directed to their assigned locations by stern but patient Imperials. Though he’d been forced to dig deep into the royal coffers to provide for the needs of the displaced, Eldinn thought it more than worth the expense. How better to build these citizens into an army of vengeance than to provide for their needs?

  Eldinn greeted each wave of evacuees as they arrived, regaling them from atop his scaffold with promises of food, water, home, and above all, retribution. The masses responded to his honeyed orations, vowing as one to join the imperial army and annihilate the enemy who’d brought them such pain. Eldinn only needed to point them toward an enemy of his choosing.

  He thought of the secret society he knew was working inside his kingdom, these religious zealots who called themselves the Doxy. His spies had been working to infiltrate the group for years but those efforts had been a failure. Their only success so far had been the arrest of the ringleaders at the Bastion, ringleaders who had literally brought the stronghold down on his soldier’s heads.

  Eldinn seethed at the thought.

  But how to connect the dragon’s attack to these fanatics? He’d informed his advisors that their lives depended on producing an answer.

  Once the fires died out in Madhebah, Eldinn sent couriers across the Empire with orders to call up the reserves and proclamations to conscript every able-bodied man. Half of the frontier battalions were called home to buttress the capital’s fortress and aid in her recovery.

  He declared martial law in Madhebah and the Bastion, along with austere food and water rations. Those caught breaking curfew or hoarding necessities were pressed into work gangs to clean up the city. Anyone suspected of connections to the Doxy were arrested and summarily executed.

  The bulk of his army was arrayed on the plain south of the Ridge of Telem. He emptied whole rooms of the treasury, spending the empire’s gold to buy the aid of the migratory barbarian tribes spread across the southwestern plains, bringing their savage strength under his command. Even more coin was spent on caring for the displaced in their makeshift camp.

  His army was nearly ready, all he needed was a target.

  His counselors left him frustrated and moody. He’d even sent a trusted cousin to consult with the Oracle of Ay, but the old man’s visions only led down false pathways. Eldinn had the Oracle beheaded and his opulent portico demolished.

  Eldinn needed a scapegoat, someone on which to focus the ardent hatred of his people. He needed someone to throw his army against until such time as the true culprits could be located and punished.

  He found his answer as he watched another legion of soldiers approach from the southeast. He would discard over a hundred years of uneasy peace and expand the borders of the empire from coast to coast, removing a constant irritation once and for all. A smile crept across his face as he named his enemy.

  “Ulquiy.”

  31

  Greenholm

  Tander wondered if Chrysafi was lost. It seemed inconceivable that the ancient dragon—a dragon who had flown the length and breadth of the world uncountable times—could be lost, but the boy was beginning to have his doubt.

  He’d been in Chrysafi’s company for three days and was yet to find a way to initiate a friendship as he had with Sidero. The golden dragon wasn’t gregarious like his younger sibling, and Tander found himself more than a little intimidated. Chrysafi was regal and imposing, so Tander felt a need to be formal in his dealings with the dragon. He was sure Chrysafi would answer any question he posed, and indeed he had, but Tander held his tongue for fear of becoming a nuisance.

  Now he was worried.

  He felt a fool for placing his life in the hands of these beasts. Sure, he could say with confidence that Sidero was on old friend of Vonedil’s but what did he really know about the creature? Why did he let that dragon drag him away from all he’d ever known, and why didn’t he protest when he was handed off to yet another dragon?

  He had no idea where they were going. He thought they were making for the continent of Aniycay across the eastern sea, but he wasn’t certain. The dragon had been zigzagging north and south as best Tander could tell, so the whole trip was beginning to make less and less sense.

  Chrysafi woke him earlier each day and flew a little further beyond the sunset. Tander was finding it hard to stay awake and doubted he would make it through the afternoon without a nap.

  When his curiosity was overflowing he finally gathered up the nerve to question the dragon. “Why are we going back and forth all day? We’ve been flying longer each day but we’re getting nowhere. What are you up to?”

  A rumble that make the boy’s teeth rattle coursed through the dragon. Tander stiffened in fear, wondering if he’d angered the dragon. His worries melted away as Chrysafi turned his horned head to show the boy a toothy smile.

  “So,” Chrysafi laughed, “the manling has found his courage. I was beginning to wonder if you would ever ask.”

  “Well,” Tander tried to hide his chagrin, “does that mean you’re up to something?”

  “I’m not ‘up to’ anything, manling. I’m simply surprised you waited so long to inquire about our course. Answer this, Tander. Are you prepared to ride on my back for two straight days in bitterest cold with little food and even less sleep?”

  “Um, no,” Tander was taken aback.

  “We will make the sea crossing soon, and there are no islands where we can rest for the night. I’ve flown a meandering path and extended our flight each day to help temper you for the crossing. We’ll reach my home on the Bay of Kaliyl and fly from there across the narrowest stretch of the sea.”

  “But we’re flying south,” Tander said in confusion.

  “Because my home is not our first destination. We make for Asimi’s aerie, and there you will receive a night of well-deserved rest upon the most beautiful haven on the face of Awia among the most courteous of folk.”

  “Oh,” Tander’s fears deflated, “I’m sorry to pester you.”

  “Your questions are never a bother, Tander. Your quest is far too important for you to not find the answers you seek, and answers are only found through questions. Never be afraid to ask what you will, especially of the goodly dragons. We tend to be patient teachers.”

  Their camaraderie grew as the miles rushed by and Tander relaxed. He found the golden drake as affable, in his own way, as Sidero. The boy finally drifted off to sleep after a light meal.

  “Awake, manling,” Chrysafi said several hours later, “you’re missing a glorious sunset.”

  Tander sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. They were flying over water and the mainland fell behind. Long beams of sunlight glowed red across the waves of the sea. Of greater interest to the boy was the wide land stretching out from east to west dead ahead.

  Nesos, the forbidden
isle.

  Tander knew his history. In the days of the Great War, when those elves and dwarves who followed Onúl had been hunted down and all but annihilated, they made their last stand on the shores of Nesos. They found themselves surrounded by a great host of men and yrch who had banded together with their fallen cousins, while dragon-mounted Azur battled in the skies overhead. All seemed lost until the cries of the faithful remnant were answered and the power of heaven rained down. The false gods and their dragons fled in terror as the enemy army fell prostrate in confusion.

  When their shock lifted, the enemy found themselves surrounded for their eyes deceived them. They fell upon one another, believing friends to be foes. Once their eyes cleared, the tattered remnant who survived the slaughter fled back across the water and attempted to salvage their civilizations. Men and dwarves called on their false gods for succor but were met with silence for the evil Huwm had been banished from the circles of the world for a season.

  Since that day, no human had set foot upon Nesos without going mad. The Fair Isle had stood inviolate for millennia.

  Tander’s anxiety grew as they neared the fabled shore. He remembered stories of pirates venturing too close who fell into madness and unwittingly slew their comrades in the same manner of those invaders long ago.

  Would the same thing happen to him?

  Chrysafi stiffened noticeably when Tander posed the question.

  “It’s a risk to be sure,” the dragon said, “but I’m trusting in the mercy of Onúl to protect you. Passing through the barrier unharmed will prove your legitimacy as a Bearer at the very least. If you’re a fraud, we’ll soon know.”

  Tander rocked back in horror. Did Chrysafi doubt Tander’s claim? Had the dragon brought him all this way just to test him?

  Chrysafi’s body began to quiver with laughter. “It was a joke, manling.”

  Tander’s blew out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Well, it was a bad one.”

  32

  The Kerem Sea

  The Sunset’s Trace lay anchored at the mouth of an unnamed river that emptied into the Kerem Sea. Lamps burned from stem to stern as the night watch stood vigilant. Muffled laughter floated up from below decks as the off-duty crew enjoyed the cool evening. The only other sounds were the gentle sloshing of water lapping the ship’s side and the measured pacing of her captain pacing up and down her length.

  Y’neth was somewhere out in the cold depths of the dark water. She’d requested they drop anchor before rowing upriver to the Shrine. One of the water folk’s cities lay beneath the surface and she felt it her duty to pay a visit before venturing into the deep jungle. Stile had come to know much about Y’neth and her people during the voyage but there was still much he didn’t comprehend.

  He’d spend most of his life on the water and considered the sea a dear, if somewhat fickle, friend. But for all his familiarity with the sea, he only knew of life above the waves and rarely considered the civilization he knew existed down below.

  Y’neth said the tann city in the Kerem Sea was the largest on Awia not found beneath the open ocean and thus held significant influence. She hoped to confer with the city’s viceroy and request she increase their vigilance in light of current events. Most tann were little concerned with the goings on of the surface world.

  The hard truth, thought Stile, was that even most surface folk seemed apathetic and ill-informed.

  Though a veteran of more than a thousand voyages, Stile tread the deck feeling like a greenhorn worried about setting sail for the first time. Every moment Y’neth was gone felt too long even though she wasn’t due back for another day. His concern wasn’t borne of a sense of obligation to fulfill his contract, but out of genuine care for this woman who had become more than a passenger aboard his ship.

  Was it love?

  Stile had never considered becoming a family man. His lover was the sea and his ship his wife. He’d had his share of dalliances in his youth, shameful indiscretions he wished to forget, but thoughts of marriage had never before entered his mind.

  He pulled up short to lean against the railing, gripping it hard as if he might tumble overboard. He shook his head, trying to banish such thoughts. What was he thinking? He barely knew the woman. There was nothing and could be nothing between them. They were from different races, dissimilar culture, separate worlds. How could there ever be anything but furtive glances and unfulfilled desires? It wasn’t some sordid, lustful thing. There was physical allure to be sure, but there was also something more, a steady pull on his heart and mind when she was near, and a longing that tugged all the more when she was not. None of it made any sense, but it was true all the same.

  Stile took up his frustrated pacing again. Knowing the truth and acting upon it were different things. Other races had intermingled with humans before, but he had never heard of a sea-dweller consorting with a human before.

  There were too many differences, too many difficulties. She could breathe underwater. She was more than twice his age. His life was half over while hers was only just beginning. Their union would never be accepted by either human or tann society. He could never join her beneath the surface and though she could live above the surface she would always be feared and mistrusted by humans.

  No, it could never work.

  Still he wished she would return soon.

  33

  The Barrhas Wood

  Zalas stood the late watch over the sleeping forms of his friends. He struggled to drown his frustration as they spent a second night camped just within the forest’s border. Onahim had refused to leave Cedsul’s graveside, and he lay now clasping his fallen friend’s bow in his sleep.

  How many times had the pair gotten themselves into trouble? How many times had they used that trouble as an excuse to blow something to the Abyss with a measure of blasting powder and a well-aimed arrow? Zalas smiled ruefully at the thought, for it would never happen again.

  His gaze fell on his daughter as she slept near the old mage. The two had grown close in a short time, Doulos taking his place as her tutor. He had always known the day would come when he would no longer be her mentor, but the knowing did nothing to lessen the sting.

  A faint rustle in the forest behind him made Zalas turn to investigate. The moon was high and bright and he saw nothing. He’d heard similar noises throughout his watch, things he reasoned to be nocturnal creatures moving through the night. Perhaps the wind blew through the forest enough to disturb the underbrush. Whatever the sound, Zalas felt sure there was no danger within the woods.

  He rubbed the soreness in his shoulder as he stared up into the canopy. In all his travels he had never ventured in the Barrhas Wood before, even though he’d visited the Celadine a time or two. Even so, he knew of the ancient wards protecting the forest and knew they were safe within its bounds.

  Leaves rustling across the camp drew his attention, then more to the left and then the right. He swept his eyes across the clearing in narrow-eyed scrutiny until he heard a different sound altogether. Not another rustle, but a scrap against the bark of a tree.

  His hair stood on end and he reached back to draw Nephali until he remembered Doulos’s warning against using it as a weapon. He drew his belt knife instead and made to rouse his friends from their slumber.

  Hands shot from the darkness faster than he could respond. A pair pinned his arms to his side while another pair stole his knife away and covered his mouth with a thick woolen cloth.

  “Be still, human,” a voice so low he barely heard it whispered. “You’re surrounded and will not live through the night unless you cooperate. Did you think anything happens in this forest without our knowledge?”

  Zalas gave up struggling and relaxed in both body and spirit. They’d been found by elven rangers. They were safe.

  The hands released him and two elves stepped into the moonlight. One handed Zalas his knife and he slipped it back under his belt with a nod of thanks. He leaned close to whisper, “Where’s the rest of yo
ur cadre?”

  “We are the only two of our kindred in this part of the forest,” said the elf who’d whispered in his ear.

  “But you said we were surrounded.”

  “You are,” the elf’s reply was tense, “by yrch. A party of rangers has led many of them away, but several remain. We need to be away from this place before the beasts overcome their caution.”

  Zalas nodded and moved through the camp, shaking each member of the company awake in turn. When he shook Doulos, the old man came awake slowly, his eyes filled with exhaustion. The mage hardly knew where he was and Zalas feared he’d move too slowly for them to escape in time.

  Little did he realize that a groggy wizard was the least of his worries. When he placed a light hand on Onahim’s shoulder the dwarf began to howl. “Away! Away! Flee this place! Away!”

  The elves descended on the dwarf, pinning him to the ground in an effort to cover his mouth with their woolen cloth. Onahim surged to his feet and threw the elves across the clearing. A swift movement emptied his hands of Cedsul’s bow and brought his battle axe to bear.

  The camp was alert and on their feet then, holding their hands out to show the dwarf they were unarmed. The lead elf stepped forward on soft feet and let the moon alight on his face. Onahim stopped snarling and looked at him in confusion, his axe dipped toward the ground.

  “Cedsul?” Onahim’s voice was drenched with pain.

  “No, my friend,” the elf shook his head. “I am Katalas. Cedsul has gone on to his reward. We’ve come to bring you home.”

  The presence of his friends surrounding him seeped into his awareness and he lowered his axe as his eyes filled with tears. His momentary belief that his friend’s death had only been a nightmare was dashed. He’d awoken to a reality worse than he’d imagined.

  The company scrambled to gather their gear while Zalas warned Onahim about their predicament. The dwarf only gave a sullen nod in response. He seemed not to care for his own life any longer and had to be urged into action.