The Foundlings (The Swords of Xigara)

by J. Mark Miller

  “I Katalas,” the elf spoke solemnly, “do pledge anew the service of House Katsumas to House Xigara. I will answer the call.”

  “I Duras,” the dwarf repeated the oath, “do pledge anew the service of House Burras to House Xigara. I will answer the call.”

  Zalas seemed flustered by the revelation, apparently having no idea the pair were Bearers as well. He shook his head to clear it and responded to their oaths.

  “I accept your pledge to House Xigara. May Onúl grant us wisdom in our time of need.”

  “The prophecies,” Inoun whispered.

  “So being a whelp of Xigara’s is your secret,” gruff Brueagnor said. “Does that mean you know the locations of the other Swords?”

  “No,” Zalas said. “The oral history only tells how they were hidden, not where.”

  “Then where’d your information come from?” asked the dwarf Moddoh skeptically.

  “I can answer that,” Doulos rose from his seat. “This next part of the tale is mine to tell in any case.”

  Zalas ceded the floor to the old seer, visibly relieved to no longer be the center of attention, which Tenna found odd. He’d never seemed reticent to address an audience before, but rather seemed to revel in it. Doulos stepped forward, turning in a tight circle to place a critical eye on each member of his audience before he began.

  “Some of you,” Doulos began, “believe me to be nothing more than a charlatan and little more than a nuisance. Yet, none here deny the benefit I have been to their lives. Others among you know the truth, I am indeed the Doulos of legend, representative of Da’ath and friend to Xigara.”

  A few muffled scoffs were heard around the circle, mostly from the dwarves, but from a few elves as well. The other elves nodded in agreement with the man’s claim, while his fellow travelers sat silently, each personally assured of his identity in light of their recent tribulations.

  “Ridicule if you wish,” he told the mockers, “but the wise know the truth. For today I ask the cynical among us to accept the endorsement of your peers. I’ll show you evidence of my claims in due time.”

  There were several sour faces but no one spoke against him, especially in light of his acceptance by the likes of Anag’e and Inoun.

  “I’m the source of Zalas’s information,” Doulos continued, “though even he isn’t aware of the number of nudges I’ve given him over the years. It was only recently, in light of current events, that I finally pointed him toward a precise location.”

  “Wait,” Zalas sputtered, “you mean to say you’ve known the locations all this time and led me astray until you wanted me to find one.”

  “No,” Doulos answered, “I’ve never deceived you. Every scrap of information was real and would have led you down the correct paths had you ever followed them to their ends. I’ll admit to withholding certain knowledge until the time was right. Had you found a Sword too early, other events might have occurred too soon as well, bringing about more chaos.”

  “Then you know how to find the other Swords?” Zalas asked. “The histories say you were there when the Azur took them and hid them across Awia.”

  “I was there,” Doulos admitted, “but I don’t know the location of every Sword. We must find them before the Enemy does.”

  “Why not all?” Inoun asked.

  “Two of the Swords have already been stolen.”

  The chamber erupted again, several councilor rising to their feet to shout. How could the Swords have been stolen? Who were the thieves? How could the prophecies come to pass without them?

  Inoun held her hand up for peace and Doulos shouted over the commotion. “All is not lost!” he yelled. “The High Keeper will surely know more. We must seek her wisdom.”

  The council calmed at this and settled back into their chairs.

  “My greatest concern is the location of the Sword named Amida,” Doulos frowned. “Its hiding place was hidden, even to the other Azur.”

  “Who hid it?” Tenna asked.

  “Giyl.”

  40

  The Spiral

  “Shards!” exclaimed Duras. “Giyl is missing. What if she’s been captured?”

  “Then she’s been captured,” Doulos shrugged. “There’s nothing the Dark Lord, or any of his minions could do to her to make her divulge the secret.”

  “But he doesn’t have to does he?” countered Duras. “He only needs to keep her prisoner, keep one Sword from being found. The prophecies say he’ll only be defeated by gathering all seven Swords.”

  “Yes,” the mage allowed, “but the matter is beyond our control, and therefore beyond our concern. The higher powers are aware of the matter, I assure you, and are taking steps to locate and rescue her if necessary. Nothing we can do will aid or prevent that happening. Our focus is to find the Swords whose locations are known as well as the missing ones. That itself is no small undertaking.”

  “Where are the Swords whose locations you know?” asked the elf Selet.

  “Zalas has one here in this room, the one I helped him locate. Two others lay in the hands of friends, one on Nesos and the other in a Vault at the Shrine in the care of the High Keeper.”

  “Taking into account the two that are missing, as well as the one hidden by Giyl, that’s only six Swords,” the dwarf Cetgu pointed out. “What of the seventh? Is it lost as well?”

  Doulos swept back his cloak in answer, drawing the sword at his hip in a fluid motion. Its unsheathing rang in the air, a note more pure than the clearest bell, stealing the breath from everyone in the room.

  “I knew it!” whispered Zalas.

  The Sword in Doulos’s hand was clearly akin to Zalas’s. Their hilts and cross guards were virtually identical, but the blades were distinct. Where Nephali—Zalas’s Sword—was a heavy two-hander that could not possibly be drawn from the hip, the mage’s blade was shorter. Tapered and double-edged with a strong central ridge, the Sword was every bit as majestic as its kin.

  “This Sword has not left my side since the day of its forging,” Doulos said. “Behold Ehrler, the Sword of Truth.”

  On the heels of his revelation, Inoun pulled a small hand chime from a pocket and struck it thrice. The chamber’s northern doors were pulled open, and dwarven guards dragged the yrch Doulos had captured into the chamber, bound in chains. They deposited it unceremoniously onto the floor. No longer muzzled, it bit and snarled at its captors until one of the guards slapped it, sending it sprawling to the floor with a whimper.

  “What’s going on?” Brueagnor demanded angrily. “You dare bring the enemy into our most secret vault?” His demands were echoed by several other councilors.

  Inoun held up a hand. “Doulos is prepared to demonstrate one of the reasons why the Dark Lord fears the Swords.”

  Doulos brandished Ehrler and stepped toward the pitiful creature. It yelped and struggled to back away. The mage angled the sword downward, pulled it back overhead, then plunged it through the brute’s chest. A shocked silence descended on the room.

  The beast lay on the floor staring at the blade transfixing its chest. Bewildered, it felt no pain, and no blood ran from the wound. It stayed rooted to the spot as if the injury were mortal.

  “Now creature,” Doulos commanded, “you will tell me what we wish to know.”

  The yrch looked confused until old man spoke in its own language. “Drzs nglb b’kesh?” Doulos growled. Tenna felt a shudder run up her spine, the words leaving a palpable taint of evil in the air.

  “What did he say,” Brueagnor asked.

  “’Why you here?’ is the nearest translation I can offer you,” said Inoun patiently.

  “You understand yrch?” asked Katalas in wonder.

  “I am a lore master,” Inoun said simply. “It’s my place to know all languages on Awia.”

  The yrch writhed on the floor, not in pain, but desperately trying to wriggle its body free of the hateful skewer. Its face twisted and teeth clenched as it struggled against the mage’s command.

  Do
ulos tightened his grip on Ehrler and the yrch began to speak as if under compulsion.

  “Blxs ig lves,” the creature blurted, its eyes bulging in fear over its inability to keep silent.

  “Kill the elves,” Inoun translated again.

  “Yth nglb sl wer?” Doulos asked, echoed by Inoun’s, “How you in forest?”

  Again, the creature struggled, beginning to wail in something like pain. “K’tr wer yrch lves,” it snarled.

  “Trick forest yrch elves,” said Inoun, drawing a nod from Anag’e. “You were right, Anag’e. The Wood has been tricked into seeing the yrch as elves. The warding has not failed at all, it’s been deceived.”

  “N’gz ytu nglb?” Doulos asked again.

  Before Inoun could offer a translation, the yrch began to thrash about in a mad rage. Doulos held Ehrler with both hands, driving the blade deeper towards the floor in an effort to maintain his hold over the creature. A low growl came from the beast’s gullet and it started to foam at the mouth, letting out a sharp wail that cut the air and made the elves hold their ears in pain. The cry went on for several agonizing moments until it ended in with a nearly unintelligible name.

  “Akzab!” it screamed, sagging to the floor to breath its last.

  Tenna pulled her fingers out of her ears. “What happened?” Tenna asked as she pulled her fingers out of her ears. “Did the sword kill it?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Doulos nodded, “but not from any physical harm. The Swords cannot harm mortal flesh. Ehrler helps its bearer discern truth, and compels any who become transfixed by it to speak truthfully.”

  “Then why did it die?” Duras asked.

  “The creature was under Akzab’s compulsion. She’s the spirit of deception, second only to the Deceiver himself in the art of falsehood. Akzab is their goddess, and I surmise she’s placed geas on them to prevent them from revealing her scheme.”

  “She’s somehow changed the nature of the yrch themselves,” Anag’e said with some relief. “The warding isn’t broken.”

  “How is it the mountain wards still hold?” Cetgu asked.

  “The nature of the two wards is different,” Anag’e said. “The Wood is a living thing, empowered by Giyl to detect and eradicate any yrch that might venture beneath the trees. She imbued the forest with her own essence, but the mountains are inanimate, possessing traditional, passive wards. The mountains repel yrch like water might fire. It makes them feel uncomfortable.”

  “I can rectify the problem,” Doulos said. “Ehrler will help me reveal the truth to the Wood.”

  “We welcome any aid you might give,” Anag’e bowed her head to the mage.

  “So, where does all this leave us?” asked Katalas.

  “We must seek out the five remaining swords,” Doulos advised. “The future will unravel itself.”

  “Well, I know I’m going,” interjected Duras, “and Katalas as well.”

  “Yes,” Inoun said, “the Blade bearers are honor bound to House Xigara in this matter. The Houses of legend must all gather before the end.”

  “So myself, Duras, Katalas, and Doulos,” Zalas ticked the names off on his fingers. “Tenna must go as well, I’m not leaving her behind.”

  Onahim, who had listened in downcast silence, finally spoke, “You won’t take me. I’m done with adventuring.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Duras, “which brings up a quick bit of Council business if I may, High Councilor.” Inoun nodded her agreement. “If I’m to leave the citadel, there’ll be a vacant seat on the Council. Under the rules of order, I appoint Onahim to be my proxy while I’m away.”

  “No,” Onahim looked up from his brooding, “I don’t want it. I can’t do it. I’ve nothing left.”

  Duras walked over and placed a hand on Onahim’s shoulder. “Not true, cousin, not true. Your best friend has been slain needlessly, but he is only one among thousands who may die before long. Think, he left behind a family. Who else would Cedsul want to watch over them if not you?”

  Onahim lifted his head and looked at his cousin.

  “I’m leaving a family behind as well as my Council seat,” Duras continued. “I’ll risk, and likely lose, my life in the coming storm. I can think of no one better to look after my affairs than my uncle’s only son.”

  “B…but,” Onahim stammered, “I’m not qualified to be on the Council. The clans haven’t voted.”

  “Ain’t no need for a vote,” Bruegnor said, “you’ll only be a temporary appointee. What’s more, there’s no dwarf who knows more about the goings on of the outside world than you. We need your insight on the Council.”

  “You may find this to be the greatest calling on your life,” soothed Duras. “I may have to pry the seat away from you if I return.”

  “Then you can have the seat back,” quipped Cetgu, “and we’ll ask the people to vote Onahim into the empty chair. It’s well past time we dwarves had full representation on the Council.”

  Onahim sat staring at his boots, considering the words of his peers, and more importantly, the tugging of his heart. “Yes,” he answered, “I accept, for Cedsul.”

  “For Cedsul,” Duras smiled and clasped forearms with his cousin.

  “It’s decided,” Doulos said. “I will repair the wards at dawn. Everyone take whatever rest you can find. In three days we set out for The Shrine.”

  41

  The Shrine

  Stile approached the beautifully carven doors and the guards opened them as he approached. He strode through the portal into a long portico filled with vegetation. Huge flowers filled the air with sweet aromas, birds flitted to and fro, and Stile thought he spied a monkey or two hiding behind some of the denser growth.

  Dark trees lined the spaces between the columns and the portico’s exterior wall. Arched portals spaced out about every third pair of columns led toward different sections of the temple. From one of these stepped the strangest looking person the captain had ever seen. Accounting for all the places he’d visited made this a very bizarre individual indeed.

  He was an elf, but an atypical one. While tall, he was broad shouldered and thickly muscled, lacking the delicate bone structure common among his kindred. His long dark hair was shot through with streaks of deep violet, strands of it woven in long braids hanging in front of his face.

  Paint in dark greens and browns covered the elf’s bare chest, leading Stile to believe he could blend into the jungle foliage, remaining utterly concealed from wandering eyes. His legs were covered in some kind of black, shaggy fur, and twigs sprouted from his back and head, further lending to the camouflage. The various shoots and stems were somehow harnessed to his back along with a quiver full of long arrows and a longbow made of horn. A wicked falchion rested at his hip in a fur-covered sheath, ready to cut down enemy and undergrowth alike.

  Most troubling were the man’s eyes. They were deep and piercing like an eagle’s, but nearly impossible to focus onto. Stile blinked several times before he realized the rest of the elf’s face was in focus, it was only the eyes that were strange.

  The elf subtly motioned the captain to continue on and moved into silent step alongside. Stile strode onward, the elf unnerving him more than a little. In moments they reached the portico’s end and stood before another pair of exquisite doors, perfect replicas of the first two. The outlandish elf opened a door and waved Stile inside. They passed through into a most surprising room.

  The High Keeper reclined within a small apse, sitting on a simple divan of dark polished wood and red cushions, petting a large jungle cat whose head rested on her knees. It purred in loud contentment, ignoring the newcomers who had invaded its space.

  She was a beautiful elf, but her beauty wasn’t of the common sort. Stile felt that anyone who desired her might do so because of her inner beauty, her virtue and faith. He knew if he kept quiet and listened he could not help but learn from her and come out the wiser.

  The great cat yawned and stretched as she stood to greet the captain, taking his han
d with a wide smile. “Welcome, Captain Stile,” her voice rang through the alcove. “I am Karah, High Keeper of the Shrine.”

  Not knowing the proper formalities, he bowed and touched his forehead to the back of her hand. “Thank you, lady,” he responded. It must have been the right thing to do because she smiled wider and offered him a seat nearby.

  “Tea?” she asked.

  “Uh, yes,” he stammered, “thank you.”

  She poured two cups of light green tea at a nearby table, then turned to offer one to the captain. She shooed the big cat out of the way and took her seat, blowing at her tea before taking a sip. Stile glanced across the room to see the woodsy elf standing like a sentry, his strange eyes taking account of every moment.

  “I don’t stand much on formality,” the Keeper began, “especially here in my private chambers. I’m but a servant of the Great King like you, only one endowed with a pompous sounding title and more work than any one person can handle alone. Between you and me, I’m just an old woman serving out my final days as best I can.”

  “Old?” Stile raised an eyebrow. “I would never think you old.”

  “My good captain,” her smile made his heart beat faster, “I’m ancient, even by the standards of my own kind. I was old before your ancestors met and began your branch of the family tree.”

  “Well then,” Stile chuckled, “you must be young indeed as my father has no idea who his father was. My branch of the tree is more like a budding leaf.”

  Karah laughed aloud at his self depreciation. She reached over and patted him on the knee, an action that caused the unusual elf to stiffen. Karah caught his reaction and frowned.

  “My overprotective friend here is Quist,” she waved at the elf. “He’s been at my side, quite literally, since I first came here.” She leaned forward to whisper, “Believe it or not, I suspect he’s quite a bit older than me.”

  Quist grinned and nodded at Stile. The captain suspected they had been trading verbal jabs with one another for centuries.