Avempartha trr-2

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “See there? Mauvin thought I was going to slice inward toward his thigh and dropped his guard briefly. He did that because I told him to by suggesting with a dip of my shoulder that this was my intention, so before I even started my stroke I knew what Mauvin was going to do, because I was the one dictating it. In essence I knew what he would do before he did and in a battle that is very handy.”

  “Enough of the lessons,” Mauvin said clearly irritated at being the illustration of a fencing mistake, “let’s show him a real demonstration.”

  “Looking for a rematch?” Hadrian asked.

  “Curious if it was luck.”

  Hadrian smiled and muttered, “Pickerings.”

  He took off his shirt and, wiping his face and hands, threw it on the grass and raised his sword to ready position. Mauvin lunged and immediately the two began to fight. The swords sang as they cut the air so fast their movements blurred. Hadrian and Mauvin danced around on the balls of their feet, shuffling in the dirt so briskly that a small cloud rose to knee height.

  “By Mar!” the old farmer exclaimed.

  Then abruptly they stopped, both panting from the exertion.

  Mauvin glared at Hadrian with both an amazed and irritated look. “You’re playing with me.”

  “I thought that was the point. You don’t really want me to kill you?”

  “Well no, but-well, like he said-by Mar! I’ve never seen anyone fight like you do, you’re amazing.”

  “I thought you both were pretty amazing,” Theron remarked. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  “I have to agree,” Magnus chimed in. The dwarf was on his feet nodding his head.

  Hadrian walked over to the well and poured half a bucket over himself then shook the water from his hair.

  “Seriously, Hadrian,” Mauvin asked, “where did you learn it?”

  “From a man named Danbury Blackwater.”

  “Blackwater? Isn’t that your name?”

  Hadrian nodded and a melancholy look stole over his face. “He was my father.”

  “Was?”

  “He died.”

  “Was he a warrior? A general?”

  “Blacksmith.”

  “Blacksmith?” Mauvin asked in disbelief.

  “In a village not much bigger than this. You know, the guy who makes horseshoes, rakes, pots.”

  “Are you telling me a village blacksmith knew the secret disciplines of the Teshlor? I recognized the Tek’chin moves, the ones my father taught me. The rest I can only assume were from the other lost disciplines of the Teshlor.”

  Mauvin drew blank stares from everyone.

  “The Teshlor?” he looked around-more stares. He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Heathens, I’m surrounded by ignorant heathens. The Teshlor were the greatest knights ever to have lived. They were the personal bodyguards of the Emperor. It’s said they were taught the Five Disciplines of Combat from Novron himself. Only one of which is the Tek’chin, and the knowledge of the Tek’chin alone is what has made a legend out of the Pickering dynasty. Your father clearly knew the Tek’chin, and apparently other Teshlor disciplines which I thought have been lost for nearly a thousand years, and you’re telling me he was a blacksmith? He was probably the greatest warrior of his time. And you don’t know what your father did before you were born?”

  “I assume the same thing he did afterward.”

  “Then how did he know how to fight?”

  Hadrian considered this. “I just assumed he picked it up serving in the local army. Several of the men in the village served his lordship as men-at-arms. I assumed he saw combat. He used to talk like he had.”

  “Did you ever ask him?”

  The thunder of hooves interrupted them as three men on horseback entered the village from the direction of the margrave’s castle. The riders were all in black and red with the symbol of a broken crown on their chests. At their head rode a tall thin man with long black hair and a short trimmed beard.

  “Excellent swordsmanship,” the lead man said. He rode right up to Hadrian and reined in his animal roughly. The black stallion was draped in a scarlet and black caparison complete with braided tassels, a scarlet headpiece with a foot tall black plume spouting from his head. The horse snorted and stomped. “I was wondering why the son of Count Pickering wasn’t partaking in the combat today, but I see now you found a worthier partner to spar against. Who would this delightful warrior be and why haven’t I seen you at the castle?”

  “I’m not here to compete for the crown,” Hadrian said simply, slipping on his shirt.

  “No? Pity, you certainly appear to be worthy of a chance. What’s your name?”

  “Hadrian.”

  “Ah, good to meet you, Sir Hadrian.”

  “Just Hadrian.”

  “I see. Do you live here, just Hadrian?”

  “No.”

  The horseman seemed less than pleased with the curt answer and nudged his horse closer in a menacing manner. The animal puffed out a hot moist breath into Hadrian’s face. “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Just passing through,” Hadrian replied in his usual amiable manner. He even managed a friendly little smile.

  “Really? Just passing through Dahlgren? To where in the world, might I ask, is Dahlgren on the way?”

  “Just about everywhere depending on your perspective, don’t you think? I mean all roads lead somewhere, don’t they?” He was tired of being on the defensive and took a verbal swing. “Is there a reason you’re so interested?”

  “I’m Sentinel Luis Guy and I’m in charge of managing the contest. I need to know if everyone participating is listed.”

  “I already told you I wasn’t here for the contest.”

  “So you did,” Guy said and slowly looked around at the others, taking particular notice of Magnus. “You are just passing through you said, but perhaps those traveling with you wish to be listed on the roll.”

  A feint perhaps? Hadrian decided to parry anyway. “No one I’m with will want to be on that list.”

  “No one you’re with?”

  Hadrian gritted his teeth. It was a feint. Hadrian mentally scolded himself.

  “So you’re not alone?” the sentinel observed. “Where are the others?”

  “I couldn’t tell you.”

  “No?”

  Hadrian shook his headless words less chance of mistakes.

  “Really? You mean they could be washing over the falls right now and you couldn’t care less?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Hadrian replied irritated.

  “But you see no need to know where they are?”

  “They’re grown men.”

  The sentinel smiled again. “And who are these men? Please tell me so that I might inquire of them later perhaps.”

  Hadrian’s eyes narrowed as he realized too late his mistake. The man before him was clever-too clever.

  “Did you forget their names too?” Luis Guy inquired leaning forward in his saddle.

  “No,” Hadrian tried to hold him off while he struggled to think.

  “Then what are they?”

  “Well,” he began wishing he had his own swords rather than a burrowed one. “Like I said, I don’t know where both of them are,” Hadrian spoke up. “Mauvin is here, of course, but I have no idea where Fanen has gotten to.”

  “Surely you are mistaken. The Pickerings traveled with me and the rest of the entourage,” Guy pointed out.

  “Yes they were, but they are planning on returning home with me.”

  Guy’s eyes narrowed. “So you are saying that you traveled all the way out here alone-passing through, as you put it, and just happened to join up with the Pickerings?”

  Hadrian smiled at the sentinel. It was weak, clumsy and the fencing equivalent of dropping his sword and tackling his opponent to the ground, but it was all he could do.

  “Is this true, Pickering?”

  “Absolutely,” Mauvin replied without hesitation.

  Guy looked back
at Hadrian. “How convenient for you,” he said, disappointed. “Well, then don’t let me keep you from your practice. Good day gentlemen.”

  They all watched as the three men rode off toward the river trail.

  “That was creepy,” Mauvin remarked staring off in their direction. “It can never be good when any sentinel takes an interest in you, much less Luis Guy.”

  “What’s his story?” Hadrian asked.

  “I really only know rumors. He’s a zealot for the church, but I know many even in the church who are scared of him. He’s the kind of person that can make kings disappear. He’s also rumored to be obsessed with finding the Heir of Novron.”

  “Aren’t all seret?”

  “According to church doctrine, sure. But he really is, which explains why he’s here.”

  “And the two with him?”

  “Seret, the Knights of Nyphron, they are the sentinel’s personal shadow army. They’re answerable to no king or nation, just to sentinels and the patriarch.”

  Mauvin looked at Hadrian. “You might want to keep that sword. It looks like a bad time to be without your weapons.”

  ***

  Although he had put his lantern out long before the creature’s return, Royce could see just fine. Light permeated the walls of Avempartha, seeping through the stone as if it were smoky glass. It was daylight outside, of that he was certain, as the color of light had changed from dim blue to soft white.

  As the sun rose, the interior of the citadel became an illuminated world of wondrous color and beauty. Ceilings stretched in tall, airy arches, meeting hundreds of feet above the floor and giving the illusion of not being indoors at all but rather in a place where the horizon was merely lost in mist. The roar of the nearby cataracts, tamed by the walls of the tower, was a soft, muffled, undeniably soothing hum.

  Thin gossamer banners hung from the lofty heights. Each shimmered with symbols Royce did not understand. They might have been standards of royalty, rules of law, directions to halls, or meaningless decorations. All Royce knew was that even in the wake of a thousand years, the detailed patterns still appeared fluid and vibrant. It was artistry beyond mortal hands, born of a culture unfathomable. Being the only elven structure Royce had ever entered, it was his only glimpse into that world and it felt oddly peaceful. Still and silent, it was beautiful. Although it looked nothing like anything Royce had ever seen, his reason fought against the growing sensation that somehow all this was familiar. Royce felt calm as he wandered the corridors. The very shapes and shadows touched chords in his mind he never realized were there. It all spoke to him in a language he could not understand. He only caught a word or a phrase in an avalanche of sensations that both mystified and captivated him as he wandered aimlessly like a man blinded by a dazzling light.

  He walked from room to room, up stairs and across balconies, following no conscious course, but merely moving, staring and listening. Royce noticed with concern that every movement he made was recorded clearly in centuries of dust that blanketed the interior. Still, he was fascinated to discover that where he disturbed the dust, the floor revealed a glossy surface as clear as still water.

  Passing through the various chambers, he felt as if he were in a museum, lost in a moment of frozen time. Plates were still out before empty chairs, some fallen on their sides-overturned in the confusion and alarm of nearly a millennium ago. Books lay open to pages someone had been reading nine hundred years before, yet Royce knew that even to that person who had sat there so long ago, this place, this tower, was ancient. Aside from its dramatic history, by its age alone Avempartha would be a monumenta sacred structure-to the elves, a link to an ancient era. This was not a citadel. He did not know how he knew, but he was certain this was something far more than a mere fortress.

  Esrahaddon had left Royce almost immediately after entering the tower after pointing him in the direction he was now following. He told Royce he would find the sword he sought somewhere above the entrance, but that the wizard’s path led elsewhere. It had been hours now since they parted and the light outside was already starting to dim. Royce still had not found the sword. Sights and smells sidetracked him, including the musical sound the wind made as it passed through the spires overhead. It was too much to process at once, too much to classify, and soon he found himself lost.

  He started to follow his trail in reverse when he discovered his footprints overlapped leaving him a path that moved in circles. He was starting to become concerned when he heard a new sound. Unlike everything he encountered so far, this noise was disturbing. It was the thick rhythmical resonance of heavy breathing.

  Every path open to the thief was marred with his own tracks except one. This led to yet another stair where the breathing was louder. How many floors up Royce had wandered he was not certain, but he knew he had not come across any swords. Slowly, and as silently as he could, he began to creep upward.

  He had not gone more than five steps when he spotted his first sword. It lay blanketed in dust on a step beside a boney form. What cloth there might have been was gone, but the armor remained. Farther up, he spotted another and yet another. There were two different types of bodies, humans in broad heavy breastplates and greaves, and elves in delicate blue armor. This was the last stand, the last defense to protect the Emperor. Elves and men fallen one upon the other.

  Royce reached down and slid his thumb along the flat of the blade at his feet. As the dust wiped clear the amazing shine of the elven steel glimmered as if new, but no etching was on it. Royce looked up the stairs and reluctantly stepped over the bodies as he continued his climb.

  The breathing grew louder and deeper like wind blowing through an echoing cavern. A room lay ahead, and with the silence of a cat’s shadow, Royce crept inside. The chamber was round with yet another staircase leading up. As he entered, he could feel and smell fresh air. Tall thin windows allowed unfettered shafts of light into the room, but Royce felt that somewhere above him a much larger window lay.

  At last, Royce found a rack of elven swords mounted ceremoniously to the wall in ornate cases. Divided from the rest of the room by a delicate chain, the area appeared as a memorial, a remembrance set aside in honor. A plaque on a pedestal stood before the rack and on the walls were numerous lines of elven script carved into the stone. Royce only knew a few words and those before him had been written with such flare and embellishment that he was at a loss to recognize even a single word, although he was certain he recognized several letters.

  On the rack were dozens of swords. Each one appeared to be identical and without having to touch them, Royce could see the etchings clearly cut into the blades and the notches hewn into the metal. One spot remained vacant.

  With a silent sigh, he steadied himself and began to climb upward once more. With each step, the air grew fresher; currents banished dust to the cracks and corners. Along the stair, more openings and hallways appeared to either side, but Royce had a hunch and continued to climb, moving toward the sound of breathing.

  At last, the steps ended and Royce looked up at open sky. Above him was a circular balcony with sculpted walls like petals on a flower. Statues that once lined this open-air pavilion lay in broken heaps on the floor. At their center rested the malevolent sleeping figure of the Gilarabrywn, an enormous black scaled lizard with wings of gray membrane and bone. It lay curled, its head on its tail, its body heaving with deep, long breaths. Muscular claws were armed with four twelve-inch long black nails; encrusted with dried blood, they left deep groves in the surface of the floor where they scraped in the beast’s sleep. Long sharp fangs protruded from beneath leathery lips as did a row of frightening teeth that followed no visible scheme but seemed to mesh together like a wild fence of needles. Ears lay back upon its head, its eyes cloaked by broad lids beneath which pupils darted about in a fretful slumber of what dark visages Royce could not begin to imagine. The long tail, barbed at the end with a saber-like bone, twitched.

  Royce caught himself staring and cursed at his
own stupidity. It was a sight to be certain, but this was no time to be distracted. Focus was all that separated him from certain death.

  He always hated places with animals. Hounds bellowed at the slightest sound or smell. He had managed to step past many a sleeping dog, but there had been a few that managed to sense him without warning. He mentally gripped himself and pulled his eyes away from the giant to study the rest of the room. It was a shambles, broken fixtures and rubble. On closer study, however, Royce noticed that the rubble held terrible treasures. He recognized torn bits of Mae Drundel’s dress, matted with dark stains and tangled within its folds was a bit of scalp and a long lock of gray hair. Other equally disturbing images lay around him. Arms, feet, fingers, hands, all cast aside like shrimp tails. He spotted Millie, Hadrian’s bay mare, or rather one of her rear legs and tail. Not too far away he was stunned to see Millie’s saddle and Hadrian’s swords. Luckily, they were within easy reach.

  As he began to move around the pile, inching his way with the slow discipline of a mantis on the hunt, he saw something. The bodies and torn clothes lay atop the pile of bones and stone. But deep beneath, on the bottom stratum of built-up sediment, Royce caught the singular glint of mirrored steel. It was only a tiny patch, no larger than a small coin, which is what he initially took it for, but its brilliance was unmistakable. It possessed the same gleam as the swords on the stairs and in the rack below.

  Barely breathing-each movement keyed to a painfully slow pace that might defy even a direct look-Royce stole closer to the beast and his vile treasure trove. He slipped his hand under the strands of Millie’s tail and meticulously began to draw forth the blade.

  It came loose with little effort or sound, but even before he had it free Royce knew something was wrong. It was not heavy enough. Even given that elven blades might weigh dramatically less, it was ridiculously light. He soon realized why as he drew forth only part of a broken blade. Seeing the etching on the unnotched metal, Royce realized his hunch was correct. This Gilarabrywn was no animal, no dumb beast trained to kill. This conjured demon was self-aware enough to realize it had only one mortal fear in this world-a blade with its name on it. It took precautions. The monster broke the blade, severing the name and rendering it useless. He could not see the other half of the sword, but it seemed obvious to him where it lay. The remainder of the sword rested in the one place from which Royce could not steal it-beneath the sleeping body of the Gilarabrywn itself.