Liar's Blade

by Tim Pratt

  Hrym remained silent, for which Rodrick was grateful. If Neiros didn't already know Hrym was sentient, why tell him?

  "Will you help me stop your employers?" Neiros said. "Not that there's any urgency now, as I know they're incapable of completing the ritual, but I do hate loose ends."

  "I will happily help you kill Obed, the gillman, but the sorcerer Zaqen is bound to serve him by a geas, and I don't think necessarily agrees with his choices—"

  "This sorcerer is the one who killed my friend, the one you say lived in the body of a yeti?"

  "Ye-es, more or less, but only under orders from Obed—"

  "I will consider mercy," Neiros said, in a tone that suggested he didn't want to discuss that matter further. "Perhaps we can use your relationship to ambush this Obed. We can pretend that you've escaped me—"

  "I'm only willing to help if you tell me what I'm helping to do," Rodrick said.

  "This is hardly the time—"

  "You said there's no urgency," the thief said. "Though I'm curious to know why you think that. Please understand, Neiros. I have been lied to, in a variety of ways, for weeks. I am not normally concerned with the truth for its own sake, I confess, but I would like to know what I've been fighting and killing and nearly dying for. I much prefer to be the one doing the scheming and plotting, and ignorance does not suit me."

  The druid sighed. "Very well. I know nothing of this Obed personally, but I can still tell you many things about him: He worships demons. Some time ago, likely months, perhaps even years ago, he began to hear whispers in his still moments, or to have strange dreams. The Lake of Mists and Veils feeds rivers, you know, and those rivers trickle down to the Inner Sea. For the past many years, those waters have carried a taint of demonic influence. I knew that a gillman demon cultist would come eventually—I only feared he would come better prepared. I do not doubt that the next gillman who comes will be—"

  "Perhaps you should begin at the beginning," Rodrick said. "I find that tends to make stories more comprehensible."

  Another snort. "I am not accustomed to talking to anyone other than the creatures of the lake, and my bunyip companion. Yes, all right. This story begins, as so many others do, with Aroden."

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  "I was not a worshiper of Aroden," the druid said, "but I was an ally of his, before he became a god, millennia ago. Aroden understood the importance of uniting disparate races against our common foes, which, in those days, were more often than not the demons who sought to destroy this world, or make it merely an extension of their own Abyss.

  "One of the mightiest of those demons was Deskari, the Lord of the Locust Host. He led a mighty army of lesser demons, among them many who were almost demon lords in their own right, and who served as Deskari's generals. Aroden had generals, too. I was not one of those, but you might say I was an aide-de-camp. I served as assistant to one of Aroden's generals, a mighty golden dragon named Seralia—her name has passed out of history, I fear, as have the names of so many other brave souls. To listen to the stories, you would believe Aroden achieved all his great works entirely on his own—which is absurd, as most of his greatest achievements took place when he was a mortal hero, long before he laid hands on the Starstone and attained godhood.

  "Our battles with the demons raged across this continent. Eventually our final battle brought us to the shores of this lake, which was ancient even then, and we drove the Locust Lord's host into the waters. Oh, the shore was stained with blood and fouler fluids that day. Many of the demons died—but, of course, when demons of any consequence die, they are merely reborn again in the Abyss. Deskari escaped ultimate judgment, but he was locked away, unable to return to this plane. His greatest general of the time, however, was a nascent demon lord—perhaps even one of Deskari's own children—known as Kholerus. Kholerus shares some of his father's insectlike qualities, though where Deskari takes the form of a man with the lower half of a locust, Kholerus has an even fouler aspect—he is vaguely like a giant human from the waist up, apart from his horrible eyes and complicated, ever-grinding mouth-parts, but below the waist his body becomes the segmented, thousand-legged, coiled body of an immense millipede, so long that the end of his tail sometimes trails miles behind him, oozing poison with every step.

  "Kholerus tried to engage us in battle, to kill us all or die in the process so he could escape to the Abyss to plan later terrors, but Aroden was too clever. Instead of fighting, Aroden worked a great spell to capture Kholerus. Originally, the trap had been laid for Deskari, but the Locust was too wily, and we settled for springing our trap on his offspring instead.

  "Kholerus was sealed into an impenetrable vault beneath the lake, locked away for millennia by the joined magics of Seralia and Aroden. There he's remained, writhing, furious, and impotent, the keys to his prison scattered and hidden and disguised, his vault guarded by me and my creatures. There were other guardians, once, but they all died, while I have been able to sustain myself with ancient magics and long sleeps, waking only when there was some threat or disturbance to trouble my realm.

  "And then, just over a century past, the world changed. Aroden died—somehow—and our world shifted, allowing the crawling horrors of the Abyss to reach us more easily. The Worldwound opened, and among the demons who crawled out first was Deskari, the Usher of the Apocalypse.

  "I woke, and could tell immediately that Kholerus had been strengthened by his old master's return to the world. His prison was designed to hold an even greater power than Kholerus himself, so he could not escape, even though the walls of the prison were loosened. But he was able to extend his influence into the world, to send whispers floating on the currents, down the rivers, toward the gillmen, which he knows are the only ones who can free him—"

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The Curse of the Sword and the Soul

  Wait, why?" Rodrick said. "Why can only gillmen free him? And, more importantly, why can anyone free him? When constructing a prison for a demon lord, why would you create keys that can open it at all?"

  If Neiros was annoyed at being interrupted, he didn't show it. "Kholerus is immortal. All prisons fail eventually, Rodrick, given sufficient time, and demons are patient. Aroden and Seralia hoped that they would find a way to sever Kholerus's connection to the Abyss, you see. If they could have done that, Kholerus would have been wholly trapped in this world—and physically vulnerable to a true death. They planned the trap for Deskari, of course. That's who they really wanted to kill. So they made it possible to open the prison again, under very special circumstances, with the idea that, someday, they would release their prisoner just long enough to slay him forever. They were unable to discover a way to sever Kholerus's connections—and Aroden had other, more pressing problems, it must be said—and so we settled for hiding the keys away for possible future use. The keys all had guardians, originally, but ..." Neiros shrugged. "It was thousands of years ago. Things changed. We were able to keep all the relics in Issia and Rostland, which became Brevoy—there were subtle magics that made the keys difficult to take away from the region, but their true purposes were forgotten. Until now."

  "All right," Rodrick said. "So where do the gillmen come in?"

  "In order to open the prison, a ritual is required, and part of that ritual involves replicating the conditions under which the prison was first sealed. Aroden was in charge of turning two of the keys—‘turned' is the wrong word, as you don't literally put a key into a lock, but you understand what I mean—and Seralia was responsible for turning the other two. Their servants did the actual activation of the keys—I operated one myself, in fact, the one that resembles a dog's skull—while Aroden and Seralia spoke certain words of binding, each in turn, and in precise sequence. In order to open the prison again, the equivalent of that original group must be gathered again: an Azlanti must be present, and a dragon, and they must speak the words of unbinding once the keys are in place. You see?"

  "Gillmen ...they're close enough to Azlanti for r
itual purposes?" Rodrick said.

  Neiros nodded. "Yes. Once upon a time, the gillmen might not have been close enough, but the locks that hold the prison closed are weaker now, and more easily circumvented. Gillmen are the truest descendants of the drowned and shattered Azlanti empire—the other survivors interbred with other humans and saw their blood hopelessly diluted, but the gillmen remained pure, in a sense. Oh, their bodies were altered by the necessity of living under the sea, by strange magics and the interference of dark forces, but they are still Azlanti, underneath it all. So Kholerus sent his call to them, as I knew he would. But apparently he didn't succeed in getting across the fact that they needed to bring a dragon with them too—"

  "Ah," Hrym said. "Sorry to interrupt. But would the soul of a dragon be sufficient?"

  Neiros leaned back. "Was that the sword? The sword talks?"

  "Among other things," Rodrick said.

  "It's an important question," Hrym said. "Could someone with the soul of a dragon serve in the ritual? Even if the soul is in, ah, a different container?"

  "Conceivably," Neiros said. "Especially since the bonds are weakened—but why? What are you saying?"

  "I think I might know why Obed was so keen to have us in his party, Rodrick." The sword sounded miserable. "And as we should have known, it's not because of your charm and allure. They wanted me. You see, old friend, I never told you this, but ...I used to be a dragon."

  After a moment's silence, Rodrick said, "Does anyone ever say anything to me that isn't a lie? What do you mean you used to be a dragon? What, did you offend a magical blacksmith who cursed you to spend eternity as a sword?"

  "Not exactly," Hrym said. "I never told you because...look, I used to be a white dragon. What do you know about those?"

  "They're the most vicious of all dragons," Neiros said. He was holding his trident in a purposeful way again.

  "Yes!" Hrym said. "They're terrible bastards, as a rule. And while I'm not so terrible, it's still not an association I'd care to claim. Anyway, Rodrick, the few times I've mentioned my past, you've always assumed I was lying—"

  "You were lying!" Rodrick cried. "You said you were once wielded by some sort of magical pilot in a flying city! You told me that you'd seen the Silver Mount fall from the sky! Your torrents of bullshit are unending!"

  "So as you see, even if I had told you, you wouldn't have believed me," Hrym said, unperturbed. "Just because I occasionally embellish my past exploits. It's not as if you've never claimed to be descended from the overthrown royals of Andoran, or to have bedded women I know are so far out of your league that their league is invisible from where you're standing—"

  The trident was at Rodrick's throat again. "Explain yourself, sword," Neiros said coldly. "Lest your wielder suffer for your hesitation."

  "Oh, that's not necessary," Hrym said. "I love talking about myself." A pause. "But get that thing away from my partner's throat, or we'll see who's faster—me freezing, or you stabbing."

  "I would prefer we not have that competition, if it's all the same to both of you," Rodrick said. Neiros grudgingly lowered the trident, but didn't drop it.

  "You're old, druid, perhaps nearly as old as I am," Hrym said. "Maybe you have a better memory than I do. Hold me up, Rodrick." The thief did as he was bid...and looked on, astonished, as a portion of Hrym's icy blade shimmered and turned into something that resembled ordinary steel. Dark letters in a strange alphabet were etched into the blade, the symbols faintly glimmering. "Can you read that word, Neiros?"

  The druid squinted. "It's in an old Shory dialect, one I have seen before, but not in a very long time ...I believe it means ‘Spellstealer,' more or less."

  "There," Hrym said. "That was my original name. I always wondered what it was—my memory is a mess, for reasons I'll explain. I like the name Hrym better—much more euphonious. Though who knows how Spellstealer sounds in the original, what was it you said, Shory?" The crystalline ice of the blade crept back down, hiding away the ancient name.

  Neiros seemed deep in thought. "I ...believe I have heard of swords with that name. A type of cursed blade that ate magic, rendering its wielder impervious to the spells of enemy wizards or magical beasts, and allowing the user to turn those magics back against the attacker, casting their own spells against them. But there was a flaw in the swords' creation, a twist in the magic that took a terrible toll on a wielder's soul—are you one of those?"

  "I used to be," Hrym said. "Or so I assume. But I haven't done things like that in a very long time. I couldn't tell you where I was forged, or what adventures I had in my original form, not for sure, though sometimes I see glimpses—flashes viewed through the eyes of humans or ogres or orcs or elves. Those are the source of some of the more outlandish stories I've told, Rodrick. Perhaps those images are taken from fragments of souls I absorbed from my wielders—"

  "Wait. You've been eating my soul all this time, you horrible little shit?"

  "Hush, no, never," Hrym said. "Back when I nibbled at souls, or subsisted on life energy, or whatever I did, I had no mind. There was no ill intent behind my actions, any more than a fire intends to consume what it burns. Besides, I don't think I could slurp up a soul now if I tried to—I'm like a sponge that's fully saturated. I can't hold another drop."

  "And at some point you believe you absorbed the soul of a dragon?" Neiros said.

  "That much I do remember," Hrym said. "I was being used by ...some warrior or another. Somewhere up in what are now the Lands of the Linnorm Kings. We found a great white dragon, ancient, laired in a tower full of treasure, and we fought. I was mindless then, but I can remember the last moments of my wielder. He used me to nullify the dragon's magic—but that didn't save him from the dragon's claws, or jaws. He was slain. Most of his party, too, I should think, and any of them that lived merely fled. From that point, I have to speculate a bit, but I assume the white wyrm added me to his hoard of gold, beautiful gold, and curled up on top of me to slumber. There I remained for what must have been centuries."

  "But you never stopped working," Neiros said. "No one was activating your magics, but there was still the curse."

  "You drank the soul of a dragon?" Rodrick said.

  "Old dragons sleep a lot," Hrym said. "And after I began sapping his life away, he slept even more. I had plenty of time to absorb his soul. At some point, I woke up, gained awareness, and felt that I was a dragon, but pinned underneath some enormous beast, trapped in a body that couldn't move. The dragon atop me did not die, but it became an empty husk, mindless. I took his soul for my own, and gained consciousness in the process. I also acquired some aspect of his mind, and bits of his memories—though not a real continuity of personality, I should say. I don't feel like I am that white dragon. More like I saw things happen to him, and did some of the same things he did. Mostly horrible and violent things. I took on his magics, too. Stole them. I can't steal anyone else's magic anymore, perhaps because I'm too stuffed with dragon magic, but ...anything an ancient frost wyrm can do, I can do. Including things I've never allowed myself to try. I'm fairly sure I can call down great city-burying blizzards, for one thing...I don't think I am the dragon, precisely, but I'm arguably his...son?"

  "That explains why you always insist you're male," Rodrick said. "I just assumed it was because swords are an obvious phallic symbol."

  "How did you end up in Rodrick's hands?" Neiros demanded.

  "Oh, a linnorm came along," Hrym said. "Stupid things, linnorms, not even proper dragons at all. The white dragon I used to be would have eaten the linnorm for breakfast and picked his teeth with the bones, but, alas, that dragon was just a comatose husk by then. The linnorm slew the dragon and took over his hoard. I could have done something—I can't move, but I can use my powers at will, so I could have fought back with icy fury—but what did I care? I was resting on a pile of gold. There was nowhere I'd rather be. Some untold centuries after that, another group of humans attacked the tower, but finding only a linnorm instead of a true drag
on, they fared better. I was groggy from my long sleep, and was swept up with the rest of the treasure when the humans departed. When I revealed my powers and my ability to speak, my plunderer, one Brant Selmy, made a convincing case that if I served him, I would be well rewarded. That wasn't a bad life, really. He let me sleep in a trunk full of gold coins when he didn't need me to kill people for him. We had a bit of fun. But when he grew old, the selfish prick, he had me sealed up into his tomb with him—which, again, I didn't mind overmuch, since he laid me to rest on an adequate pile of gold. So I slept again, for a while. Not centuries, though. Merely decades."

  "I plundered that tomb," Rodrick said. "Years back, now, when I was younger and even more handsome. I convinced some descendant of Hrym's old master that he really deserved access to his entombed inheritance, and he helped me break into the family crypt. The poor fool died in the process—from traps, not treachery on my part—and there were other complications in the pit, but with a bit of effort, I got out with a handful of gems and, best of all, Hrym. He agreed to go with me when I promised him a bed of gold and adventure."

  "We've been partners ever since," Hrym said. "And Rodrick has revealed himself as an outrageous liar, since I barely get even a pillow of gold, let alone a whole bed."

  "I came through with the adventure, though," Rodrick said.

  "That you did," the sword agreed. "Old Brant was a much worse windbag than you are, too, if you can believe it."

  "Such a confession." Rodrick shook his head. "I feel like I should reciprocate, somehow. Tell you the real story of how I lost my virginity, for example, instead of the lie I usually—"

  "You must go," Neiros said. "I will open a passage to the surface, and will send my bunyip companion Kian to escort you. Get far away from this lake, and take the sword with the dragon's soul to the south, as many leagues as you can manage—"