Sword of Betrayal

by Robert Evert

  “You should’ve hit him,” Brago said, “like you did the other one.”

  “I wanted to. The problem was, he never said anything overtly hostile. It was always something like: ‘Eddie used to be such a fat little boy. Now look at him. If he grows any more, people will mistake him for a troll! ’”

  “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

  “Believe me, it’s bad. He’s going to keep referring to me as Eddie and Fatty until one of the names sticks. Soon everybody will be calling me Sir Fatty Eddie.”

  “Or Sir Eddie the Fatty.”

  “Exactly!”

  Stretching, Brago put his hands behind his head. “It seems your beloved cousin isn’t the type to let things go.”

  “He isn’t. He’s always been like that. He’ll keep needling me until something happens. When we were kids, we often came to blows.”

  “Who won?”

  “We were children,” Edris said. “It was mainly a lot of hair pulling and scratching. However, once I did bloody his lip.”

  “And how’d he react?”

  “He called his father.”

  In the hall outside their room, the floorboards creaked as somebody passed their door.

  Brago yawned. “Are you worried?”

  “About Markus?”

  Edris stared at the ceiling.

  Was he?

  His cousin was a braggart who always had to have all the attention. He also had a temper, but he usually kept that hidden behind a big smile and a quick joke.

  The question lingered.

  Searching the jumble of anxiety churning his gut, the answer came to him.

  “No,” Edris lied. “All of this will blow over eventually.”

  “Are you ever going to repay him for what he did to your head?”

  Edris had been thinking about that a great deal. He told his father he was going to slit the son of a bitch’s throat. But could he? If it came to a fight, he’d defend himself. But could he kill somebody in cold blood? Could he kill a family member?

  “I don’t know.”

  “Look, Ed,” Brago said. “Men like your cousin are basically mean dogs. They’ll keep biting people until somebody gives them a hard-enough rap across their muzzle.”

  “You want me to knock him around a bit? You’re forgetting, he’s the king’s son. I’d need a damned good reason.”

  “All I’m saying is that, sooner or later, Markus will have you at a disadvantage; then he’ll teach you a lesson.”

  “That’s what he said he did last time.”

  “My point exactly. He tried to show you he was your superior, and you mouthed off to him in front of his friends. Mark my words, Ed. He’ll come after you again.”

  Edris groaned. He knew Brago was right. Sooner or later, Markus would catch him in a vulnerable spot, and he might not settle for merely beating him with a rock.

  “What do you think I should do?”

  Brago rolled over onto his side, facing Edris in the darkness. “There are only two things you can do. Put him in his place. Or get out of his way.”

  Get out of his way…

  Edris now realized it was stupid of him to become an adventurer with Markus in the same profession. His cousin would never let him succeed.

  “Want me to poison him?” Brago asked.

  “Poison! What do you know about poison?”

  “You’d be surprised how many ordinary things can kill a man—or at least make him severely ill. Mushrooms, mosses, hemlock…” Brago’s black eyes glinted in the moonlight. “Say the word, and I’ll take care of it.”

  Edris laughed, then saw Brago was serious.

  Guilt welled up inside him. Here he was, a foot and a half taller and twice Brago’s weight, and Brago was braver than he was. He needed to grow up. He needed to become tougher. He needed to stand up to Markus.

  “No,” Edris said faintly. “I’ll figure something out. Besides, there’s no honor in poisoning somebody.”

  “There’s no honor in dying, period.”

  Edris held his tongue. The last thing he wanted was to start a debate.

  Outside, somebody strolled along the empty street, singing.

  “Let me ask you this,” Brago said, as though he’d been puzzling over something for a while. “When you beat Sir Rodney senseless for disparaging our illustrious king—where was the king’s dutiful offspring?”

  The question startled Edris. “I don’t know. I think I would’ve noticed him if he were in the tavern.”

  “But he appeared after the fight?”

  “Yeah. Right after I sat down.”

  “Sounds to me like he was hiding. I don’t think your cousin is as brave as you give him credit for. Then again—” Brago yawned again. “—it’s the cowards you have to look out for. They’re the ones who’ll stick a knife in your kidney when your head is turned.”

  Forty-Six

  For the better part of a week, Edris ambled about Tiny Dribbling and the surrounding sheep-filled pastures. For the first few days, all people could talk about was his pummeling of Sir Rodney. Adventurers from kingdoms he’d never heard of stopped and congratulated him or offered to buy him a beer. Soon, however, everybody’s thoughts returned to the quest at hand.

  Nobody knew where the statue was. Most adventurers either waited outside of town to ambush anybody who found it or poked aimlessly around the pass to The Step. Edris stayed mainly in Little Dribbling’s only tavern—thinking.

  He didn’t know which was worse: having to sit through an evening of Markus’s gloating and subtle jibes, or not knowing where his cousin was. Even the resourceful Brago couldn’t find word of him.

  Eventually, Edris couldn’t take it anymore. He burst into their room at the inn.

  “Get our gear,” he told Brago. “We’re leaving.”

  “Finally!” Brago replied, springing out of the chair he’d been sitting in. “Little Dribbling loses its charm moments after one enters it. Where are we headed?”

  “I don’t know. I’m at a loss. I think this quest is going to be impossible to complete.”

  “If it helps, other adventurers are saying the same.”

  “Are they?”

  Brago gathered their belongings. “Everybody seems to assume the raiders buried it before they were attacked by King Pembroke. But nobody has an inkling where. To me, it seems rather pointless to dig blindly in the fields.”

  “To me as well. The problem is, we don’t have any other theory.” Edris sighed in frustration. “Well, my brother has an expression: always return to the point where you weren’t lost. ”

  “And where is that, pray tell?”

  “Let’s go to where the tale begins. The statue was originally taken from a temple in a town called Cornibbling.”

  Brago hoisted his pack. “Sounds delightful. Another pile of dung in the middle of nowhere, I warrant.”

  “Probably. But it beats sitting here. Go ready the horses. I’ll replenish our supplies.”

  As Brago had predicted, Cornibbling was nothing more than a dreary farming village of thirty buildings—most with ill-kept roofs of brown turf. As soon as they entered town, a swarm of grubby children greeted them.

  “Want information, mister?” one of them said, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun as he gazed up at Edris. “We can provide it! But it’ll cost you.”

  “Information about what?” Edris replied.

  “You’re an adventurer,” another boy said. “Don’t try to deny it. We can tell.”

  “Are there other adventurers in town?” Edris asked, looking about the desolate street. There were a few people in view, but they all appeared to be locals.

  The boys held out a hand.

  “One silver piece…each.”

  Brago whipped out his knife. “How about I stick you with this for free?”

  They retreated a step.

  “Don’t mind him.” Edris counted the children. “Seven silver it is. Though I’ll give you much more if you tell me something us
eful.” He tossed them each a coin.

  “Well, for starters,” the first child said, eyeing Brago, “we don’t really have an inn. Just a few boarding houses. Most are full, but Lady Elizabeth is renting her rooms, and one’s available.” He indicated a two-story house that was once painted a bright yellow but had since faded into a more muted color.

  “Lady Elizabeth?” Edris repeated. “She’s noble?”

  “She claims she is—very distantly, from what anybody can figure out. If you ask her about it, she’ll give you an earful. So be warned!”

  “Thanks for the tip. You mentioned other adventurers. Who’s in town?”

  “Sir Frank of Overshire,” the second boy said, as if ticking off names he’d memorized. “Sir Duncan of Dardenello.”

  “Sir Hampton of Hillshire,” another boy added.

  “I don’t think he’s from Hillshire,” a third opined.

  “Is so.”

  “You’re thinking of Sir Harold.”

  “Am not!”

  “Sir Harold’s here?” Edris asked, breaking up the argument.

  “He was,” the first boy told him, “but he left two days ago.”

  “Did he find anything?”

  “No. Nobody has. Leastways, if they had, we’d be demanding a gold piece to keep it quiet!”

  Edris laughed, his horse shifting impatiently under him. “No doubt. What about Markus of Upper Angle?”

  The boys exchanged glances, each shaking their heads.

  “Haven’t seen him,” the lead boy said.

  “Where’s this temple?” Edris asked, surveying the town. “The one built by the Hamumomi?”

  The boys pointed to a squat dome-like structure constructed of mud brick and thatch.

  “It’s over there.”

  “It’s not the original.”

  “The raiders burnt down the entire town,” the lead boy said. “Nothing remains from those days.” He cocked his head. “Want to hear how they did it?”

  “Sure,” Edris said.

  The boy thrust a thumb northward. “They came from that direction, roughly eighty of them. All on horseback. They broke into three groups. One group rode around the outskirts of town that way.” He waved his arm clockwise around the town. “Another group rode around the other direction.” He waved his arm counterclockwise.

  “The third came in to loot?” Edris asked.

  “Right,” the boy said. “Anyway, nobody escaped the ring of riders. They shot everybody who tried to flee.”

  “Did anybody survive the attack?”

  “Uh-huh. But it depends upon who you talk to. Some people say only five people survived, hiding or playing dead as the riders looted. Others say it was six or seven. I don’t know which is correct. But they’re all dead now.”

  “Of course, they’re dead, you little bastard!” Brago snapped. “They’d be three hundred years old if they weren’t.”

  “Right. Sorry.” The boy edged away from Brago. “Want to know anything else, sir?”

  Edris dug into a pouch. The boys’ eyes grew expectantly.

  “The first person who tells me when Markus arrives gets this.” He held up a shiny gold piece. “You understand? The moment he arrives, I want to know. I don’t care how late or early it is. Come find me. In fact—” Edris dug out another seven silver pieces and handed one to each boy. “—if any other adventurers come to town, come get me.”

  “Yes, sir!” they said.

  “Beg your pardon,” the lead boy said. “But what’s your name?”

  Edris stood in his stirrups and gave a half-bow. “I’m Sir Edris of Bend.”

  “Never heard of you. No offense or anything.”

  Edris chuckled. “Not yet. But you will!”

  “Confidence, eh? Good for you. I hope you win, sir.”

  “Thanks, young man.” Edris dismounted. “Now…you all run along. But if you hear anything, let me know.”

  “Yes, sir. We will. Thank you!”

  The boys ran off, each clutching their two silver pieces.

  “You shouldn’t have told them your name,” Brago said, watching them disappear into a tavern. “I bet they’re telling somebody you’re here right now.”

  “Let them.” Edris stretched his legs. “Everybody would find out sooner or later. You can’t keep a secret in a place like this.”

  They inspected the village.

  “Perhaps some barbarians will come along and burn it down again,” Brago grumbled. “It’d be an improvement.”

  Edris had been thinking the same thing. There wasn’t a nice building or flower garden in sight.

  “What now?” Brago asked.

  “Stable the horses and go find this Lady Elizabeth. Tell her we need the rooms for two weeks.”

  “Two weeks? They better have good wine here, and plenty of it.”

  Edris ignored him. “Then snoop around and see what you can find out.”

  Brago imitated Edris bowing to the children. “As you wish.”

  “And Brago…” Edris studied the round mud temple up the road. “Thanks for coming with me. I feel much better having you nearby.”

  “Thank you for having me, Ed. Questing assuredly beats sleeping in horse shit and begging for scraps.”

  “You’ll never have to do either again, if I can help it. See you tonight.”

  “Very well.” Brago subtly inclined his ear toward the tavern into which the boys had run. Several grim faces were squinting at them through the dingy windows. “But watch yourself. None of those men appear particularly happy to see us.”

  Forty-Seven

  Edris stood in the middle of the dirt road, examining the Hamumomi temple. It had no door, only a low archway covered by a soiled red blanket swaying in the breeze. It appeared as though a prolonged rainstorm would wash the entire structure away.

  Down the street, many of the boys he’d given money to were watching him. A few women were also out and about, but they appeared to be looking at him for a different reason. Wanting to get out of view, Edris pushed passed the blanket.

  Beyond was a single chamber in which maybe twenty people could fit comfortably, though anybody above average height would have to walk hunched over. If Edris straightened, his head would’ve popped through the ceiling.

  An old man with bronzed and leathery skin sat on a mat of woven grass. He gave Edris a broad, toothless smile. “Here to pray?” he asked in a high-pitched, heavily accented voice. “Or for information?”

  Edris inched forward, trying not to crack his skull on the wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling. Other than a low pedestal at the other side of the round room, the temple was completely empty.

  “Maybe both.”

  As a rule, Edris wasn’t religious. The only god he respected was Havnär, the God of Fortune. Followers of Havnär believed people were born with whatever skills they needed to fulfill their destiny; it was simply up to them to achieve it. According to scripture, there wasn’t any need to pray, since Havnär wouldn’t help them anyway.

  The old man patted the flagstone floor in front of him. “Sit. Sit. Easier for you and for me!”

  Edris sat.

  “You look for Sarababi?” the man asked.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  The old man gestured to the empty altar. “The golden bug?”

  Edris tried not to laugh but failed. “I don’t suppose you know where it is.”

  “No. But I know where it isn’t . That’s often a good place to start!”

  “Indeed.” Edris folded his legs, attempting to get comfortable. “Can you tell me anything about this…Sara—babi?”

  “Yes. It was made of solid gold.”

  That didn’t help.

  “About how big was it?” Edris asked.

  “Oh, about—” The old man clenched a fist. “Like so.”

  “That small, eh? There are a lot of places it could be.”

  “And many places it couldn’t.”

  Edris ignored this. He was beginning to thi
nk he’d never find the statue—nobody could. It was either melted down or buried somewhere. Without a map, the quest was pointless.

  He rubbed his scarred forehead.

  “If I may, young man,” the cleric said, “your spirit seems troubled.”

  Edris sighed. “I need to find that statue.”

  “Need ?” the old man repeated doubtfully.

  “Want,” Edris corrected himself. “It’d mean a great deal to me and my family.”

  “And to us as well!”

  “Then help me. What am I missing?”

  The old man shrugged. “Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot. Who can say?”

  That didn’t help either.

  Edris glanced about the dimly lit chamber, trying to find some source of inspiration.

  “Is that where Sarababi would’ve been displayed?” he asked, indicating the empty altar.

  “Yes, indeed. There for all to see.”

  “Why a golden bug?” Edris thought aloud.

  “Sarababi is our god,” the man replied pleasantly.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said…”

  “Not at all. All questions good. Why a bug? Why anything? But where my people come from, few things survive. The scarab, or as you say…bug, teaches us much. It burrows under the sand to hide from the sun or enemies. It finds food where it can. It even works with others.”

  “It’s a survivor.”

  “Precisely so. It was in the desert before we arrived. And it will be there after we are no more.” The old man regarded Edris sitting in front of him. “What else is on your mind?”

  Edris peered at the blanket covering the archway. “Why don’t you have a door that locks? Aren’t you worried about people coming in and stealing things?”

  The man spread his hands. “What’s to steal?”

  “That’s true.”

  The man went on. “If people worry too much about their possessions, they begin to forget what’s truly important. The truly important things—kindness, integrity, love—can never be taken from us. Not even by bandits…or other adventurers.”

  Edris’s stomach rumbled. It was well past dinner, and he was looking forward to a meal that hadn’t been burnt over a campfire.

  He stood, banging his head against the low roof. He cursed.

  “I’m terribly sorry for my language.”