The Sword Of Midras Part 3

Aren stepped cautiously toward the stone box atop the raised dais, peering at its base. A large symbol was inlaid into the base of the sarcophagus. Three curved blades were intertwined as though delineating three linked circles. The grips and guards formed a triangle in the center of the symbol that surrounded a large, clear gemstone. Six additional gemstones"each of a different color"were fixed about the sword hilts, forming the outline of a bowed triangle.

Aren placed his foot on the bottom step of the dais.

Captain, please! Syenna pleaded. Stop!

Aren froze. Syenna? What is it?

Stay away from the crypt, sire!

Why? Whats wrong?

Look around you, Syenna said breathlessly. That symbol its everywhere!

Aren turned. The columns and the curved walls behind them were all carved in ancient runes mixed with hieroglyphics"but each prominently displayed a carved rendition of this same three-bladed symbol. Aren could also see now that there were three doors exiting the lower level of the chamber, each of which was sealed closed under this same sign.

It means someone really liked curved swords. Aren shrugged.

No, Captain. Syenna swallowed hard. She was having trouble speaking. Ive never actually seen this symbol before, but there are warnings about it in a number of ancient texts and a pair of songs sung by bards in the Drachvald. Warnings about this symbol are found in most of the tribes of the Midmaer and the coasts of the Bay of Storms. Its one of the lost symbols, coming into use just before the Fall, and some say that it caused the Fall"

Enough, Syenna, Aren cut her off. Its a symbol a symbol of what?

The Avatars, Syenna said, seeming to breathe out the words.

Avatars? Aren smiled. Youre saying this is an Avatars tomb?

Syenna only managed to nod, her eyes wide.

It seems like someone went to a lot of trouble and expense for this Avatar. Aren chuckled. He turned back toward the dais, stepping up the stairs to the edge of the sarcophagus. The least we could do is pay our respects.

Aren peered down into the open stone box. His eyes narrowed as he tried to penetrate the darkness within. He frowned with momentary frustration and then suddenly reached down into the coffin, feeling about its interior.

Captain! No! Syenna gasped.

Huh! Aren straightened back up, his fists set on his hips. Empty! Well, if your Avatar was ever here, he didnt have the good manners to wait for us to pay him a visit. More likely tomb robbers decided to liberate both him and any of his wealth that happened to be buried with Something next to his feet caught his attention.

Captain? Syenna took a hesitant step forward. What is it?

The lid of the sarcophagus rested on the stairs next to Aren. Beneath a thin layer of dust, the top of the stone slab was intricately carved into what he presumed was a life-size relief depicting the personage who was supposed to have occupied the crypt. It was the figure of a man in a full suit of armor lying on a bed of beautifully carved flowers. The armor was unlike any that the captain had seen before. There was elegance to the bands of overlapping plating that was both functional and handsome at once. The head was compelling, with an exquisitely depicted goatee beard and mustache"both carefully trimmed"and a single, narrow braid of the figures hair extending from the back of its neck down onto the left side of the breastplate. There the braid ended, where was carved another of the tri-bladed symbols that everywhere ornamented the crypt chamber.

But it was what was under the grip of the carved hands resting at the base of the carvings breast that drew Arens immediate attention.

It was a magnificent longsword.

It gleamed in the faint light. No dust had touched its blade nor had any corruption of rust tarnished its surface. The fuller channel of the blade had intricate runes etched into the polished surface of the metal, though in this light he could barely make them out. They vaguely reminded Aren of the runes on the blades of the Guardians swords, and he wondered for a moment if this was where the priestess got the idea from in the first place. The cruciform guard was pitched forward so as to capture any strike and direct it into the shoulder at the base of the blade. The grip looked old, and yet the leather was still supple and intact. The circular pommel at the base of the grip was larger than more recent custom would dictate, the disk of which was inscribed with the same three-bladed symbol, etched there in black.

Aren smiled. The sword was a delightful puzzle of contradictions: shining as though new and yet obviously of ancient make. Found in a tomb sealed beyond the memory of men, and yet its blade still displayed a keen edge. It was entirely consistent and completely out of place all at the same time.

He reached down for the sword.

No! Syenna cried out.

Aren hesitated.

Dont touch it! Syennas words were a rushed warning. Its an Avatar blade!

So? Aren was becoming annoyed with Syennas superst.i.tious nonsense. This dreaded Avatar obviously isnt at home, and I dont suspect h.e.l.l be coming back for it anytime soon.

The Avatar may not be here, but his weapon may still be cursed, Syenna said, swallowing hard as she took another hesitant step toward the dais. Avatar blades are legendary, and each legend speaks of a curse a.s.sociated with the weapon. The symbols in this room are certainly related to the ancient Avatars. But Ive never seen this particular symbol before, so I cannot tell you what form the curse will take! The carving on the lid of the coffin might animate and take its revenge on you or you might turn to stone for touching it or any of a thousand other dreadful things we cannot even imagine! Before we even think about touching this terrible artifact, we need to examine the writings on the walls, understand the dangers it presents to us and Aren cleared his throat, reached down, and wrapped his hand around the swords grip.

Captain! Syenna drew in a deep breath. Her words fell to a whisper that carried through the empty tomb. Dont pull on it! If the blade is fused to the stone, it could trigger The blade slid easily from the stone grasp of the knight carved into the crypts lid. It rang slightly as Aren held it up in front of him.

A wave of dizziness pa.s.sed over Aren as he stood up. For a moment he wondered if the blade did, indeed, carry a curse. He felt suddenly aware of himself and his surroundings as though the world had turned under his feet, and he alone had remained standing still. The feeling pa.s.sed almost at once, however, and Aren silently chided himself for mistaking standing up too quickly after hitting his head on the rocks for some ancient Avatar curse.

Its very cooperative for being cursed, Aren said dryly. He looked down the length of the blade and smiled. The edge was unerringly straight. He swung the blade with his wrist, carving circles in the air on either side of him, and then stopped, admiring the blade once more. It is remarkably balanced"almost effortless. Theres weight to the blade, too, but you dont seem to feel it in hand. Wait. Thats odd.

Aren gazed curiously down on the blade as he held the grip of the sword in his right hand and gingerly cradled the blade in front of him with the palm of his left. The captain turned the blade over in his hands, examining both sides with intense interest.

What is it? Syenna asked with dread even as she crossed quickly to where Aren stood.

The runes on both sides of the blade now glowed with an intense purple hue that Aren found difficult to focus on. Stranger still, the runes appeared to shift before his eyes, twisting and settling into new shapes as he watched, only to shift and change again a few moments later.

Can you read these? Aren asked, turning the blade over once again for Syenna to examine.

No, Syenna replied almost at once. I can hardly look at them as it is. Captain, please, put this sword back where you found it. Leave it. Its magical in ways we dont understand; its cursed from before the Fall by Avatars and far more powerful than we are and"

And it is mine, Aren finished for her with delight as he smiled down on the blade once again. Whats more, I think this would be a rather fitting tribute to feature in this ridiculous parade were arranging for our l.u.s.terless General Karpasic. A captured blade of an Avatar! What more fitting symbol of our triumph?

I agree it would be a symbol, Syenna said, her own gaze fixed on the shifting runes of the blade. Of what, we do not yet know.

Then by all means, let us get out before the Guardians figure out a way to make this tomb our own, Aren said. Look! That archway over there on the other side of the crypt. The seal is broken, and it looks to be slightly ajar.

Strange neither of us noticed that before, Syenna said in dry tones. Conveniently miraculous, isnt it?

Ill take the convenience, Aren said as he looked down once more at the blade. The miraculous, Ill leave up to you.

Their eyes drawn once again to the glowing runes, neither Aren nor Syenna noticed that one of the blades etched in the pommel of the sword had changed from black to bright silver.

CHAPTER.

4.

Messages Captain Bennis!

Aren awoke with a start, sliding his feet over the edge of the cot and coming to sit in the familiar gloom of his tent. Hed awoken at once, though he now noted he was feeling a few aches and pains that were unfamiliar to him. He still wore the tunic and the breeches from the previous day. He reached for his nearby boots, dragging them on even as he spoke.

I am here, he called out, his voice still a little hoa.r.s.e. What is it?

General Karpasic requests that you come at once!

The captain stopped what he was doing immediately, dropping the second boot and then running his hand back through his untamed hair. The cascade of actual emergencies that had suddenly flooded into his mind along with each of their dire and immediate responses fled from him. And did the general say what it was he wanted?

He He would like to inquire as to just how soon the March of Triumph might begin. The voice from beyond the tent flap was young and high-pitched. Aren felt some sympathy for the young warrior. Few soldiers in the army of conquest received a message from the general with politeness.

The March of Triumph? Bennis shook his head in disbelief. Is the general in some particular hurry?

The general has received orders from the Obsidians, came the m.u.f.fled voice beyond the canvas of the tent. We are to leave a garrison force, but the bulk of the army is to strike the encampment and prepare to march.

So the general has received orders to move the army, but he still insists on having his parade, Bennis muttered, shaking his head once again. He raised his voice slightly so the messenger could hear him clearly. Please inform the general that I will report to him shortly.

Yes, sir! And Er What is it, boy? Aren could hear the hesitance in the voice outside.

The general asks that you bring the tribute you discovered in the ruins yesterday, the warrior said, tripping over his words.

Aren sat up straight on the edge of his cot. His eyes moved to the sword, which still rested on the folded blanket next to his cot where he had laid it the previous night. Even in the dim light of the tent, it was a truly beautiful and remarkable weapon, a true prize. In all the sieges and conquests in which he had partic.i.p.ated and, by and large, commanded personally to victory, this was the one treasure he had wanted to keep. Aren sighed. He supposed it was inevitable. Word of such a prize would, no doubt, have spread like a gra.s.s fire throughout the encampment.

Please convey to the general my compliments, Aren forced himself to say, and tell him that both my prize and I will attend him shortly.

Aren sat still for a few moments, listening to make sure the messenger had moved safely away. Satisfied, he reached for his second boot and pulled it quickly on. He stood up painfully, stretching to work out the aches in his muscles from the battles of the previous day. Combat with any sword was strenuous work. No matter how strong the arm or how experienced the warrior, there were only so many blows you could swing before your arm got tired and your mistakes became more frequent. Yesterday had been one of those days when his limits had been tested, and he was feeling the effects of it.

Aren cast his gaze about him. His war chest lay to one side, containing some extra pieces of miscellaneous armor, a few of his personal weapons, and such miscellaneous tools and supplies as he had managed to acquire for himself along the road. Next to it stood his battle armor, held erect on a framework. Aren took a moment to critically eye the damage to the suit, making a mental note to see the armor smithy later in the day. He knew General Karpasic would expect him to wear it in his presence, but for the moment he was loath to put it on. There was a pair of campaign flags that hung down from cross poles on the other side of the tent. The saddle and bridle for his horse lay atop a pile of canvas sacks, one of which lay open, spilling out a dirty pair of his hose and his stained cloak.

Aren began to whistle. It was a low, quiet tune with an unusual rhythm. Five notes, then three and three again. Aren leaned forward, placing his palms on his knees as he continued to whistle louder this time. Five notes, then three and three again.

He heard a high-pitched scree.

Monk! Aren said sotto voce. Come out now. Ive a job for you.

Nothing moved in the tent.

Aren repeated eleven notes once again. He heard the scree once more.

Aren kept his eye on the bag of clothes beneath the saddle. Ive no time for this nonsense, Monk. Come now!

The dirty clothing shifted slightly. Aren could see the small, dark face peering back at him from under the folds. Its features looked more like shadows; the crest of its head obviously bore a crest of horns. The eyes were like burning coals.

Come here, Monk, Aren urged, his fingers motioning the creature toward him. I think its time you and I had a little chat.

The homunculus glanced furtively about and then, satisfied, it leaped out of the cloth, spreading its leathery wings as it rushed toward the captain. Its span was barely two feet across, while its body, not counting its whipping barbed tail, did not measure more than a hand and a half in length. Its skin had a quality that was difficult to look at, as though focusing upon it would be arduous if not entirely impossible. It had something of a pushed-in snout, with two pairs of opposing fangs protruding from its lips. The palms of its hands were long, as were the soles of its feet, with talons protruding from its fingers and toes. Aren had long ago learned the hard way the importance of keeping those trimmed.

Aren held his forearm in front of him, providing the homunculus a perch on which to land. As the creature settled on his arm, Aren reached forward with his right hand and rubbed it under its chin. The homunculus responded with a deep, satisfied rumble from its chest.

Monk, my old friend, Aren said, and sighed. It is time to pack our gear once again. See to it that all this is packed up, wont you? Oh, and settle my debts for me and saddle my horse.

The glowing, red pinpoints of light ablaze like glowing embers stared back at Aren without comprehension.

No? Well, sometimes I wonder why I keep you around, Aren chided. Perhaps, because you are such a sparkling conversationalist.

The homunculus blinked.

Well, you are good listener, at any rate. Aren shrugged. He gave a slight lift of his arm, and the homunculus took flight once again, perching on the crossbar of one of the pennants. Aren looked over at the armor once more and, with another shrug, efficiently began securing the various pieces around him. No, dont worry about me. It is all for the good of the Obsidian Empire, is it not? Im just a captain"relatively unimportant in the scope of things, and quite frankly, I prefer to leave it that way. I have a job to do, and all I really want is for people to get out of my way and let me do it.

Aren s.n.a.t.c.hed the helmet from the top of the frame and then paused. He turned and looked down upon the blade still cradled in the blanket.

The captain reached down, wrapping his fingers around the grip. He lifted the sword up in front of his face, examining the shifting runes in the fuller of the blade. As he did so, he was suddenly struck with the tawdriness of his possessions, for compared to the sword in his hand, everything else he owned seemed cheap and pitiful.

And what about you, my new friend? Aren whispered to the blade. Are you also a good listener, or are you trying to tell me something? Sadly, I dont think Ill have the time to find out.

Aren slid the blade into the scabbard at his waist. It had originally been made for a much larger sword, and the blade rattled slightly as he moved. The captain stepped forward and pushed aside the tent flap with the back of his hand.

The homunculus watched Aren leave, a shadow within the shadows.

The captain had originally looked for the general in his accustomed command tent, only to find it had already been struck and was being loaded into supply wagons for transport. It had taken him nearly half an hour to find General Karpasic, who had already situated himself and most of the army at the western gates of the city. It was fortunate, Aren mused, that he had left orders with Halik the night before to properly apportion garrison troops about the city and secure the avenue for the March of Triumph before morning.

Captain Bennis!

Aren turned toward the all-too-familiar voice, composing a blank look on his face as he did so. He had no problem communicating with the general, but it was never a good idea to let him know what he actually thought of him.

Yes, General. How may I serve you?

The general sat atop his throne once again, which in turn sat atop a litter being held aloft on the shoulders of a number of Midras merchants who had been pressed into the service. The clothing of each of these was relatively opulent and clean, considering the circ.u.mstances, but the men and women wearing them were bowed and miserable. Aren wondered in that moment whether their condition was affected more by the weight of the unreasonably large chair, its occupant, or the defeat their city had just suffered. Their condition was not helped in the least by the generals insistence that he remain held aloft despite the delay in beginning the procession.

Worse, clouds had formed above the city and now stretched to the distant horizons. These wept rain down on Midras. It was a miserable drizzle; too persistent to be ignored, yet too light to either cleanse the streets of the stench or hide from the eyes the wreckage that once was Midras. Everyone, it seemed, was miserable with the possible exception of the general, who seemed to take the weather as a personal insult.

What is the delay now, Captain? The general snapped from his perch. His cape, which was meant to be billowing behind him during the parade, was now soaked and hung with a leaden quality off his back. Why are we not moving?

It has taken some time to properly a.s.semble the citizens of the city, Aren answered, as per your orders, sire. I am awaiting Haliks word that the street has been properly cleared. Once he is returned, then we may proceed.

And why is my person being borne through the streets by the shopkeepers? the general demanded. I thought I made it clear that I wanted to be carried on the backs of Guardians.

Sire, such was the determination of the Guardians that there were not enough remaining to properly man the litter, Aren responded with a slight bow, although he could feel both of his fists clench. Those few Guardians who are in our custody would be a danger to yourself and, almost certainly, make unfortunate ruin of this procession.

They would have looked spectacular, grumbled the general.

They would have slain you in front of the remaining citizens of Midras, responded Aren, keeping his vocal tones even as he bowed slightly. This would not support the message of strength you are trying to convey. Now, if youll excuse me Aren turned to leave for the head of the procession.