Sword of the Gods

by Bruce R Cordell

  The lock snicked. “We’re in,” Chant said. He stowed his picks in their cloth case and rolled it up. Then he inched open the door and peered in. A beat later, he pushed into the space beyond. Demascus followed and quietly closed the door after.

  They stood in a dingy pantry lit by a flickering taper held by Chant. By the dim light Demascus saw shelves stacked with provisions of every sort. The neatly organized chamber appealed to him, but he felt suddenly nervous.

  “Chant,” he whispered. “How is it that by picking a single lock on a service door, we now stand inside a wizard’s tower? Seems too easy.”

  “You were expecting a magic ward, or a guardian drake maybe?”

  “Uh, something like that, given how you’ve described Chevesh.”

  The pawnbroker nodded and dropped his picks into his satchel, one that hardly seemed big enough to contain the bundle. He said, “The thing about Chevesh is that he’s really crazy. Word on the street is that he doesn’t guard his tower because that means he can pretty much do what he wants to people stupid enough to break in here—of course, the thieves of Airpur know this. Everyone gives Chevesh’s tower a wide berth.”

  “What do you mean, ‘do what he wants’?”

  Chant shrugged. He said, his voice hardly more than a whisper, “That’s the question, isn’t it? For all I know, the rumors are all bunk. It’s all been academic before now. Either way, we’re going to be better off if we stay quiet. You ready?”

  Demascus nodded, despite how his mouth had gone dry as a desert.

  They went to the opposite door and peeked out. Beyond was the tower’s core, around which stairs spiraled upward. The stairs paused in their ascent at a series of landings, all of which were dark except for the topmost level, which blazed with flickering light. Three doors opened off of the ground floor besides the one in which they stood.

  A bronze statue with hair and beard of red flame stood at the base of the stairs, providing light for the lowest level of the tower. The figure was squat like a dwarf, nearly as wide as it was tall, and masterfully detailed in its execution. It almost looked as if the colossal hammer clutched in the figure’s right hand was a separate object—

  The “statue” scratched its chin with its free hand, then returned to apparent immobility.

  Merciful gods, that thing was alive.

  Demascus tapped Chant on the arm and whispered, “So, what do we do?”

  The pawnbroker returned his look, his expression apprehensive.

  Demascus pulled the man back from the door and said as quietly as he could, “That’s no firesoul. It looks like it could smash us into paste with that hammer.” Something about it was familiar. It was just on the tip of his tongue …

  Chant shuddered, “Yeah. Maybe we should—”

  “Azer,” said Demascus suddenly, a little too loud. Then, quieter, “Azers are the servants of fire giants, usually. Or titans. They’re at least as tough as they look.”

  Chant said, “Are they from Faerûn? They must be from an echo world …”

  “Maybe. I don’t remember anything else. Can we get to the upper level another way?”

  “I don’t see one. Well, we could climb up the outside.”

  Demascus looked at the pawnbroker’s bulging belly. No matter how graceful Chant seemed, it was hard to imagine the human inching his way up the smooth expanse of the tower’s exterior.

  He said, “How about we try a distraction? We need to lure its attention to the front door. When the fire dwarf checks it out, we dart up the stairs.”

  Chant nodded, a smile breaking through his worried frown. He said, “I know just the thing. Wait here. Be ready.” Then he slipped back the way they’d come and out the service door.

  Demascus inched forward. He flicked his eyes between the azer and the main entrance. He wondered what the pawnbroker had in mind. His hands felt clammy, but he wasn’t scared. If anything, he felt almost … disappointed that they were going to sneak past the guard.

  A half song later and Chant was back. The man whispered, “Wait for it …”

  A muffled bang resounded from outside the tower. The front doors shuddered slightly.

  The azer’s head swiveled toward the sound. It hurried toward the main entrance.

  “Now,” hissed Chant as he glided forward. He traced the wall like a fat shadow. Demascus revised his earlier opinion about the pawnbroker’s agility should scaling a wall prove necessary, and followed in Chant’s footsteps.

  The azer paused at the doors and blared, “Who goes there?”

  Demascus blanched. He quelled an urge to charge the vulnerable backside of the dwarflike extraplanar guardian.

  Chant took each step like a cat on the prowl and Demascus did his best to imitate the man’s technique.

  The azer’s gaze never wavered from the front doors, and then the curve of the next tower level blocked the view. Another few steps and they were on the second level. No guardian waited for them there.

  Chant gave him a light clap on the arm, and Demascus grinned, despite his regrets.

  They continued upward, ascending five levels in all, without incident or azers. The third level was painted bright red, and the fourth echoed with faint music.

  The topmost landing had two doors. Flamelight roared around the frame of one.

  A crash of breaking glass came from beyond the illuminated door, followed by a lunatic laugh that literally raised the hair on Demascus’s neck.

  They tiptoed to the entrance. Chant looked at Demascus and mouthed, “Ready?”

  Demascus nodded. The human carefully set his hand to the dragon’s head ring and pulled open the door just enough to see in.

  Balls of free-floating flame banished all shadows in the room beyond. A third of the roughly circular chamber gurgled and hissed with elaborate glass piping. The tubes pumped magmalike fluid between a series of ever more complicated vessels.

  A portion of the chamber was empty but for a ring of cooled brass poured out to form a wide circle on the floor. Arcane formulas written in chalk spiraled around the brass fixture like a madman’s depiction of a whirlpool.

  A series of workbenches, shelves stuffed with containers of every description, and odd bits of equipment Demascus couldn’t immediately identify circled the walls.

  Where was the crazy wizard?

  Chant took a quick breath, then carefully lifted a finger to point at the ceiling.

  A man floated among the balls of fire. A powder blue robe draped him, blue but for the snarling embroidery depicting flame flowers and fire eyes on his sleeves. Red tongues danced along the man’s fingers, along the wand he clutched in one hand, and along individual strands of his long, unkempt hair.

  “That’s our lunatic,” confirmed Chant, his voice pitched just above the crackle of fire.

  Demascus nodded. A haze of pale blue smoke surrounded the wizard. Chevesh seemed lost in some kind of meditation. Whatever suicidal urge had goaded him to attack the azer remained quiescent in Chevesh’s presence. Good. Demascus took a deep but quiet breath, then began studying the room for anything suggesting demonic summoning rituals, extra fake Cabal coats, or white scarves missing their owners.

  The only thing immediately suggestive was the brass circle. Though he couldn’t remember exactly how he knew, Demascus was certain a fixture like that could be used to call entities from the Abyss. On the other hand, a magic circle could serve as the endpoint for a long-distance teleportation. Or as a barrier to screen out background magical influences. Or …

  Lots of things, probably.

  Circumstantial evidence wasn’t going to fly. They needed something substantial to bring back to the Firestorm Cabal. He glanced at Chevesh again. The wizard remained enthralled with the inside of his eyelids.

  Without giving himself the benefit of consideration, Demascus darted out onto the main floor. Chant made a quiet sound of protest, but Demascus didn’t pause.

  He skirted a metal chair that was bolted into the stone floor. Leather st
raps lay slack on arm rests, and an elaborate crown of needles perched on an extendable metallic arm. Demascus was glad that the chair’s insectoid embrace was empty.

  Another two steps and he was at a workbench. Demascus glanced up at Chevesh; still in his trance. Demascus began sorting through the jumble of papers and scrolls. If he could find a piece of evidence implicating the fire wizard in the series of demon incursions, great. But what he was really searching for was some hint of his own place in all this, some scrap of his own lost identity.

  Topological mixing, haepthum shipments, primordial blood, density of periodic orbits, flame vortices, strange attractors, thaumaturgic exclusion zones, and a litter of incomprehensible diagrams and calculations were all he could find on the workbench. None of it triggered the least hint of memory, or had any obvious demonic connection. Demascus looked up and saw Chant lingering in the doorway. The pawnbroker motioned frantically for Demascus to retreat.

  Demascus shook his head, and pointed to the next workbench.

  “Can I help you find something?” a voice overhead said.

  He jumped as his gaze snapped up. Chevesh’s eyes were open and fixed on his own. They were the color of a candle flame with just a hint of coal at the center.

  “Um,” said Demascus, mentally fumbling for something halfway plausible.

  “I don’t recall inviting you into my laboratory. But here you are, riffling through my research. That’s very rude. Care to explain yourself?” Chevesh’s voice was as melodious and polite as if he were speaking to a naughty nephew, not a thief in his home.

  Demascus cleared his throat and tried again. He said, “I apologize, mage. I need to find something out. For instance … do you know who I am?” He held his breath.

  Chevesh’s blond eyebrows rose slightly as he gave Demascus a closer look. Then he said, “No. Should I? Are you the new deliveryman from the prison?”

  Demascus said, “The—”

  “We are the new deliverymen from the prison,” interrupted Chant from the doorway. “But it looks like we’ve caught you at a bad time. We’ll come back in the morning, when it’s full light out. How’s that sound?”

  Chevesh regarded the pawnbroker for a moment, then said, “Neither of you wear the prison insignia, and if you’d come from there, you’d know to leave the inmates in the cells I’ve prepared on the third floor.”

  “We’re new,” persisted the pawnbroker.

  The wizard said, “Chant Morven, isn’t it? I haven’t taken so much haepthum that I don’t recognize one of Airspur’s up-and-comers. You pull the strings of snitches, sniffers, and gossip-mongers who infest Airspur’s dingier neighborhoods. At least, when you’re not selling people’s castoffs.”

  “Ah. I’m delighted my reputation precedes me,” said the pawnbroker—in tones that implied the opposite.

  Chevesh descended until his feet, tucked into boots the color of blood, touched the floor. He returned his regard to Demascus and said, “But I don’t know you. Yet you asked me as if I should. So tell me; who are you? I don’t even recognize your race. You’re no genasi, nor human either.”

  The wizard didn’t think him human? Demascus pushed the feeling of surprise to the back of his mind to deal with later. He said, “I don’t know who I am. I was hoping you might.”

  “Lost your faculties, eh? How fascinating. But why would I know? I’m no mind reader or fortune-teller. However … there is a way to learn more about you. How would you like to volunteer for a little test?”

  “Could your test restore my memory?”

  “I doubt it.” Chevesh shrugged. He walked to the iron chair with the straps. “But, if you’ll just sit yourself down right here—”

  “Does your research have anything to do with demons?” interjected Chant, who still retained his position just outside the room.

  Chevesh said, “Demons? Please. Nothing lies down that path but degraded bloodlines and disturbing dreams. Believe me, I’ve tried. Decades ago. It was a blind alley for my purposes. Look around; see any demons? Any Abyssal alphabets? Can you smell the stink of fiendish ichor or hear the screams of sacrificial victims? No.”

  “Then what is your research?”

  “I am on the trail of primordial blood. To begin with, I aim to instill the blood of firesoul genasi into one not born with that heritage.”

  “Why?” said Demascus.

  “Because I want it!” the wizard screamed suddenly. He cleared his throat and returned to his original calm tones, “Once I perfect the technique, I’ll apply it to myself. Imagine how extraordinary that will be.”

  The wizard’s eyes gave off twin streams of smoke. The man had apparently already made some steps toward his goal.

  Chevesh continued, “Now, enough with the all the questions.” The wizard patted the seat and raised his eyebrows to Demascus in invitation.

  “Hold on,” said Demascus, taking a step back. “You’re telling me you don’t know anything about a demon summoning ritual gone wrong west of Airspur?”

  Chevesh gave an exasperated sigh. “You seem awfully interested in demons. Is that what I sense is different about you? Does the blood of fiends runs in your veins?”

  “No,” said Demascus, “At least, I don’t think so …”

  “Sit down, and we’ll find out.” said Chevesh.

  “Demascus, I think it’s time for us to leave this nice gentleman,” said Chant. “We have an appointment to keep.”

  The wizard frowned. As thoughtlessly as if swatting a fly, Chevesh flicked his wand in Chant’s direction. A bead of flame snapped from the end. The pawnbroker dived out of the door as the bead detonated into a ball of swirling incandescence. The boom and shockwave swept back across the laboratory, shoving scrolls off workbenches, fluttering Chevesh’s robes, and enveloping Demascus in a rush of warm air.

  The wizard said to Demascus, “No, please stay. I insist.”

  Demascus ducked behind an enormous glass vessel filled with burning red fluid. The wizard didn’t follow. Demascus wondered if Chant had moved far enough to avoid the wizard’s attack. Or was his only friend and confidante in Airspur suddenly a crispy outline on the floor of the tower?

  He pulled out his borrowed sword and gazed at it. What could base metal do against a master spellcaster of Chevesh’s league? Probably only anger him further.

  Cryptic syllables rang through the laboratory. Demascus realized the wizard was chanting. A spell, probably one designed to flush him out into the open.

  “You are behind the demon incursion in Airspur! Admit it!” yelled Demascus in an attempt to disrupt the mage’s concentration. He steeled himself to emerge from cover and charge the wizard.

  The chanting petered out, then Chevesh spoke in his polite way, “Who’s the crazy one here? I told you three times, I’m not into that stuff. If you wanted demon summoners, you should have gone to the Firestorm Cabal.”

  Demascus blinked. He rounded the side of the vessel, but he didn’t charge. “What do you mean?”

  Chevesh stood ensconced in a swirl of fire. His wand was ablaze, and sparks danced between his teeth. He said, “The Cabal has secrets and projects it hides from the Crown. For decades they’ve been meddling with plaguechanged creatures, bringing them in from the changelands for study. But that’s taken a twist. A changelands salvage team returned with something from the south, a fragment of an old statue or fossil. But it had nothing to do with the Year of Blue Fire. I have it on good authority that ever since they began researching the relic, the Cabal has suffered demonic nightmares.”

  A bad feeling skittered through Demascus. Had Lieutenant Leheren sent them on a wild boar chase? Or was the fire mage lying?

  Demascus studied the wizard. The man, in all his flame and finery, didn’t seem concerned with how the world perceived him.

  “What do you mean, demonic nightmares?”

  “Figure of speech,” replied the wizard, who had caught a reflection of himself in a crystal panel. The man smoothed his mustache ends with his
free hand as he spoke. “The Cabal is apparently trying to revive the ways of an elder cult of chaos.”

  “A chaos cult,” Demascus said flatly.

  “The Cult of the Elder Elemental Eye. Not a good idea. Which is why Elemental Eye worship has caught on in Toril. Even I am not insane enough to dream of rousing the Chained God. Anyhow, none of that matters for you.”

  Chevesh brought his wand down so it pointed directly at Demascus. “Get in the chair, or burn. And really, I don’t care which you choose. I love a good fire.” He smiled like a child anticipating a sugarplum.

  Demascus ran for the door.

  Two streaks of fire blasted from the wizard’s wand so fast they whistled as they flew.

  One struck Demascus a glancing blow on his left shoulder. He felt the initial impact like a tap. Then it bloomed into dull heat. He smelled burning leather as the armor beneath his jacket caught fire. He kept running.

  A wall of flame roared down to block his path. Demascus skidded to halt with his heels only inches from the barrier, lying on his side. At least he’d retained his grip on his sword. For all the good it would do him.

  Chevesh held his wand high. Its tip burned the same hue of red as the wall of fire.

  “You’re faster than you look,” said the wizard. “I can’t wait to crack open your ribs and see the color of your heartblood.”

  A curl of anger commandeered Demascus’s arm. He swept his sword out of its sheath. As before, the ghost of forgotten runes trailed a wake of swirling, ethereal light. The crescent of radiance glided across the floor and enveloped Chevesh. A flash of lighting blasted the wand from the wizard’s hand.

  The wall of fire blinked out, leaving behind a haze of gray smoke.

  Was the wizard down? No. Chevesh’s wild hair was even more crazed than before, but otherwise the man seemed no worse for wear; the human apparently drew strength from crazy.

  Seeing he was observed, Chevesh made a show of crooking his finger. The wand clattered back into his grip.

  The pawnbroker’s voice hissed from the exit, “Stay down!”

  Three crossbow bolts whizzed over Demascus’s head. Two embedded themselves in Chevesh’s shoulder, and one smashed into glass piping behind the wizard. Burning fluid sprayed into the laboratory.