Theft of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Do me a favor, then,” Hadrian told them. “At least stay indoors tonight.”

  Something, or someone, was in the thickets.

  Royce left Esrahaddon and moved away to the river’s edge, careful not to look in the direction of the sound. He descended from the rocks to the depression near the river and slipped into the trees, circling back. Something was there and it was working hard to be quiet.

  At first, Royce caught a glimpse of orange and blue through the leaves and almost thought it was nothing more than a bluebird, but then it shifted. It was far too large to be a bird. Royce drew closer and saw a light brown braided beard, a broad flat nose, a blue leather vest, large black boots, and a bright orange shirt with puffed sleeves.

  “Magnus!” Royce greeted the dwarf loudly, causing him to stumble and fall out of the bramble. He slipped backward off the little grassy ledge and fell on his back on the bare rock not far from where Esrahaddon sat. With the wind knocked out of him, the dwarf lay gasping for breath.

  Royce leapt down and placed his dagger to the dwarf’s throat.

  “A lot of people have been looking for you,” Royce told him menacingly. “I have to admit, I rather wanted to see you again myself to thank you for all the help you gave me in Essendon Castle.”

  “Don’t tell me this is the dwarf that killed King Amrath of Melengar,” Esrahaddon said.

  “His name is Magnus, or at least that’s what Percy Braga called him. He’s a master trap builder and stone carver, isn’t that right?”

  “It’s my business!” the dwarf protested, still struggling for air. “I’m a craftsman. I take jobs the same as you. You can’t fault a guy for working.”

  “I almost died due to your work,” Royce told him. “And you killed the king. Alric will be very pleased when I tell him I finally eliminated you. And as I recall, there’s a price on your head.”

  “Wait—hang on!” Magnus shouted. “It was nothing personal. Can you tell me you never killed anyone for money, Royce?”

  Royce hesitated.

  “Yes, I know who you are,” the dwarf told him. “I wanted to find out who beat my trap. You used to work for the Black Diamond, and not as a delivery boy either. It was my job, I tell you. I don’t care about politics, or Braga, or Essendon.”

  “I suspect he’s telling the truth,” Esrahaddon said. “I’ve never known a dwarf to care at all for the affairs of humans beyond the coin they can obtain.”

  “See, he knows what I am saying. You can let me go.”

  “I said you were telling the truth, not that he should let you live. In fact, now that I can see you have been eavesdropping on our conversations, I have to encourage the notion of ending your life. I can’t be sure how much you heard.”

  “What?” the dwarf cried.

  “After slitting his throat, you can just roll his little body off the ledge here.” The wizard stepped up and looked over the cliff.

  “No,” Royce replied, “it will be better to toss him off the falls. He’s not that heavy; his body will likely carry all the way to the Goblin Sea.”

  “Do you need his head?” Esrahaddon asked. “To take back to Alric?”

  “It would be nice, but I’m not carrying a severed head for a week while traveling through those woods. It would draw every fly for miles and it would stink after a few hours. Trust me, I speak from experience.”

  The dwarf looked at both of them in horror.

  “No! No!” he shouted in panic as Royce pressed his blade to his neck. “I can help you. I can show you how to get to the tower!”

  Royce looked at the wizard, who appeared skeptical.

  “For the love of Drome. I’m a dwarf. I know stone. I know rock. I know where the tunnel to the tower is.”

  Royce relaxed his dagger.

  “Let me live and I’ll show it to you.” He turned his head toward Esrahaddon. “And as for what I heard, I care nothing about the affairs of wizards and men. I’ll never say a word. If you know dwarves, well, then you know we’re a lot like stone when we choose to be.”

  “So there is a tunnel,” Royce said.

  “Of course there is.”

  “Before I decide,” Royce asked, “what are you doing here?”

  “I was finishing another job, that’s all.”

  “And what was this job?”

  “Nothing sinister, I just made a sword for a guy.”

  “All the way out here? Who is this person?”

  “Lord Rufus somebody. I was hired to come here to make it. I was told he would meet me. Honest, no traps, no killings.”

  “And how are you still alive? How did you get out of Melengar? How is it you haven’t been caught?”

  “My employer is very powerful.”

  “This Rufus guy?”

  “No. I’m making the sword for him, but Rufus isn’t my employer.”

  “So who is?”

  Royce heard footfalls. Someone was running up the trail. Thinking it might be the dwarf’s associates, he slipped behind Magnus. He gripped his hair, pulled his head back, and prepared to slit his throat.

  “Royce!” Tad Bothwick shouted up to them from down near the water.

  “What is it, Tad?” he asked cautiously.

  “Hadrian sent me. He says you should come back to the village right away, but that Esra should steer clear.”

  “Why?” the wizard asked.

  “Hadrian said to tell you that the Church of Nyphron just arrived.”

  “The church?” Esrahaddon muttered. “Here?”

  “Is there a Lord Rufus with them?” Royce asked.

  “Could be. There’s a whole lot of fancy folk around. Must be at least one lord in the bunch.”

  “Any idea why they’re here, Tad?”

  “Nope.”

  “You might want to make yourself scarce,” Royce told the wizard. “Someone might have mentioned your name. I’ll go see what’s happening. In the meantime”—he looked down at the dwarf—“it would appear your employer has just arrived. Your death sentence has been suspended. This kindly old man is going to watch you this afternoon, and you’re going to stay right here. Then later you’re going to show us where this tunnel is, and if you’re telling the truth about knowing, then you live. Anything short of that and you’re going over the falls in two pieces. Agreed? Good.” He looked back at the wizard. “Want me to tie him up or just hit him over the head with a rock?” Royce asked, panicking the dwarf again.

  “Won’t be necessary. Magnus here looks like the honorable type. Besides, I can still manage a few surprisingly unpleasant things. Do you know what it is like to have live ants trapped inside your head?”

  The dwarf did not move or speak. Royce searched him. He found a belt under his clothes with little hammers and some rock-shaping tools and a dagger. Royce looked at the dagger, surprised.

  “I tried copying it,” the dwarf told him nervously. “It’s not very good; I was working from memory.”

  Royce compared it to his own dagger. The two were very similar in design, though the blades were clearly different. Royce’s weapon was made of an almost translucent metal that shimmered in the light, while Magnus’s dagger seemed dull and heavy by comparison. The thief threw the dagger over the cliff.

  “That’s a magnificent weapon you have,” the dwarf told him, mesmerized by the blade that a moment before had been at his throat. “It’s a Tur blade, isn’t it?”

  Royce ignored him and spoke to Esrahaddon. “Keep an eye on him. I’ll be back later.”

  Arista took her seat on the balcony above the entrance to the great hall of the manor house, along with the entourage of the archbishop, which included Sauly and Sentinel Luis Guy. It was a very small balcony, created of rough logs and thick ropes, where only a few could fit, but Bernice managed to squeeze her way in and remained standing just behind her. Bernice’s hovering out of sight was as irritating as a mosquito in the dark.

  Arista had no idea what was going on—few people appeared to.

  W
hen they had arrived, everything was in chaos. The lord of the manor was apparently dead and the place was filled with peasants. They were promptly chased out. Luis Guy and his seret established order and assigned quarters based on rank. She was given a cramped but private room on the second level. It was a ghastly place, lacking even a single window. A bear rug lay on the floor, the head of a moose looked down at her from above the bed, and a coatrack made from deer antlers hung from the wall. Bernice was busy unpacking her clothes from the trunk when Sauly stopped by, insisting Arista join him on the balcony. At first, she thought the contest might be starting, but it was common knowledge it would begin at nightfall.

  A trumpeter stepped up to the rail and blared a fanfare on his horn. Below, in the courtyard, a crowd formed. Men rushed over, some holding drinks or half-eaten meals. One man trotted up still buttoning his pants. The growing audience created a mass of heads and shoulders bunched together, all staring up at them.

  The archbishop slowly stood up. Dressed in full regalia of long embroidered robes, he spread his arms in a grand gesture and spoke, his raspy voice barely adequate to the task.

  “It is time to announce the details of this event and reveal the profound happening that you, the devoted of Novron, are about to take part in, an event so monumental that its conclusion will see the world altered forever.”

  Several people in the back complained they could not hear, but the archbishop ignored them and went on. “I know some of you came believing this contest was to be a battle of swords or lances, like some Wintertide tournament. Instead, what you will see is nothing less than a miracle. Some of you will die, one will succeed, and the rest will bear witness to the world.

  “A terrible evil haunts this place. Here on the Nidwalden River, at the edge of the world, there is a beast. Not a great bear like Oswald that terrorized Glamrendor. This creature is none other than the legendary Gilarabrywn, a horror not seen since the days of Novron himself. A monster so terrible that even in those days of heroes and gods, only Novron, or one of his blood, could slay it. It will be your task, your challenge, to slay the creature and save this poor village from the ancient curse.”

  A murmur broke out among those gathered, and the archbishop raised his hands to quiet them. “Silence. For I have not yet told you of the reward!”

  He waited as the mob grew quiet, many pushing closer to hear.

  “As I said, the Gilarabrywn is a beast that only Novron or one of his bloodline can slay, and as such, he that succeeds in vanquishing this terror can be none other than the heir to the imperial crown, the long-lost Heir of Novron!”

  The reaction was surprisingly quiet. There were no cheers, no shouts of jubilation. The crowd as a whole appeared stunned. They remained staring, as if expecting more. The archbishop in turn looked around, equally bewildered by the hesitancy of the congregation.

  “Did he just say the winner would be the heir?” Arista asked, looking at Sauly, who appeared as if he’d just smelled something unpleasant. He smiled at her and, standing up, whispered in the archbishop’s ear. The older man took his seat and Bishop Saldur addressed the crowd.

  “For centuries the church has struggled to find the true heir, to restore the bloodline of our holy lord Novron the Great.” Sauly’s voice was loud and warm and carried well on the pine-scented afternoon air. “We have searched, but all we had to guide us were old books and rumors. Speculation, really, hopes and dreams. There has never been a means of finding him, no absolute method to determine where the heir was, or who he may be. Many have falsely claimed to be his descendent, many unworthy men have striven to take that lofty crown, and the church has sat helpless.

  “Still, we have faith he is out there. Novron would not allow his own blood to die. We know he lives. He may be oblivious to who he is. A thousand years have passed since his disappearance, and who of us can accurately trace our lineage back to the days of the Old Empire? Who knows if one of us might have an ancestor who went to his grave with a terrible secret? A terrible, wonderful secret.

  “The Gilarabrywn is a miracle Novron has sent. It is a tool to show us his son. He has confided this to the Patriarch and told His Holiness that he should hold a contest and if he did, the heir would be among the contestants, the truth of his lineage, oblivious even to himself.

  “So you see, you—any one of you—may be the Heir of Novron, possessor of divine blood—a god. Have any of you sensed a power within? A belief in your own worth beyond that of others? This is your chance to prove to all of Elan that you are no fool, no mere man. Place your name upon the roster, ride out at nightfall, slay the beast, and you will become our divine ruler. You will not be a mere king, but emperor, and all kings will bow to you. You will take the imperial throne in Aquesta. All loyal Imperialists and the full force of the church will support you as we usher in a new age of order that will bring peace and harmony to the land. All you need do is destroy one lonely beast.

  “What say you?”

  This time the crowd cheered. Saldur glanced briefly at the archbishop and stepped away from the balcony to take a seat.

  When Royce reached Dahlgren, the village was in turmoil. People were everywhere. Most of the villagers were heading toward the common well. There were plenty of new faces, all of them men, most carrying some sort of weapon. Royce found Hadrian mobbed by villagers at the well. None of them looked happy.

  “Where do we go now?” Selen Brockton asked, in tears.

  Hadrian once more stepped up on the well, standing over the crowd and looking like he wanted to break something. “I don’t know, Mrs. Brockton. Home, I guess—for now, at least.”

  “But our home has a thatched roof.”

  “Try digging cellars and getting as low as possible.”

  “What’s going on?” Royce asked.

  “The Archbishop of Ghent has arrived and moved into the manor house. He and his clergy, as well as a few dozen nobles, have taken over the castle and driven everyone else out. Well, except for Russell, Dillon, and Kline, whom he ordered to fill in the shelter and the tunnel we were digging, saying they could repair the damages or hang for destruction of property. Good old Deacon Tomas, he stands there nodding and saying, ‘I told them not to do it, but they wouldn’t listen.’ They kept most of the livestock too, saying it was in the castle, so it belonged to the manor. Now everyone blames me for losing their animals.”

  “What about the bonfires?” Royce asked. “We could still build one here in the commons.”

  “No good,” Hadrian told him. “His Lordship declared it unlawful to cut trees in the area and confiscated the oxen with the rest of the animals.”

  “Did you tell him what will happen when the sun goes down?”

  “I can’t tell him anything.” Hadrian threw up his hands, running his fingers through his hair as if he might start pulling it out. “I can’t get past the twenty-odd soldiers he has at the castle gate. Which is a good thing too or I might kill the guy.”

  “Why is the church here at all?”

  “That’s the kicker,” Hadrian told him. “You know that competition the church has been announcing? Turns out that contest is to slay the Gilarabrywn.”

  “What?”

  “They intend to send contestants out to fight the thing at nightfall, and if they die, they’ll send the next one. They’ve got a damn list nailed to the castle gate.”

  “It’s all right, it’s all right,” Deacon Tomas shouted.

  Everyone turned to see the cleric coming down the trail from the castle, approaching the crowd at the well. He walked with his hands raised as if in blessing. On his face he had a great smile, which turned his eyes into half-moons. “Everything is going to be fine,” he told them in a loud confident voice. “The archbishop has come to help us. They are going to kill the beast and save us from this nightmare.”

  “What about our livestock?” Vince Griffin asked.

  “They will need most of them to feed the troops, but what isn’t used will be returned after the beas
t has been slain.”

  The crowd grumbled.

  “Now, now, what price do you put on safety? What price do you put on the lives of your children? Are a pig and a cow worth the lives of your children? Your wife? Consider it a tithe and be thankful the church has come to Dahlgren to save us. No one else has. The King of Dunmore ignored us, but your church has responded by sending not just some knight or margrave, but the Archbishop of Ghent himself. Soon the beast will be dead and Dahlgren will be a place of happiness once more. If that means one year of no meat, and plowing without an ox, surely that’s not too high a price to pay. Now, everyone, please, back to your homes. Stay out of their way and let them do their work.”

  “What about my daughter?” Theron growled, and pushed forward, looking like he might kill the deacon.

  “It’s all right, I’ve spoken with the archbishop and Bishop Saldur; they have agreed to let her stay. They have moved her to a smaller room, but—”

  “They won’t let me in to see her!” the old farmer snapped.

  “I know, I know,” Tomas said in a soothing voice. “But I can. I just came down to explain things. I am heading right back, and I promise you, I’ll stay by her side and watch over her until she is well.”

  Hadrian slipped out of the crowd that now shifted around the deacon. He turned to Royce with a bitter look. “Tell me you found a way into the tower.”

  Royce shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll need to check it out tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Hadrian asked. “Shouldn’t such things be done in the daylight? When we can both see and things with complicated names aren’t flying around?”

  “Not if I’m right.”

  “And if you’re wrong?”

  “If I’m wrong, we’ll both certainly die—most likely by being eaten.”

  “The thing is, I know you’re not kidding. Did I mention I lost my weapons?”

  “With any luck we won’t need them. What we will need, however, is a good length of rope, sixty feet at least,” Royce told him. “Lanterns, wax, a tinderbox—”

  “I’m not going to like this, am I?” Hadrian asked miserably.