Theft of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Thrace shivered with the passing wind.

  Arista slipped off her cloak. “Here,” she said. “You need this more than I do.”

  Thrace looked at her with a puzzled smile.

  “Just take it!” she snapped. Her emotions breached the surface, threatening to spill. “I want to do something, damn it!”

  She held out the cloak with a wavering arm. Thrace crawled over and took it. She held it up, looking at it as if she were in the comfort of a dressing room. “It’s very beautiful, so heavy.”

  Again Arista laughed, thinking how strange it was to fly from despair to laughter in a single breath. One of them was surely insane—maybe they both were. Arista wrapped it around the young girl as she clasped it on. “And here I was ready to kill Bernice—”

  Arista thought of Hilfred and the maid left—no, ordered—to stay in the room. Had she killed them?

  “Do you think anyone survived?”

  The girl rolled aside a statue’s head and what looked like a broken marble tabletop. “My father is alive,” Thrace said simply, digging deeper.

  Arista did not ask how she knew this, but believed her. At that moment, she would believe anything Thrace told her.

  With a nice hole dug into the heart of the debris, Thrace had yet to find a weapon beyond a leg bone, which she set aside with grisly indifference, to use in case she found nothing better, Arista guessed. The princess watched the excavation with a mix of admiration and disbelief.

  Thrace uncovered a beautiful mirror that was shattered, and struggled to free a jagged piece, when Arista saw a glint of gold and pointed, saying, “There’s something under the mirror.”

  Thrace pushed the glass aside and, reaching down, grabbed hold and drew forth the hilt half of a broken sword. Elaborately decorated in silver and gold encrusted with fine sparkling gems, the pommel caught the starlight and sparkled.

  Thrace took the sword by the grip and held it up. “It’s light,” she said.

  “It’s broken,” Arista replied, “but I suppose it’s better than a piece of glass.”

  Thrace stowed the hilt in the lining pocket of the cloak and went on digging. She came across the head of an axe and a fork, both of which she discarded. Then, pulling back a bit of cloth, she stopped suddenly.

  Arista hated to look but once more felt compelled.

  It was a woman’s face—eyes closed, mouth open.

  Thrace placed the cloth back over the hole she had made. She retreated to the far edge and sat down, squeezing her knees while resting her head. Arista could see her shaking and Thrace did not dig anymore after that. The two sat in silence.

  Thrump. Thrump.

  Arista heard the sound and her heart raced. Every muscle in her body tightened and she dared not look. A great gust of air struck from above as she closed her eyes. She heard it land and waited to die. Arista could hear it breathing and still she waited.

  “Soon,” she heard it say.

  Arista opened her eyes.

  The beast rested on the pile, panting from the effort of its flight. It shook its head, spraying the platform with loose saliva from its lips, which failed to hide the forest of jagged teeth. Its eyes were larger than Arista’s hand, with tall narrow pupils on a marbled orange and brown lens that reflected her own image.

  “Soon?” She didn’t know where she found the courage to speak.

  The massive eye blinked and the pupil dilated as it focused on her. It would kill her now, but at least it would be over.

  “Thou know’st my speech?” The voice was large and so deep she felt it vibrating her chest.

  She both nodded and said, “Yes.”

  Across from her, the princess could see Thrace with her head up off her knees, staring.

  The beast looked at Arista. “Thou art regal.”

  “I am a princess.”

  “The best bait,” the Gilarabrywn said, but Arista was not sure she heard that right. It might also have said, “The greatest gift.” The phrase was difficult to translate.

  She asked, “Wilt thou honor thy trade or kill us?”

  “The bait stays alive until I catch the thief.”

  “Thief?”

  “The taker of the sword. It comes. I crossed the moon to deceive it that the way ’twas clear, and have returned flying low. The thief comes now.”

  “What’s it saying?” Thrace asked.

  “It said we are bait to catch a thief that stole a sword.”

  “Royce,” Thrace said.

  Arista stared at her. “What did you say?”

  “I hired two men to steal a sword from this tower.”

  “You hired Royce Melborn and Hadrian Blackwater?” Arista asked, stunned.

  “Yes.”

  “How did you—” She gave that thought up. “It knows Royce is coming,” Arista told her. “It pretended to fly away, letting him see it leave.”

  The Gilarabrywn’s ears perked up, suddenly tilting forward toward the false door. Abruptly, but quietly, it stood and, with a gentle flap of its wings, lifted off. Catching the thermals, the beast soared upward above the tower. Thrace and Arista heard movement somewhere below, footsteps on stone.

  A figure appeared in a black cloak. It stepped forward, passing through the solid stone of the false door, like a man surfacing from below a still pond.

  “It’s a trap, Royce!” Arista and Thrace shouted together.

  The figure did not move.

  Arista heard the whispered sound of air rushing across leathery wings. Then a brilliant light abruptly burst forth from the figure. Without a sound or movement, it was as if a star appeared in place of the man, the light so bright it blinded everyone. Arista closed her eyes in pain and heard the Gilarabrywn screech overhead. She felt frantic puffs of air beat down on her as the beast flapped its wings, breaking its dive.

  The light was short-lived. It faded abruptly though not entirely and soon they could all see the man in the shimmering robe before them.

  “YOU!” The beast cursed at him, shaking the tower with its voice. It hovered above them, its great wings flapping.

  “Escaped thy cage beast of Erivan, hunter of Nareion!” Esrahaddon shouted in Old Speech. “I shall cage thee again!”

  The wizard raised his arms, but before he made another move, the Gilarabrywn screeched and fluttered back in horror. It beat its great wings and rose, but in that last second, it reached down with one talon, snatching Thrace off the tower. It dove over the side, vanishing from sight. Arista raced to the railing, looking down in horror. The beast and Thrace were gone.

  “We can do nothing for her,” the wizard said sadly.

  She turned to see Esrahaddon and Royce Melborn beside her, both looking over the edge into the dark roar of the river below. “Her fate lies with Hadrian and her father now.”

  Arista’s hands squeezed the railing stiffly. She felt the drowning sensation again. Royce grabbed her by the wrist. “Are you all right, Your Highness? It’s a long way down, you know.”

  “Let’s get her downstairs,” Esrahaddon said. “The door, Royce. The door.”

  “Oh right,” the thief replied. “Grant entry to Arista Essendon, Princess of Melengar.”

  The archway became a real door that stood open. They all entered a small room. Off the pile, safe behind walls, Arista felt the impact at last and she was forced to sit before she fell.

  She buried her face in her hands and wailed, “Oh god, dear Maribor. Poor Thrace!”

  “She may yet be all right,” the wizard told her. “Hadrian and her father are waiting with the broken sword.”

  She rocked as she cried but she did not cry only for Thrace. The tears were the bursting of a dam that could resist the flood no longer. In her mind flashed images of Hilfred and that last unspoken word; of Bernice and the cruel way she had treated her; and of Fanen and Mauvin, all of them lost. So much sorrow could not be put into words; instead, the emotions exploded out of her as she shouted, “The sword, what sword? What is all of this about a swor
d? I don’t understand!”

  “You explain,” Royce said. “I need to find the other half.”

  “It’s not there,” Arista told him.

  “What?”

  “You said the sword was broken?” Arista asked.

  “In two parts. I stole the blade half yesterday; now I need to get the hilt half. I’m pretty certain it is in that pile up there.”

  “No it isn’t,” Arista said, shocked that her brain was still working enough to connect the dots. “Not anymore.”

  The wizard led the way down the long crystalline steps, pausing from time to time to peer down a corridor, or at a staircase. He would think for a moment, then shake his head and push on, or mutter, “Ah, yes!” and turn.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “Avempartha,” the wizard replied.

  “I got that much already. What is Avempartha? And don’t say it’s a tower.”

  “It is an elven construction, built several millennia ago. More recently it has been a trap that has held the Gilarabrywn, and more recently still, it has apparently been its nest. Does that help?”

  “Not really.”

  Although perplexed, Arista did feel better. It surprised her how easy it was to forget. It felt wrong. She should be thinking about the ones lost. She should be grieving, but her mind fought against it. Like broken limbs that refused to support any more weight, her heart and mind were hungry for relief. She needed a rest, something else to think about, something that did not involve death and misery. The tower of Avempartha provided the remedy. It was astounding.

  Esrahaddon led them up and down stairs, through great rooms, and across interior bridges that spanned between spire shafts. Not a torch or lantern burned, but she could see perfectly, the walls themselves giving off a soft blue light. Vaulted ceilings a hundred feet high spread out like the canopy of a forest, with intricately lined designs that suggested branches and leaves. Railings, appearing as curling tendrils of creeping vines, sculptured from solid stone in vivid detail, ran along walkways and down steps. Nothing was without adornment, every inch imbued with beauty and care. Arista walked with her mouth open, her eyes shifting from one wonder to the next—a giant statue of a magnificent swan taking flight, a bubbling fountain in the shape of a school of fish. She recalled the crude barbarity of King Roswort’s castle and his disdain for the elves—beings he likened to rats in a woodpile. Some woodpile.

  There was a music to this place. The muted humming of the falls created a low, comforting bass. The wind across the tips of the tower played as woodwinds in an orchestra—soft reassuring tones. The bubbling and trickling of fountains lent light, satisfying rhythms to the symphony. Into this harmony crashed the voice of Esrahaddon as he recounted his first visit to the tower centuries before and how he had trapped the beast inside.

  “So since you trapped the Gilarabrywn nine hundred years ago,” she said, “you plan to trap it here again?”

  “No,” Esrahaddon told her. “No hands, remember? I can’t cast that powerful of a binding spell without fingers, girl; you should know that better than anyone.”

  “I heard you threaten to cage it again.”

  “The Gilarabrywn doesn’t know Esra doesn’t have hands, does it?” Royce put in.

  “The beast remembered me,” the wizard said, taking over. “It assumed I was just as powerful as before, which means aside from the sword, I am about the only thing the Gilarabrywn fears.”

  “You just wanted to scare it off?”

  “That was the idea, yes.”

  “We were trying to get the sword and hoped we might also save the both of you in the process,” Royce told her. “I obviously didn’t expect it to grab Thrace, and there was absolutely no way I could have guessed she would have taken the sword with her. You’re certain she took a sword hilt from the pile?”

  “Yes, I was the one who spotted it, but I still don’t understand. How does the sword help? The Gilarabrywn isn’t an enchantment; it’s a monster that the heir must kill and …”

  “You’ve been listening to the church. The Gilarabrywn is a magical creation. The sword is the countermeasure.”

  “A sword is? That doesn’t make sense. A sword is metal, a physical element.”

  Esrahaddon smiled, looking a bit surprised. “So you paid attention to my lessons. Excellent. You’re right, the sword is worthless. It is the word written on the blade that has the power to dispel the conjuration. If it is plunged into the body of the beast, it will unlock the elements holding it in existence and break the enchantment.”

  “If only you had been the one to take it, we’d have a way to fight the thing.”

  “Well, you did save me, at least,” Arista reminded them. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank us too soon. It’s still out there,” Royce told her.

  “Okay, so Thrace hired Royce—I don’t know how that transpired, but okay—still I don’t understand why you’re here, Esra,” she admitted.

  “To find the heir.”

  “There isn’t an heir,” she told them. “All the contestants failed and the rest are dead, I’m sure. That monster destroyed everything.”

  “I’m not talking about that foolishness. I’m speaking about the real Heir of Novron.”

  The wizard came to a T-intersection and turned left, heading for a staircase that lead down again.

  “Wait a minute.” Royce stopped them. “We didn’t come this way.”

  “No we didn’t, but I did.”

  Royce looked around him. “No, no, this is all wrong. Here I was letting you lead and you clearly don’t have a clue where the exit is.”

  “I’m not leading you to the exit.”

  “What?” Royce asked.

  “We’re not leaving,” the wizard replied. “I am going to the Valentryne Layartren and the two of you are coming with me.”

  “You might want to explain why,” Royce told him, his voice chilling several degrees. “Otherwise you are jumping to a pretty big conclusion.”

  “I’ll explain on the way.”

  “Explain now,” Royce told him. “I have other appointments to consider.”

  “You can’t help Hadrian,” the wizard said. “The Gilarabrywn is already at the village by now. Hadrian is either dead or safe. Nothing you can do will change that. You can’t help him, but you can help me. I spent the better part of two days trying to access the Valentryne Layartren, but without your hands, Royce, I can’t reach it, and it would take days, perhaps weeks, for me to operate alone, but with Arista here, we can do it all tonight. Maribor has seen fit to deliver both of you to me at the precise moment I need you most.”

  “Valentryne Layartren,” Royce muttered, “that’s elvish for artistic vision, isn’t it?”

  “You know some elvish, good for you, Royce,” Esrahaddon said. “You should pursue your roots more.”

  “Your roots?” Arista said, confused.

  They both ignored her.

  “You can’t help the people back at the village, but you can help me do what I came here to do. What I brought you here to help me with.”

  “You need us to help you find the true Heir of the Empire?”

  “You’re normally quicker than this, Royce. I’m disappointed.”

  “I thought you were keeping it a secret.”

  “I was, but circumstances have forced me to reconsider. Now quit being so stubborn and come with me. You might look back on this moment one day and reflect on how you changed the course of the world by simply walking down these steps.”

  Royce continued to hesitate.

  “Think,” Esrahaddon said. “What can you do for Hadrian?”

  Royce didn’t answer.

  “If you run down the steps, race through the tunnel, swim out to the woods, and kill yourself running to the village, what will that accomplish? Even if you miraculously manage to reach the town before Hadrian is killed, how will that help? You will be standing there exhausted and dripping wet. You don’t have the sword. You ca
n’t harm it. You can’t scare it. I doubt you can even distract it, and if you do, it will only be for a moment. If you go, it will only be to your own death, and for no reason at all. Hadrian’s fate does not lie in your hands. You know I’m right, or you wouldn’t still be listening to me. Now stop being stubborn.”

  Royce sighed.

  “Thank the gods,” the wizard said. “Let’s get moving.”

  “Wait a minute.” Arista stopped them. “Don’t I get a say in this too?”

  The wizard looked back at her. “Do you know the way out?”

  “No,” she replied.

  “Then no, you don’t get a say,” the wizard told her. “Now, please, we’ve wasted enough time. Follow me.”

  “I remember you being nicer,” Arista shouted at the wizard.

  “And I remember both of you being faster.”

  They were off again, heading deeper into the center of the tower. As they did, Esrahaddon spoke again. “Most people believe this tower was built by the elves as a defensive fortress for the wars against Novron. As both of you most likely have guessed, that’s not true. This tower predates Novron by many millennia. Others think it was built as a fortress against the sea goblins, the infamous Ba Ran Ghazel, only that’s also not true, since the tower predates their appearance as well. The common mistake here is that this is a fortress at all—that’s the result of human thinking. The fact is, the elves lived for eons before man or goblin, and perhaps even before dwarves entered the world. In those days they had no need for fortresses. They didn’t even have a word for war, as the Horn of Gylindora controlled all of their internal strife. No, this wasn’t some defensive bulwark guarding the only crossing point on the Nidwalden River, although that certainly became its use many eons later. Originally, this tower was designed as a center for the Art.”

  “He means magic,” Arista clarified.

  “I know what he means.”

  “Elven masters would travel here from the world over to study and practice advanced Art. Still, this wasn’t just a school. The building itself is an enormous tool, like a giant furnace for a blacksmith, only in this case, the building works as a focusing element. The falls function as a source of power and the tower’s numerous spires are like the antennae on a grasshopper or the whiskers of a cat. They reach out into the world, sensing, feeling, drawing into this place the very essence of existence. It is like a giant lever and fulcrum, allowing a single artist to magnify their power almost beyond reason.”