Theft of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “It worked!” Tobis shouted, as much in shock as in triumph, from the far side of the hill.

  Hadrian saw his opportunity and, spinning around, charged the monster. As he did, he noticed Theron following him.

  “I told you to take Thrace and run,” Hadrian yelled.

  “You looked like you needed help,” Theron shouted back, “and I told Thrace to head for the well.”

  “What makes you think she will listen to you any more than you listen to me?”

  Hadrian reached where the Gilarabrywn lay on its side thrashing about wildly, and dove at its head. He found its open eye and attacked, stabbing repeatedly. With a terrible scream, the beast raked back with its legs, ripping the net open, and rolled to its feet again.

  Hadrian, so intent on blinding the beast, had stepped on the netting. When the monster rose, Hadrian’s feet went out from under him. He fell flat on his back, the air knocked from his lungs.

  Blind, the beast resorted to lashing out with its tail, sweeping it across the ground. Caught trying to stand up, Hadrian was struck by the blunt force of the tail.

  Hadrian rolled and tumbled like a rag doll, sliding across the ash until he stopped in a patch of dirt, where he lay unmoving. Freeing itself fully of the net, the beast sniffed the air and began moving toward the one who had caused it pain.

  “No!” Theron shouted, and charged. He ran for Hadrian, thinking he could drag him clear of the blind beast before it reached him, only the beast was too fast and reached Hadrian at the same time Theron did.

  Theron picked up a rock and drew forth the broken blade he still carried. He aimed for the exposed creature’s side and, using the rock as a hammer, drove the metal home like a nail.

  This stopped the Gilarabrywn from killing Hadrian, but the beast did not cry out as it had when Hadrian had stabbed it. Instead, it turned and laughed. Theron struck the blade with the rock again, forcing the metal deep, but still the beast did not cry out. It spoke to him, but Theron could not understand the words. Then, having little trouble guessing where the farmer stood, the Gilarabrywn swiped at him with his claw.

  Theron did not have the speed or agility that Hadrian had. Strong as he was for his age, his old body could not move clear of the blow in time, and the great nails of the beast stabbed into him like four swords.

  “Daddy!” Thrace screamed, running to him. She scrambled up the slope, crying as she came.

  From their blind, Tobis and the dwarf fired a rock at the Gilarabrywn and managed to hit its tail. The beast spun and charged furiously in their direction.

  Falling to her hands and knees, Thrace crawled to Theron’s side and found her father lying broken on the hill. His left arm lay twisted backward, his foot facing the wrong direction. His chest was soaked in dark blood and his breath hitched as his body convulsed.

  “Thrace,” he managed to say weakly.

  “Daddy,” she cried as she cradled him in her arms.

  “Thrace,” he said again, gripping her with his remaining hand and pulling her close. “I’m so—” His eyes closed tightly in pain. “I’m so—pr—proud of you.”

  “Oh god, Daddy. No. No. No!” she cried, shaking her head.

  She held him, squeezing as hard as she could, trying by the force of her arms to keep him with her. She would not let him go. She could not; he was all there was. She sobbed and wailed, clutching his shirt, kissing his cheek and forehead, and as she held him, she felt her father pass away into the night.

  Theron Wood died on the scorched ground in a pool of blood and dirt. As he did, the last tiny remnant of hope Thrace had held on to—the last foothold she had in the world—died with him.

  There was a darkness of night, a darkness of senses, and a darkness of spirit. Thrace felt herself drowning in all three. Her father was dead. Her light, her hope, her last dream, they had all died with his last breath. Nothing remained upon the world that it had not taken from her.

  It had killed her mother.

  It had killed her brother, his wife, and her nephew.

  It had killed Daniel Hall and Jessie Caswell.

  It had burned her village.

  It had killed her father.

  Thrace raised her head and looked across the hill at it.

  No one who had been attacked had ever lived. There were never any survivors.

  She stood and began to walk forward slowly. She reached into the robe and pulled out the sword that had remained hidden there.

  The beast found the catapult and shattered it. It turned and blindly began to search its way back down the hillside, sniffing. It did not notice the young girl.

  The thick layer of ash that it had created quieted her steps.

  “No, Thrace!” Tomas shouted at her. “Run away!”

  The Gilarabrywn paused and sniffed at the sound of the shout, sensing danger but unable to determine its source. It tried to look in the direction of the voice.

  “No, Thrace—don’t!”

  Thrace ignored the cleric. She had passed beyond hearing, beyond seeing, beyond thinking. She was no longer on the hill. She was no longer in Dahlgren, but rather in a tunnel, a narrow tunnel that led inescapably to only one destination … it.

  It kills people. That’s what it does.

  The beast sniffed the air. She could tell it was trying to find her; it was searching for the smell of fear it created in its victims.

  She had no fear. It had destroyed that too.

  Now she was invisible.

  Without hesitation, fear, question, or regret, Thrace quietly walked up to the towering monster. She gripped the elven sword in both hands and raised it above her head. Putting the full weight of her small body into it, she thrust the broken sword into the Gilarabrywn’s body. She did not have to put so much effort into it; the blade slipped in easily.

  The beast shrieked in mortal fear and confusion.

  It turned, recoiling, but it was already too late. The sword penetrated all the way to the hilt. The essence that was the Gilarabrywn and the forces that bound it shattered. With the snapping of the bonds that held it fast, the world reclaimed the energy in a sudden violent outburst. The eruption of force threw Thrace and Tomas to the ground. The shock wave continued down the hill, radiating out in all directions, beyond the burnt desolation to the forest, launching flocks of birds into the night.

  Dazed, Tomas staggered to his feet and approached the small slender figure of Thrace Wood at the center of a cleared depression, where the great Gilarabrywn had once been. He walked forward in awe and fell prostrate on his knees before the girl.

  “Your Imperial Majesty,” was all he said.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE HEIR OF NOVRON

  The sun rose brightly over the Nidwalden River. The clouds had moved off and by midmorning the sky was clear and the air cooler than it had been. A light wind skimmed across the surface of the river, raising ripples, while the sun cast a brilliant gold face upon the water. A fish jumped above the surface and fell back with a plop. Overhead, birds sang morning songs and cicadas droned.

  Royce and Arista stood on the bank of the river, wringing water out of their clothes. Esrahaddon waited.

  “Nice robe,” the princess said.

  The wizard only smiled.

  Arista shivered as she looked out across the river. The trees on the far bank looked different than the ones on their side, a different species, perhaps. Arista thought they appeared prouder, straighter, with fewer lower branches and longer trunks. While the trees were impressive, there was no evidence of civilization.

  “How do we know they are over there?” Arista asked.

  “The elves?” Esrahaddon questioned.

  “I mean, no one has seen an elf”—she glanced at Royce—“a pure-blood elf—in centuries, right?”

  “They are there. Thousands of them by now, I should think. Tribes of the old names, with bloodlines that can be traced to the dawn of time. The Miralyith, masters of the Art; Asendwayr, the hunters; Nilyndd, the crafters; Eiliwi
n, the architects; Umalyn, the spiritualists; Gwydry, the shipwrights; and Instarya, the warriors. They are all still there, a congress of nations.”

  “Do they have cities? Like we do?”

  “Perhaps, but probably not like ours. There is a legend of a sacred place called Estramnadon. It is the holiest place in elven culture … at least that we humans know of. Estramnadon is said to be over there, deep in the forests. Some think it is their capital city and seat of their monarch; others speculate it is the sacred grove where the first tree—the tree planted by Muriel herself—still grows and is cared for by the Children of Ferrol. No one knows for certain. No human is likely ever to know, as the elves do not suffer the trespasses of others.”

  “Really?” The princess looked at the thief with a playful smirk. “Perhaps if I knew that before, I might have guessed Royce’s heritage sooner.”

  Royce ignored the comment and turned to the wizard. “Can I assume you’ll not be returning to the village?”

  Esrahaddon shook his head. “I need to leave before Luis Guy and his pack of hounds track me down. Besides, I have an heir to talk to and plans to make.”

  “Then this is goodbye. I need to get back.”

  “Remember to keep silent about what you saw in the tower—both of you.”

  “Funny, I expected the heir and his guardian to be unknown farm boys from someplace—well—like this, I suppose. Someone I never heard of.”

  “Life has a way of surprising you, doesn’t it?” Esrahaddon said.

  Royce nodded and started to head off.

  “Royce,” Esrahaddon said softly, stopping him, “we know that what happened last night wasn’t pleasant. You should prepare yourself for what you’re going to find.”

  “You think Hadrian’s dead,” Royce said flatly.

  “I would expect so. If he is, at least know that his death may have been the sacrifice that saved our world from destruction. And while that may not comfort you, I think we both know that it would have pleased Hadrian.”

  Royce thought a moment, nodded, then entered the trees and disappeared.

  “He’s definitely elvish,” Arista said, shaking her head and sitting down opposite Esrahaddon. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. You’ve grown a beard, I see.”

  “You just noticed?”

  “I noticed before, been kinda busy until now.”

  “I can’t really shave, can I? It wasn’t a problem while I was in Gutaria, but now—does it look all right?”

  “You have some gray coming in.”

  “I ought to. I am nine hundred years old.”

  She watched the wizard staring across the river.

  “You really should practice your art. You did well in there.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I can’t do it, not the way you taught me. I can do most of the things Arcadius demonstrated, but it’s a bit impossible to learn hand magic from a man without hands.”

  “You boiled water, and you made the prison guard sneeze. Remember?”

  “Yes, I’m a veritable sorceress, aren’t I?” she said sarcastically.

  He sighed. “What about the rain? Have you worked on that incantation any more?”

  “No, and I’m not going to. I am the Ambassador of Melengar now. I’ve put all that behind me. Given time, they may even forget I was tried for witchcraft.”

  “I see,” the wizard said, disappointed.

  The princess shivered in the morning chill and tried to run her fingers through her hair but caught them in tangles. Stains and wrinkles dotted her dress. “I’m a mess, aren’t I?”

  The wizard said nothing. He appeared to be thinking.

  “So,” she began, “what will you do when you find the heir?”

  Esrahaddon only stared at her.

  “Is it a secret?”

  “Why don’t you ask me what you really want to know, Arista?”

  She sat trying to look naïve and offered a slight smile. “I don’t understand.”

  “You aren’t sitting here shivering in a wet dress making small talk with me for nothing. You have an agenda.”

  “An agenda?” she asked, not at all convincingly, even for her own tastes. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You want to know if what the church told you about your father’s death is true or not. You think I used you as a pawn. You are wondering if I tricked you into being an unwitting accomplice to your own father’s death.”

  The act was over. She stared, stunned at the wizard’s bluntness, barely breathing. She did not speak but slowly nodded her head.

  “I suspected they might come after you because they are having trouble following me.”

  “Did you?” she asked, finding her voice. “Did you orchestrate my father’s death?”

  Esrahaddon let the silence hang between them a moment, then at last replied.

  “Yes, Arista. I did.”

  At first, the princess did not say a word. It did not seem possible that she had heard him correctly. Slowly her head began to shake back and forth in disbelief.

  “How …” she started. “How could you do that?”

  “Nothing I nor anyone else says can explain that to you—not now, at least. Perhaps someday you’ll understand.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes. She brushed them away and glared at the wizard.

  “Before you judge me completely, as I know you will, remember one thing. Right now, the Church of Nyphron is trying to persuade you that I am a demon, the very Apostle of Uberlin. You are likely thinking they are right. Before you damn me forever and run into the embrace of the Patriarch, ask yourself these questions. Who approved your entrance into Sheridan University? Who talked your disapproving father into letting you attend? How did you learn about me? How was it that you found your way to a hidden prison that only a handful of people knew existed? Why were you taught to use a gemstone lock, and isn’t it interesting that the very gem you used on your door was the same as the signet ring that unlocked the prison entrance? And how was it that a young girl, princess or not, was allowed to enter Gutaria Prison and leave unmolested not once, not twice, but repeatedly for months without her activities ever being questioned or reported back to her father the king?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Arista,” the wizard said, “sharks don’t eat seafood because they like it, but because chickens don’t swim. We all do the best we can with the tools we have, but at some point you have to ask yourself where the tools came from.”

  She stared at him. “You knew they would kill my father. You counted on it. You even knew they would eventually kill me and Alric, and yet you pretended to be my friend, my teacher.” Her face hardened. “School’s over.” She turned her back on him and walked away.

  When Royce reached the edge of the burnt forest, he spotted a series of colorful tents set up around the old village common. The tents displayed pennants of the Nyphron Church, and he could see several priests as well as imperial guards. Other figures moved slowly over the hill near the old castle grounds, but nowhere did he see anyone he knew.

  He kept to the cover of the trees when he caught the sound of a snapping twig not too far off. Slipping around, he quickly spotted Magnus crouched in the underbrush.

  The dwarf jumped in alarm and fell backward at his approach.

  “Relax,” Royce whispered, sitting down next to where the dwarf now lay, nervously watching the thief.

  Glancing down the slope, Royce realized that the dwarf had found an excellent position to watch the camp. They were on a rise behind a series of burnt trees where some of the underbrush had survived. Below, they had a perfect view of each of the tent openings, the makeshift horse corral, and the latrine. Royce guessed there were about thirty of them.

  “What are you still doing here?” Royce asked.

  “I was breaking a sword for your partner. But I’m leaving now.”

  “What happened?”

  “Huh? Oh, Theron and Fanen were killed.”

  Royce
nodded, showing no outward sign of surprise or grief.

  “Hadrian? Is he alive?”

  The dwarf nodded and went on to explain the events that had transpired that evening.

  “After it was dead, or dispelled, or whatever, Tomas and I checked on Hadrian. He was unconscious, but alive. We made him comfortable, covered him in a blanket, and put a lean-to over him, the Pickering kid, and that Melengarian soldier. Before dawn, Bishop Saldur and his crew returned, dragging two wagons with them. The way I figure it, either Guy reported what happened and he was coming back with help, or they heard it when the beastie died. They pulled in and, fast as rabbits, had these tents up and breakfast cooking. I spotted the sentinel in their ranks, so I hid up here. They moved Hadrian, Hilfred, and Mauvin into that white tent, and soon after, they put a guard on it.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Well, they sent a detail out to bury the dead. Most they buried on the hill up there near the castle, including Fanen, but Tomas made some big stink and they took Theron down the road to that last farm near the river and they buried him there.”

  “Perhaps you forgot to mention how you found my dagger?”

  “The Alverstone? I thought you had it.”

  “I do,” Royce said.

  Magnus reached for his boot and cursed.

  “When you investigated my background, you must have stumbled across the fact that I survived my youth by picking pockets.”

  “I remember something about that,” the dwarf growled.

  Royce pulled Alverstone from its sheath as he glared at the dwarf.

  “Look, I’m sorry about killing that damn king. It was just a job I was hired to do, okay? I wouldn’t have taken the job if it hadn’t required a uniquely challenging masonry effort. I’m not an assassin. I’m not even good enough to be considered a pathetic fighter. I’m an artisan. Truth be told, I specialize in weapons. That’s my first love, but all dwarves can cut stone, so I was hired to do the tower work; then the job got changed, and after half a year’s work, I was going to be stiffed if I didn’t knife the old man. In hindsight, I can see I should have refused, but I didn’t. I didn’t know anything about him. Maybe he was a bad king; maybe he deserved to die; Braga certainly thought so and he was the king’s brother-in-law. I try not to involve myself in human affairs, but I was caught up in this one. It’s not something I wanted; it’s not something I looked for; it just happened. And it’s not like someone else wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t.”