The Titan's Tome

by M. B. Schroeder

  A rmagon crept up to the meager campsite as the shadows of the night enveloped him. The summoning had pulled at him with something beyond magic, perhaps clerical. There was also a promise a mage would come who could open a portal back to the Hells and help him save DraKar. They’d gotten separated at the portal and only he had made it through. The portal had snapped shut, blocking the demons from following him. DraKar hadn’t followed.

  The ruins of a long forgotten tower lingered around the little flickering fire. Fingers of stone stood like sentinels around the circle of the foundation. A stooped, cloaked figure rhythmically swept a whetstone along a blade. The ring of the metal made it seem like the sword was singing to him, calling his name.

  It reminded him of Selien, humming songs in his ear as they danced.

  A chill that had nothing to do with the summer night made his wings tremble. The singing of the blade stopped, and the figure straightened. Armagon held his breath.

  “I know you’re there.”

  Armagon’s dark eyes narrowed, the feminine voice was familiar, but held a foreign resonance. His chest ached at her words, but he couldn’t understand why her voice struck him so intimately.

  “I was the one who summoned you here.”

  A silent snarl tugged at Armagon’s lips, but he left the cover of the trees. He let the shadows fall away and his eyes regained their yellow hue. The woman stood, her cloak rustling softly, still masking her figure. His fingers itched to pull his own sword free of its scabbard, his instincts alerting him to the danger she presented.

  Armagon stopped several feet away from the woman. “Who are you?”

  She turned slowly, the dark sword held point down before her, and lifted her head. The shadows of her hood still hid her face, but the flash of red, almond shaped eyes made him shift back a step. There was no flesh beneath her hood, no skin, no hint of hair. When she spoke again, her voice came from deep within the darkness the cloak veiled.

  “An old friend, Armagon. From before the Hells. Before we forgot who we were. But this,” she tilted the sword tip up to face the sky, “reminded me.”

  Her voice slithered to him, hinting at old memories, but he couldn’t reconcile what he was hearing with the thing that stood before him now. The sword beckoned to him as much as her voice, like he should know it.

  “You knew me as Sadria.”

  Armagon recoiled, taking two whole steps back, a snarling hiss of warning raked up from his throat. “No!”

  Sadria took a single step forward, but no legs moved beneath the cloak. Rather, she glided over the ground silently. “Yes, and you must listen to me!”

  Armagon resisted the urge to flee, to fly away into the night to get away from the wraith that faced him, and the desperation in her voice anchored him.

  Sadria had been an elf with dark tan skin to denote her forest elf heritage. She’d laughed often, her green eyes sparkling with mirth. Elven eyes, almond shaped, just like the pair facing him now. She’d been one of Selien’s closest friends and one of the few to not look at his love for Selien with scorn. She’d left the Hells with the others when DraKar had given himself for their safe exit. She should have been safe. This couldn’t be her.

  “Arkhed captured me, in Limbo, and … changed me.” Her red eyes flashed again at the mention of the twisted creature. “He sent me for this. To retrieve it from the ethereal realm where only the undead can walk. You know the name.”

  Even his mundane senses could feel the aura around the sword. The name came to him as easily as his own. “NecroKwar,” Armagon whispered. “Death’s blade.” He’d never seen it before, but in the depths of his soul he knew it.

  Sadria’s hood gave a slight nod. “I can feel him clawing at me, trying to regain control. But She will not let me fall into Arkhed’s thrall again.” Sadria took a gliding step closer to him, her voice dropping as desperation took hold. “I’m not the true wielder of Her blade, but if I relinquish it, Arkhed will have me again.” Her voice strained as she held out the sword to him. “Please, Armagon, help me. I can’t do this on my own.”

  Armagon swallowed, she couldn’t be asking him to destroy her, or what remained of her. All the stories had a common thread, if the sword did not accept the one who took it up, they would die as soon as they laid a hand on it. “To touch that sword would end me before I could do anything for you.”

  “Take it, please, there is no other way to free my soul.”

  Her pleading voice made a tight knot in his chest. Slowly, he reached out for the ebony hilt, her ghostly fingers glided over his, guiding his hand to close around it. Her grip was over his. So cold. She didn’t force his hand, but stayed with him as he pushed the sword forward.

  The blade slid through Sadria’s cloak, and he felt no resistance. Armagon couldn’t tell whether it was because of the changes Arkhed had forced on her, or the weapon’s power. Sadria made a soft sound, like a sigh, and her red eyes disappeared. The cloak fell onto the sword and split over the edge, as whatever had been left of her beneath it vanished, like a slip of smoke.

  Armagon took a shuddering breath and stared at the NecroKwar in his hand. It was light, balanced, and fit his grip better than any sword crafted for him. It not only accepted him, but had been waiting for him. His legs weakened, and he fell to his knees. The binding that reserved his soul for the Hells fell away. The pact was broken. Armagon rested his head against the smooth cross bar of the hilt.

  Selien’s voice spoke softly, whispering to him, but there were no words. For a fleeting moment, he questioned if this wasn’t some foul trick of the Hells. Perhaps he was going mad again? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d thought he’d heard her. There was only so much a mind could take after a hundred-thousand years in the Hells.

  Selien soothed him, comforted him, and assured him in a manner that left no more questions in his mind or heart. He could feel Her breath against his neck, Her fingers in his mane. He trembled and choked on a sob. He would not be without Her again. He clung to that, not caring that She wasn’t simply an elf. She had given him Her sword.

  Death’s voice resonated within his mind, echoed in his soul. “I’d never intended to be trapped in the Hells. I’d only taken on a mortal shell, with the help of my Sister, so I could sneak a fragment of myself into my Brother’s demesne. I’d had no intention of leaving this fragment of myself there.”

  She answered his question before it could fully form in his mind. “I stayed for you. To give you hope that someday you could free me. To give you something beyond yourself to fight for.” She dragged a soothing, ethereal hand through his mane. “It was not your fault.”

  Armagon choked on a sob and accepted Her comfort.

  “I had to find out what Arkhed and the archdevils were doing. They were trying to reach our swords. If mortal hands touched them, the binding keeping Shiatan asleep would break. Already, with just my sword in your hands, the binding loosens. The Alisande needs a wielder. The living must be given the Coin of Whispers. It is the key to the Maze.

  “You still have freewill. You must choose to serve me. I can imagine no one better to be my Champion.”

  Armagon spoke aloud, “I will be your Champion.”

  “We’d made a dam in the river of time by forging the swords with the Icren-Lords, but Arkhed has cracked it. If you can stop him, kill him, perhaps my Sister’s sword can remain hidden in the Maze and the binding will hold a little longer.

  “You will need DraKar. And to reach him, you will need help. It is only fitting that those who went with you to the Hells in the very beginning come to aid you now. Do not turn away help, Armagon. We will need them all in the end.”

  Selien’s voice penetrated his mind, “Arkhed must not wake the Dreamer.”

  Armagon woke with a gasp, his head lifting from the hilt of the sword. The sun warmed his dark wings, and he blinked into the light. He stared at the weapon in his grasp, black as the shadows he could wrap himself in, and the sun refused to reflect on it. Selien’s elve
n face was carved into the ebony crossbar where it bisected the hilt, and if he shifted the sword to the side, it appeared as though she was nothing more than a shrouded skull.

  He pressed her likeness to his head again, between his eyes. “I hear you.”

  Armagon waited by the remains of Sadria’s campfire. He found the sheath for the NecroKwar left on the ground in front of the stone she had been sitting on.

  It was midday when a silvery haired elf pushed some tree limbs aside and led his laden donkey toward the ruins. His spiked hair had been left to grow too long and was beginning to fall over. He muttered as a branch snagged at the sleeve of his black shirt, and brushed his hand at the gold and red patterned vest to sweep away leaves he was sure had scuffed his clothes.

  Armagon’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the elf. Though ancient, his face was smooth, elegant in the elven manner, only the slight droop of his tall, pointed ears gave any indication of his true age.

  The second elf who followed him was unknown to Armagon, and she wasn’t a pure elf. Her amethyst eyes hinted at dark elf blood, but her pale violet skin marked her as mixed race. Her raven black hair could have come from either race of elves. Her clothes were not made of the delicate silks and embroidery that her companion wore. She was dressed for travel, a simple tan cotton shirt, full-length leather breaches with well-worn boots, and a sword hung from her belt.

  Armagon stood as the pair broke into the clearing, the donkey led by the old elf startled and pulled back sharply as it noticed the sarpand. The elves settled the beast, and Armagon silently waited for them to turn and see him.

  The woman was the first to look up. She gave an alarmed cry, jumping back, upsetting the donkey again. The man turned to see what had troubled his traveling companion and gasped at the black sarpand.

  “Armagon?”

  Armagon couldn’t help the sneer that pulled back his lips before he drawled the elf’s name, “Golas.”

  Golas blinked his pale blue eyes, releasing a little of his magic to examine Armagon’s aura. It roiled, black smoke and oily tendrils swirled and plunged through the sarpand’s body, a halo of stark, white light silhouetted it. He’d never seen anything like it before. “You summoned me? But how? What do you want?”

  Armagon did his best to keep the growl throttled that was building in his chest. “I didn’t. Sadria summoned us.” He gestured at the woman behind him. “Send your whore home.”

  The woman’s eyes flashed with power, a yellow glow blazed from her sockets but quickly diminished. “I am not his whore!”

  Golas spun to face her, holding his hands up to try and keep peace between the two. “Wait, Camry! He turned back to Armagon. “Damn your eyes, look at her! She’s Varlec’s daughter.”

  Armagon stared at the woman for a moment and caught the features of her forest elf father, Selien’s younger brother, when she’d taken a mortal form. The thin nose, black hair, and sharply angled eyebrows, all marked her as having his blood. It made Armagon pause as he took in a rough breath.

  “Apologies,” he offered. He refocused on Golas. “But you should go home, child. This task is only meant for those left from our last journey together.”

  Golas looked at the armored sarpand skeptically. “What task? Sadria didn’t say. Where is she?”

  “Dead, Golas. I didn’t know you left her in Limbo after DraKar bargained for your safe escape.”

  Golas gaped at him. “I thought she’d died there!” He shook his head and brought his fists to his head in frustration. “I was called to come back here.” He waved his hands around frantically at the crumbling stones. “Camry came with me because her father had been called as well.”

  “But he’s been dead five years,” Camry added. “What is all of this about?”

  “Repaying a debt,” Armagon answered. “You opened that portal, Golas. You took us to the Hells, where Selien was killed. You forced DraKar and me to lose our memories, to grow up thinking we were a devil-sons. And you lost Sadria, to Arkhed, in Limbo.”

  Camry’s eyes widened as she realized who Armagon was from the few stories her father used to tell her about her Aunt Selien.

  “And now you are going to help me free DraKar.”

  Golas blustered, “I didn’t know what would happen.”

  Armagon’s rage burned through his patience, and his wings flared as he snarled, “You put the power to the portal. You should have thought where it might lead.”

  Camry edged back from the ferocity Armagon displayed. How could her aunt have loved such a feral creature? She hoped the sarpand wouldn’t lose all control and try to kill Golas.

  The old elf held his hands up warily, trying to calm Armagon. “Just start with what happened to Sadria.”

  The subject sobered Armagon from his anger, and a frown creased his scaled features. “What Arkhed changed her into,” he hesitated and glared into Golas’s eyes. “She asked me to free her. She gave me the sword that could unshackle her soul from the abomination she’d become.” He unsheathed the NecroKwar and held it horizontality before him.

  Golas cursed and stepped back, bumping into the side of the donkey, disturbing her grazing. The surge of power from the sword nearly blinded him as it was pulled from the sheath. The sight granted by his ability to wield magic, showed the aura of the sword, as though it were a living thing. But Golas had never seen the kind of stark power that made up the aura before. The blackness around the blade drew in energy, while a halo of bright light shimmered at the edge of the darkness.

  “What the Hells is that?”

  “Death’s sword,” Armagon explained and smoothly slid the weapon into its sheath.

  Golas blinked at the disappearance of the sword’s aura and he recaptured his magic, no longer wanting to see Armagon’s aura. He’d never heard of death having a sword, but he was willing to admit that there was some strange power held within the weapon.

  “You killed her?” Camry demanded. She didn’t understand why Golas was so awestruck, the sword had a wicked look to it, but she hadn’t noticed anything special about it. Even when Armagon called it ‘Death’s sword', she thought it came from some god promoting killing.

  Armagon ignored the question. “I need you to open another portal to the Hells, Golas. Then you’re going to help me free DraKar before we go to Limbo.” He pulled a dagger from his belt, the red crystalline blade sparked a sharp memory for Golas. It was the same one the brother’s had been given to seal their agreement with Asmodeus. Armagon threw the dagger at Golas’s feet, the blade buried into the soft earth, as the jeweled pommel seemed to glare up at the elf. “And you will promise with your blood.”

  Golas cursed and picked up the dagger. He’d never tried to help the brothers, too frightened, and sure there would be little left of them to rescue. Then the rumors began, bards sang of cursed sarpand, of a pair who were not blood kin, but called each other brother. He’d hoped they were just made up stories, not wanting to believe the two sarpand they’d left behind were responsible for the horrors told. That they were simply dark tales meant to frighten people at night and keep children from wandering away from their parents.

  As he stood looking down at the dagger though, Golas knew Armagon was right, he did have a debt to repay. He couldn’t ignore what he’d done any longer. Especially not with the sarpand standing before him, demanding his help.

  Golas rolled back his sleeve and made a quick cut on the back of his forearm with the dagger. Blood swelled along the slice and dripped to the ground.

  “I’ll help you,” Golas said.

  Camry snatched the blade from Golas’s hand and made a shallow cut at her wrist. “I’ll go too.”

  Armagon hissed in derision. “You’ve no stake in this.”

  “But my father did. DraKar sacrificed himself to get him out of the Hells. My aunt’s soul is safe because you offered your own,” Camry insisted. “And Golas is my only family now.”

  Armagon stalked over to her and Camry shied back. He snatched the dagger
from her hand, the blade nicking his palm, adding his own blood to the blend. “Foolish, child,” he snarled and turned away from her.

  “Maybe not so foolish,” Golas began hesitantly. “Camry is a channeler.”

  Armagon paused and turned back to the two, his eyes narrowed. “And she has control of the power?”

  Golas nodded. “When Varlec discovered she had the ability, he began training her to cope with it. Since he was a mentalist, he could tap her mind without the danger of her drawing in magic. Then he brought her to me, and together we trained her to control and use the magic she could draw into herself,” he glanced back at Camry, “and not drain the magic of my spells if she’s careful enough.”

  “I’m not going to blow up,” Camry huffed, crossing her arms.

  Armagon grunted and reevaluated his assessment of the elf. He’d never heard of a channeler living more than a few years, after the power developed during adolescence. They would often lose control of the magic they drew into themselves, and then, unable to contain it or use it fast enough, the channeler would come undone with a wild release of power. Killing themselves and anyone who had been too close. Not even demons dabbled with the power, unsure of when or how the subject would explode.

  “What of your mother?” Armagon asked.

  “She died giving birth to me.”

  Armagon sighed and nodded, letting the matter drop. There was likely nothing that would tempt the woman to stay. “Rest until tomorrow, then we’re going to Log Port.”

  “That city is cursed!” Golas protested.

  “It holds a portal to the Third plane of hell,” Armagon explained. “I need to send a message.”

  ***

  The Icren-Lord, Aerdoan, stirred in his chair. Death’s sword had been removed from the land of the undead. He’d almost interfered, the creature had been one of Arkhed’s after all, and he wouldn’t allow the Fallen to have the blade. She hadn’t returned to Limbo, and Aerdoan waited, curious of Death’s plan.

  He’d watched through his scrying pool as the wraith had handed over the NecroKwar to the black devil-son. The blade would have killed the devil-son if Death hadn’t wanted him to have it. Still, it disturbed him such a powerful relic would be turned over to one who’d been so corrupted by the Hells. Death had severed his binding to the Hells, but She couldn’t erase what thousands of years in them had done to her Champion.