Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [106]
Demascus dangled in a shadowed space, scanning for his nemesis. Kalkan wasn’t there. Or if he was, he was hiding. He wondered if Kalkan had lit the candles, or if they simply had magically burned alone and untended for years in silence.
The mausoleum floor was dominated by a shallow pool. Clear water revealed several fish skeletons lying still on the bottom. Demascus half expected to see them flit around beneath the surface.
A tunnel mouth provided an exit from the funerary space in one wall. Opposite it, across the pool, a massive sarcophagus crouched. The wan candle’s magical light silhouetted it, giving the enigmatic carvings a stuttering life sketched out in flickers.
Except for the sound of his own breath and heart, it was noiseless. The stone tomb was his own. Seeing it, his earlier resolve to get his sword and more of his memories faltered. Demascus felt frozen in the utter quiet like a fly in amber.
“Well?” came Riltana’s voice down the hole in the ceiling, shattering the silence with a riot of echoes. “What do you see?”
“A sarcophagus!” he called back up. He let go of the rope and dropped to the floor next to the shallow pond. “Come down!”
The sound of rushing wind preceded Riltana’s rapid descent. She landed, absorbing what would have been a fatal impact for him with a ringing slap of boot heels on stone.
“Show-off,” he said. Riltana shrugged. Her eyes were fastened on the stone coffin.
The dangling rope jerked, and Chant slid down it with practiced ease. Demascus would have been impressed if he hadn’t just seen the windsoul drop fifty feet.
He approached the sarcophagus. The designs were so thick that newer symbols overlaid older etchings. Gauntlets, shields, leaves, orbs, eyes, stars, anvils, skulls, moons …
“These are all symbols of the gods!” he said.
“They might be,” said Chant. “But if they are, I don’t recognize half of them. Like this one.”
The pawnbroker pointed to a symbol that might have been a raven’s head. “Or this.” His finger moved to a symbol that looked sort of like a stylized eye.
“There are more worlds than just Toril,” Demascus said. “And more gods too.”
“What do you mean?” said Riltana.
“I can’t quite put it in words … I just know that all these symbols are legitimate divinities, somewhere.”
“Amazing,” said Chant.
Riltana said, “What about this?” The thief pointed to several lines inscribed on the stone face.
Chant read, “ ‘Agent of Fate, Emissary of Divine Judgment, Cutter of Destiny’s Thread. You died as you lived, and will live again. Demascus, Sword of the Gods.’ Sharkbite! Does—”
“Let’s stop wasting time. Help me get this gods-cursed thing open!” Demascus said. He put his shoulder to one side of the stone lid and heaved.
“Wait,” said Chant. “We should check for traps.”
Demascus repositioned his feet, and pushed harder. The stone groaned its displeasure as the heavy lid slid three inches, revealing a sliver of darkness.
“No traps,” he said, and pushed again. The lid slid farther open, revealing a cavity two handspans wide.
Chant and Riltana bent to help. The next heave pushed the lid nearly all the way off.
The Veil, wrapped around his arm, took light. Its glow revealed a body nestled in the square cavity. Funerary wrappings swaddled it, and it was shrunken with decomposition. A smell like dried daisies dusted the air. They all gazed into the sarcophagus for a handful of heartbeats. Demascus felt not the least stir of recognition. It couldn’t possibly be the previous version of himself.
“Well?” said Riltana.
“It … It’s just a dead body,” Demascus said. “Less than that—rags and dust. It could be anybody.” He hadn’t expected this sad display. Disappointment hollowed his chest. No rings adorned the corpse, and—
“Get the sword,” said Riltana, peering over his shoulder.
He’d missed it at first; a huge blade did lay along the side of the wrapped remains, but was covered in a fine layer of silver-gray dust.
Demascus reached in, then pulled the greatsword from the tomb. It was nearly as long as two normal blades laid end to end.
The weapon quivered, shaking the dust