Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [2]
“But not on Toril,” said Kalkan, and bared his fangs.
“No, not here,” the youth agreed. “Thanks to you, Kalkan Swordbreaker, and the oath you swore. But it galls, doesn’t it? Your new … hungers? Your acceptance of the gods’ appeal has transformed you into something bestial and fiendish.”
Kalkan growled, half in anger, but partly with desire that brought saliva to his mouth, even as that yearning sickened what remained of his former self. A self that diminished a little more each day. The reality of what the gods required of Kalkan still burned like acid. Unlike Demascus, Kalkan remembered each of his deaths. It was a side effect of his … change.
“The gods made me this,” he huffed, his voice like a hunting tiger’s growl.
“And they name me guilty of crimes I did not commit! Life’s not fair, Swordbreaker. But we don’t have to just accept it. We can strike back at the ones who’ve wronged us. I promise you this—turn Demascus to the dark, and our reward will be sweet vengeance against the gods, and more.”
Kalkan nodded. “Does this mean you’ve decided to stop leading me along and give me the aid you promised?” He was taking a chance in addressing the youth so impertinently. When he saw his companion’s eyes narrow, he figured he’d just crossed the line.
But instead of blasting him to nothingness, or worse, banishing him to a millennial prison in some forgotten cyst, the youth held out his hand palm up. On it lay a slender metallic disk attached to a leather strap.
“This,” said Kalkan’s companion, “is called a damos. Only a few remain from the time of their fashioning in ancient Imaskar. It produces a poison of uncommon virulence. Which is just a side effect. The residue that collects within the disk’s cavity is the condensation of the future, distilled by the mind of an entity or principle even I don’t fully comprehend. To taste of it is to see hours or days forward. To drink it is to hear the far future described to you by the Voice of Tomorrow—but taking that much is lethal poison to mortal and god alike. Nothing can survive it.”
Kalkan took the damos. It was cold against his finger pads, and rough. He met the youth’s eyes. Instead of irises, tiny black skulls stared out of each white orb. But he smiled at his patron. “Death is hardly a problem for someone like me. If the limits of this damos are as you describe—”
“It has no limits other than its user’s resistance to poison.”
Kalkan tapped the disk. It opened like a dilating eye, revealing a cavity filled with oily fluid. He dipped a claw into the reservoir, barely wetting it, then licked off the clinging beads. It tasted like blood.
His cheeks warmed and sweat broke through the fur on his brow. The mausoleum was blotted out by a roar of light and noise. His eyes fluttered, beyond his conscious control. He collapsed, his breath suddenly coming hard.
A whisper broke from the cacophony. It was a voice, just on the edge of incoherence. The voice spoke of the future.
And as his life dwindled to a cinder, Kalkan listened.
CHAPTER ONE
AKANÛL
THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
INFINITIES CROUCHED ON HIS CHEST, STONE-HEAVY AND black as a tomb. Nothingness spiraling forever overhead like a burned-out galaxy reflected in murky water.
Something inexplicable shifted. A thread glimmered, beckoning him to follow its endless coils across the darkness …
He drew in a breath and opened his eyes.
Naked branches scratched jagged lines across a ceiling of clouds and drifting earthmotes. Mist gathered in shoals, dribbling chill gray across the sky.
He squeezed his eyes shut, and opened them, counting: one, two, three …
He waited for the memory of his situation to occur to him like a bolt sliding home.
… and nothing.
What the Hells? he thought. Why am I sleeping outside? Only an idiot would camp in the open this time of year. Plus my bedroll is too hard.
More importantly, where was he? He couldn