Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [7]
And why had the thing called him Demascus …
“By all that’s holy and sovereign, who am I?”
CHAPTER TWO
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF THE SEA OF FALLEN STARS
THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
DROPLETS OF SWEAT BROKE ON HIS BROW, AND FEAR COILED so tight in his belly that he gasped.
Burning dominions, how was it possible he didn’t know who he was?
It was like he … it was like … he didn’t know what it was like! A hollow echoed behind his eyes, giving him nothing to compare his situation to, nothing to measure his anxiety by.
He numbered ten full breaths. Each successive mental digit was marginally comforting. Good. More; another ten. And another … and his heart rate came under his control. That was better.
So, what did he know?
First, he was passing fair in a fight, even when caught off guard and pretty much defenseless. That was reassuring.
Second, the creature from his memory had called him Demascus.
“Demascus,” he said aloud, testing the sound. The hard consonants had a faint tug of familiarity to them … Or the familiarity was just a lie he was telling himself in order to smooth over a bad situation. If so, well … good enough for the moment.
“Demascus!” he repeated, this time yelling it so loud his voice cracked.
One of the corpses, a tall genasi with bluish skin, stirred and opened his eyes.
By the gods, a survivor!
The genasi fixed him with a glazed look. He whispered, “Who’re you?”
“Don’t you know me? You brought me here!”
The genasi blinked in confusion or pain, then groaned.
Demascus helped the genasi to sit, and said, “You hauled me here as some kind of sacrifice and in the process, you messed with my memory. Why? Who are you?”
The survivor said, his voice breathy, “I … have no idea who you are.”
“Don’t play games with me. I’ve had a hard morning and I’m on the edge.” Demascus resisted the urge to shake the genasi. A warning voice of conscience whispered something about attracting more flies with honey than vinegar. He settled for asking, “What happened up here?”
The genasi’s head lolled around to take in the carnage. His eyes widened. He screamed, “The Eye! The dreams, they find me even now!”
“Eye? What do you mean?”
“You …”
“Yes?”
The genasi went limp in his hands. It was horribly similar to how the priest he’d strangled had gone loose and heavy when he’d died.
“Oh, come on!”
Demascus felt for a pulse on the genasi’s neck to be sure. Nothing. The man’s body was already cooling. He’d been barely alive in the first place.
Grief, some for the the survivor, some for himself, bent his head until his chin rested on his chest.
He could do nothing. Time seemed to teeter on the edge of stopping. He’d found someone who might have been able to explain the situation, only to have that person die right in front of him, like a slap in the face from Fate. Leaving him with a name he wasn’t even sure was his, a cursed memory, and a dead man’s clothes.
On the other hand, unlike the corpse lying at his feet, he also had his life. That was something.
He raised his chin from his chest. Enough feeling sorry for himself. He closed the man’s lids with a brush of two fingers. The only thing that will accomplish is wasting time.
“I commend your soul to … Kelemvor the Judge,” he said. “May you find peace in what lies beyond …” He stumbled to a stop. He wasn’t really sure what he was saying. The words sounded right, but who exactly was Kelemvor?
He was obviously damaged in some fundamental fashion.
He shook his head. Old news.
Morning light poured like golden honey across the grisly scene, and despite everything, his spirits couldn’t help but rise. Finally, he could see what he was doing. He made a thorough search of the remaining corpses. No pocket was too small to escape his scrutiny.
Demascus muttered a few words of benediction over each body after he finished going through its possessions. Better not to assume anything; maybe these genasi had shown up to save him, rather than sacrifice him in some demonic deal. Though, if he were a betting man, he wouldn