The Sword in the Stone - 2.2

“So, you’re telling me that I, a random woman who isn’t from here, am now absolute Monarch of this kingdom, because a sword ‘chose me?’” said Astrid, waving around said sword that had apparently ‘crowned her.’

After the surprisingly brief coronation of Astrid right there and then in the fairground, she, and Mishka upon Astrid’s insistence, had been whisked off through the city in a carriage. Crowds of people had cheered and thrown flowers at them as they’d rolled through the wide, slightly dirty streets, and the sheer scale of it all had made Mishka begin to suspect that it wasn’t a play after all.

After a whirlwind tour of the towering castle, which seemed to be guarded exclusively by armed members of the priesthood, they had ended up in a large and ornate, if rather primitive, study that had a wide balcony overlooking the city, and was part of Astrid’s ‘Royal Apartments.’ It had a large desk, a throne like chair, several lesser chairs across from that, and shelves stuffed with rough tomes and scrolls. There was also a map on the wall, which showed ‘The Kingdom of Strevenix’ as controlling a large swathe of a peninsula that jutted out from a larger continent into the ‘Sea of Naar.’

Queen Astrid Baxter-Griffiths the First, as she was now properly known, had been planted on the throne-like chair at a desk, and given a whole plethora of documents to stamp with her new signet ring. The priest guards hadn’t really been happy with Mishka’s presence, but Astrid had told them Mishka was her ‘Royal Magician.’ Mishka had tried to argue for ‘Court Wizard,’ which was at least somewhat accurate, but Astrid had said that if she was going to ‘insist on dressing like a magician, that was what she was going to be called.’

The ‘Sword of Kings’ was a little too long for the human woman, with a double edged, straight blade that ended in a sharp tip. It had an ornate cross-guard bedecked with jewels, an elegant handle wrapped in black leather, and a large, now glowing golden gem at one end.

“Yes, your majesty, that’s essentially correct,” said Clervis, the High Priest of the local religion, who seemed to have quite a bit of pull. He was a tall alven man with long white hair pulled into a severe bun, incredibly icy blue eyes, and a smooth, un-weathered face that on this world probably spoke of a relatively easy life.

“But that- that’s bananas!” said Astrid. “The ability or inability to pull swords from stones is no basis for a system of government!”

Mishka sort of agreed. It was bananas. This planet’s honey buns, on the other hand, were divine. She put another one in her mouth and chewed, savouring the sweet sticky goodness.

“The sword chose you,” said some ‘noble,’ ‘Duke Mandel Ferris,’ whose son –Mishka had checked– had been the first to try and pull out the sword. “That makes you Queen, your grace.”

The duke had sharp, aristocratic features, and was human. Unlike the High Priest, he had a few scars that looked like they might have come from a bladed weapon across one cheek and walked with a slight limp that spoke of an old injury.

“Not to put a damper on things,” said Mishka, licking her sticky fingers. “It’s admittedly quite a good piece of arteficing, but the sword is, in no way, sentient. I know what a Synthetic Intelligence Spirit feels like, and there isn’t one in that.”

“You are a wizard?” said Clervis, eyeing her uneasily.

“I’m Ursulan,” said Mishka.

There were a series of blank looks from the Duke and the High Priest. Huh, this world hadn’t heard of her people then? That was a relief. It was always nice to find somewhere that her people hadn’t once ravaged in their never-ending wars of, mostly, aggression.

“In terms you’d understand, yes – I am a wizard,” said Mishka.

The High Priest tensed slightly. “The Sword is a divine object,” said Clervis. “I do not doubt that to a… dabbler it would appear incomprehensible.” He sniffed. “But yes, the sword chose you, your majesty. That makes you, by divine right, Queen.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” said Astrid. “You said you do this every ‘one score winters’ – that’s twenty years, right? But you’re also a duke? How does that work? Why didn’t you take over the throne or whatever?”

“I have acted as reagent for the past twenty years, it is true, since the last king tragically perished in battle against the demon Baelgoroth,” said Duke Ferris, solemnly. “But his sacrifice protected this kingdom, and he will be remembered evermore in the Hall of Kings.”

“King, or, well, queen, is a title held only by those chosen by the Sword,” said Clervis. “The duke’s family has, in the past held it. I believe your House was founded, even, my good duke, by one of the greater monarchs? You were goat herders before that, I believe?”

The duke pursued his lips and forced a smile, although it came out as more of a grimace.

“And this ‘demon’ is returning?” said Mishka, making air-quotes with her slightly sticky fingers.

“Yes… Magician Mishka. He cannot be slain permanently, only banished for a time using the Sword of Kings,” said Clervis in a clipped tone. “An ancient curse that afflicts these lands.”

“Please, my Queen, these writs require your seal,” said the duke, proffering the stack of yellowed paper towards Astrid.

Astrid accepted the stack and glanced over the first page a few moments, before dropping it on the desk. “I’ll have a look later-”

“With respect, your majesty, there may not be a later,” said the duke, clearing his throat. “Baelgoroth will be here tomorrow afternoon, and-”

“Ah-hem,” said Clervis.

“Tomorrow afternoon!?” said Astrid in an alarmed voice. “What!? No one said that!”

“And although I am confident you will triumph, there is, um, strictly speaking, no guarantee you will survive the battle,” continued the duke nervously. “And we really do need these forms signed.”

“I can’t fight a demon!” said Astrid. “I’m an archaeologist!”

“Demons don’t exist, it’s probably just an energy life-form or something,” said Mishka, helpfully, grabbing another bun and tearing it apart so she could smear some more honey on it. The honey was really good here – none of the industrial pollutants in it that you found on more developed worlds. It was almost as good as the stuff that came from her people’s apiaries.

“Mishka!” protested Astrid.

“We really do need your seal, your highness,” said the duke, pushing the forms towards her.

“I said I’ll have a look later!” snapped Astrid.

“Well… ah, I may be able to advise you-” said the duke. “This land appropriation writ is of particular import to the realm…”

“Get out!” shouted Astrid, standing from her throne like chair and pointing at the door. “Out!”

“Your grace-” said the duke.

“The sword chose me,” said Astrid, her voice rising to an unusually high pitch. “Or do you doubt the magical pointy stick?”

The duke gulped and glanced between Astrid and Clervis. “No- no, of course not, your majesty!” he said.

“Then get out!” said Astrid, all but screaming. She was really getting into her new role, thought Mishka. Typical primitive, give them a taste of power and they turn into an autocrat.

The duke was clearly very unhappy to be dismissed, but he didn’t seem to have any option, and stalked off with what dignity he could muster.

“Do you have any more of these buns?” said Mishka, holding up her now empty plate towards one of the priest-guards. “I need them to, err, give Magicianly advice.”

“Mishka! Stop stuffing your face and help me!” said Astrid.

Mishka grumbled and lowered the dish. “Alright, so, this battle against this ‘demon’ – what is it really?”

“Really?” said Clervis. “What do you mean?”

“Demons aren’t real,” said Mishka, adopting a lecturing tone. “Is it some kind of alien? An energy being, maybe? Or perhaps a creature of the Beneath, like the Absence?”

“I… do not know of what you speak,” said Clervis. “But Baelgoroth is not of this world. He stands like giant man, twelve feet tall, but with red skin, horns, and baleful glowing eyes. A most terrible foe is he, and powerful.”

“Right, and he uses magic?” said Mishka.

“He is invulnerable to all but the Blade of Kings,” said Clervis. “And even that cannot permanently slay him, only drive him back.” He glanced at Astrid. “I do not wish to frighten you, my Queen, but it will be a difficult battle.”

“I- I don’t even know how to use a sword!” said Astrid, almost vibrating with anxiety and worry. “I told you; I’m an archaeologist!”

Clervis cleared his throat. “Then a, ah, particularly difficult battle, perhaps,” he said delicately.

Mishka hummed and brought out her magnifying glass, peering at the sword. It was true that it was magic, and the spells woven into it were quite complex and esoteric – so much so that she couldn’t immediately identify their purpose. Whoever had made it had gone to quite considerable lengths to hide how the underlying enchantments actually functioned. She could tell that it was strongly bound to something in the area, and could now see the connection to Astrid’s soul had grown from a tiny thread to a strong, ropey cord, but she couldn’t discern much beyond that. It certainly didn’t look like any kind of weapon enchantment she’d ever seen.

“Forgive me, my Queen, but it is late, and we have rituals to prepare for tomorrow,” said Clervis. “By your leave?”

“Yes, ok, fine,” said Astrid, rubbing her face.

The priest bowed and left the large study, the other guards following him a moment later, leaving Mishka and Astrid alone.

“Mishka, you’ve got to get me out of here!” said Astrid in a desperate whisper. “I don’t want to fight a demon!”

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“And abandon these people to Baelgoroth?” said Mishka, licking some honey off her plate. “Seems a bit cold.”

“Mishka!” said Astrid.

“Relax, we have a whole day to figure something out,” said Mishka. “That’s loads of time.” She cleared her throat. “Also, I don’t think running off would be a good idea. This sword is sort of… linked to you, and to that stone. I think. Taking you away from here might hurt, or even kill you.”

“What!?” screamed Astrid.

“Calm down, I said I’ll figure something out,” said Mishka.

“And if you don’t ‘figure something out?’” said Astrid, furiously. “What then? Will you kill it? I bet you know how to use a sword. And- and you can shoot lightning like it’s nothing!”

Mishka said nothing, and continued to study the sword.

“Mishka!?”

“I don’t use weapons,” said Mishka. “Or offensive magic.”

“You used that… metal exploding spell thing to trap the creature,” said Astrid.

“Yes, trap It – not kill It,” said Mishka. “I don’t kill.”

“You said you’re going to throw it into a black hole!” said Astrid.

“That won’t kill It – just hold It until this universe collapses into the Beneath itself,” said Mishka. “Put It back where It belongs. From Its perspective, virtually no time will pass, even. If it even perceives time as we do…”

“That seems a pretty arbitrary distinction,” said Astrid.

“Perhaps it is,” admitted Mishka.

“And, if your plan doesn’t work?” said Astrid. “I, what, just die?”

“I will trap this ‘Baelgoroth,’ or trick him, or figure out something else clever,” said Mishka. “But I do not use weapons, and I do not kill.”

Astrid crossed her arms and looked away. “Can’t help but wonder that if maybe you’d used all that power you apparently have, maybe more of my colleagues back on that asteroid might still be alive.”

“I did my best,” said Mishka softly.

Astrid turned back to give her a withering look. “When does pacifism become self-indulgence?” She stood from the desk, leaving the sword on it. “Can’t help but wonder if it were your life on the line… Just a thought. Goodnight, Magician.”

Mishka watched the blonde human go, and felt irritation spike within her. What did the primitive woman, barely more than a girl really, know of self-indulgence? She knew nothing about Mishka, who she was, or who she had been; why she had to have her rules, and why she didn’t break them.

Mishka raised her magnifying glass again and continued to inspect the sword’s enchantment, trying to find something that might begin let her understand the fiendishly complicated and in places contradictory magic woven into it.

An hour later, after fruitless searching, she gave up, putting her tool into her pocket and sitting back. Astrid had long ago gone to sleep in another room of the apartments, and Mishka could hear her gentle snoring ringing out in the night. No one had offered Mishka a place to sleep, but she didn’t mind. She’d slept twice in the past forty-eight hours; she’d be good for another few days.

Besides, she had a mystery to solve, and was on the clock. Astrid might be angry at her, quite unfairly, but that didn’t mean Mishka was going to abandon her to this ‘demon.’ Until Mishka got Astrid back to her home-world, she had a duty of care.

‘Demon’ – Mishka didn’t believe in demons. There were nasty and vengeful people, yes, but demon implied a kind of ontological evil, a core of darkness without anything redeemable. She refused to believe that any lifeform was beyond reasoning with, beyond redemption. She had to – otherwise, what would she be?

Perhaps creatures of the Beyond came close to evil, but they weren’t demons – just ancient, twisted forms of life from universes long since passed. This ‘Baelgoroth’ might be a denizen of the Beneath, which would explain why despite being repeatedly defeated he kept on returning. But that didn’t really fit with the ‘giant red alien’ description. Beneath monsters tended to be all fleshy and pustulant, with lots of tentacles and eyeballs and mouths lined with terrible teeth.

She couldn’t get anything from the sword. It was heavily magical, and looked too advanced to have been created on a world like this, but there was no obvious enchantment that would allow it to banish a specific creature like the story she’d heard from the High Priest. She probably wasn’t going to get any answers from it. At least, not without more of an idea of what exactly this Baelgoroth really was.

Which meant that she had to do some investigating.

The priests seemed to be the ones who knew about the ‘demon,’ so after wandering out into the chilly castle’s courtyard in the still night air and asking a few of the souls still awake at the late hour, she found herself beyond the walls on a road leading down a slight incline towards the city’s main temple. The centre of worship was a large, gothic stone-like structure of a vaguely square design, with spikey towers at each of the corners and a large dome in the middle. Its stained-glass windows were lit up, casting deep reds and oranges out into the night.

The front door was closed, but it was a simple cantrip to pick the lock, and Mishka carefully pushed it open. From inside, Mishka could hear chanting. She could also, with her mystic senses, feel magic churning and swirling within. Interesting, so the priests were also spellcasters of a kind? That wasn’t that unusual, particularly in especially primitive worlds that thought of magic as something divine, but it did beg the question why they needed someone else to fight a ‘demon’ with a magic sword.

“A Champion has been found; the time of awakening is nigh!” came a chorus of voices. “The Champion has been found; the time of awakening is nigh!”

Champion? Astrid, presumably. And awakening? The Demon appearing? That made sense.

Mishka tapped the heels together and slipped inside, her big stompy boots silent as a whisper on the stone flagstones.

The main hall of the temple was large, with a vaulted ceiling and ornately carved columns. The air inside the church was still and warm, filled with a heady, almost sulphurous incense that reminded her a bit of brimstone. Hundreds of candles lit up the altar at the far end, before which the priests were stood in a pentagram, chanting.

“A Champion has been found; the time of awakening is nigh!”

Mishka stuck to the shadows, edging around the room and peering at the various frescos and images of people battling what she assumed was Baelgoroth. They were all dressed in heavy plate armour, and each held the ‘Sword of Kings.’ In each picture, the sword was aglow with golden fire, shooting out in a searing beam of light at the demon and striking it in the heart. All of the paintings were actually remarkably consistent in that depiction, with little to no sign of any actual swordplay being involved.

“Hmm…” muttered Mishka, peering at the inscriptions beneath one of the paintings: ‘King Devrim Longshaw, 456-479.’ Twenty-six, young…”

She moved down the gallery. They all seemed to be very young, actually – all dead at an early age. One or two of them had made it longer, into their forties, but even on a primitive world like this a monarch should have sometimes lived into their sixties or seventies. But no, each and every one of them died either in either their twenties, or their forties. Which, if the ‘one score winters’ in between the demon’s appearance was to be trusted, meant that most died battling the demon the first time, with a few making it to the second.

So, fighting the demon was usually a death sentence, with an occasional twenty-year reprieve? That… wasn’t great. Although perhaps if she could figure out why it was such a death sentence, then she could avert it.

“What are you doing here, Magician?” came a sudden voice from her left. “How did you get in?”

Mishka yelped and nearly jumped out of her skin, turning to see a trio of red robed priests – all masculine looking – standing behind her with unamused looks of their faces. The foremost was Clervis, who looked exceptionally annoyed with her.

“Oh, hi,” said Mishka brightly. “The, err, door was unlocked-”

“No, it was not,” said Clervis.

“Well… yeah, it wasn’t,” said Mishka, rubbing the back of her head. “But, I mean, it wasn’t even warded-”

“Yes, it was.”

Had it been warded? She didn’t think it had been warded. Perhaps what counted as ‘warded’ here wasn’t enough to really notice…

Mishka cleared her through. “So… I was just, um, looking at these paintings?”

“The temple is not currently open to visitors,” said Clervis, his light blue, almost white eyes glinting in the candlelight. “We are preparing for the morrow.”

“Right, the morrow, the big battle against the demon Baelgoroth,” said Mishka. “I was hoping to find out a bit more about that.”

The priests looked at each other. “The Chosen King- Queen will battle Baelgoroth, and as all before his- her have, defeat the demon,” said Clervis.

“Right… just, I’m not super keen on her dying,” said Mishka. “It’s just, I said I’d get her home. I promised, you know. So, how do the ones who live survive?” She gestured to the paintings. “Or maybe the better question is, why do so many of them die?”

“The King’s battle is taxing, although all have triumphed, many perish soon after,” said Clervis carefully. “We honour their sacrifices, so this land may endure and prosper.”

“Yes, but why do they die?” said Mishka. “What kills them?”

“We do not know,” said Clervis just a tad too quickly.

Mishka smiled remained fixed, but her sensitive ears picked up the way his heartbeat quickened, and her nose caught a tang of sweat.

Liar.

“Someone must have asked this question before me,” said Mishka. “Do you have a library? Journals of previous priests I might look through?”

Clervis glanced at the others, before turning back to her. Mishka felt then tension in his body ratchet up a notch, and she could almost see the cogs turning in his mind.

“Yes, we do,” he said. “Normally they are closed to any outside our order. But, I suppose, since you are a royal appointment, we could make an exception.”

Another spike in heart rate. More sweat.

Liar, liar, liar!

“Barius, Lorian,” said Clervis, gesturing to a large reptilian figure with bright green scales and a stocky human with a face that looked like it had been hit with a mallet – and might have been, for all Mishka knew. “Please take the good Magician to see the, ahem, special archives in… the catacombs.”

The pair glanced between the High Priest and Mishka, before nodding their heads at what was quite obviously an unspoken signal. The pair beckoned her to follow.

“Oh, catacombs? I love a good catacomb,” said Mishka, following after them as they moved across the temple and towards a small doorway that led to a basement filled with crates and supplies. “Cat-a-comb – sounds funny in this language, doesn’t it?”

Mishka didn’t need to be a tactical genius, although she was, to know it was a trap. For whatever reason, the High Priest did not like her poking her nose into his business. There were a few reasons she could think of for that, some fairly mundane – petty primitive political squabbling and worry that she might have more influence over their new queen than him, to ones that were… more worrying for Astrid.

But even if it was a trap, Mishka needed more information. And the thing about people who thought they were about to secretly assassinate you was they tended to not be too worried about information security. Sources, in other words.

Besides, she did love rooting around in catacombs and forgotten subterranean caves.

***

“So, where are these archives?” said Mishka, picking her way through the tight tunnels, following the light of the torch that Barius, the reptilian priest, was holding in his scaly grip. “Far?”

They were somewhere beneath the temple, down half a dozen flights of stairs, past the interred, skeletal remains of various priests and deacons and bishops. The lower they went, the more ancient the tombs became, with the language of the inscriptions slowly becoming less and less and less legible to her translation symbiote.

The rock was sandstone, and the tunnels became rougher and more strewn with detritus the deeper they went. Cobwebs began to appear across the path, indicating that it had been quite some time since anyone had come this deep.

“A bit out of the way, eh?” said Mishka. “Why not put these archives near the surface?”

“Do you always ask so many questions?” growled Lorian from behind her.

“Yes, I do, something of a character flaw – or so I’ve been told,” said Mishka. “This sword, the ‘Sword of Kings,’ has it always been what chooses your royalty?”

She looked back at the Lorian, but the priest only glared at her with his sunken eyes.

“Since time immemorial,” said Barius in his gravelly reptilian voice from ahead of her.

“And do you know who made the sword?” pressed Mishka.

“We teach that the Gods themselves crafted the blade, to deliver mortal-kind from Baelgoroth,” said Barius.

“‘We teach,’” muttered Mishka under her breath. She stepped over what looked like a broken ursulanoid femur. “So, your order didn’t make the sword?” she asked.

“Not according to the ancient scrolls,” said Barius.

“Right, and these are the ancient scrolls you’re taking me to?” said Mishka. “In this ‘catacomb archive?’”

Barius chuckled. “Oh, yes, of course.”

“And do these ancient scrolls say anything about a king who survived more than two battles against this ‘demon?’” asked Mishka.

“I believe there was one, long ago,” said Barius. “Halvor the Great. He… bested mighty Baelgoroth thrice.”

“And has anyone ever lost against Baelgoroth?” asked Mishka.

The pair let out guffaws.

“Oh heavens, no. Blessedly, the Gods have seen fit to deliver us great… champions every twenty years,” said Barius, glancing back and revealing a shiny, sharp-toothed smile.

A magic sword and a terrible demon that lost every time? Yeah, Mishka didn’t think so. Even if they weren’t obviously leading her into a trap, this whole thing would have been supremely fishy.

The tunnel suddenly opened up into a wide, open space, and Barius came to a stop next to the edge of a precipitous drop away into nothingness. The orange light of the torch illuminated the gently curving walls to the left and right for some two dozen meters before they vanished into the dark. A few stalactites glinted in the gloom, and somewhere Mishka could hear the sound of rushing water – some kind of underground river, perhaps. There was also something else, far, far below. It glinted and sparkled in the reflected light of the torches.

Vaguely oval shape, even with her various visual enhancements it was difficult to make out what it was. Perhaps metal?

“Well now,” said Mishka, going and standing right on the edge of the precipice, peering at the object. “What is-”

Then something hard smacked into the back of her head, and she pitched forwards into darkness without a sound.