Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Cheese-sniffing dogs were a feature of many fine French fromagiers ever since Charles the Bald had retained a pair to help test his own cheeses for quality after narrowly avoiding illness from an improperly aged brie. Eventually, a number of cheese-sniffing dogs were bred throughout Europe, often by the same monks that made the cheeses. Roquefort was the most commonly dogged cheese, with many insisting as late as 1898 that they would only eat cheeses that bore the stamp of a master chien-fromage’s master.

When, in 1875, a French-style cheesemaker opened in Queensland, Australia, 24 Roquefort-sniffing mastiffs were imported from Europe. Due to a combination of mismanagement, unseasonable weather, and lack of experience, the cheesemaker shuttered after less than a year, turning the dogs loose. They quickly interbred with the local population of dingoes, creating a subpopulation that demonstrated the behavior of a European cheese-sniffing dog for several generations. As late as 1900, bulletins were posted for travelers warning them against bringing Roquefort cheese into the area, lest they attract the attention of the so-called “roquefort dingoes.”

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“I made my bouncers out of the spare parts,” said Dr. Recombinio. “Since you lack the wisdom to join me in my great work, they will see you on your way with a savage beating as a warning.”

At the snap of the old man’s arthritic fingers, I found myself beset by a beefy kangarangatang and a golden forearmadillo, who took me roughly in hand and dragged me away from the laboratory.

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I fear that I do not believe what I am about to write myself, but I must persist. I, Ad Dakhla, scribe and chronicler to the court of the Sultan of the City of Bronze, do here set down what I was told by the Sultan’s cousin Lady Ries Ib Reshi and the events that followed. Not long after our last encounter, she returned to her home in the Outer Districts. A letter arrived not long after, informing me that she had found a third sword, identical to the others, inside a long loaf of bread she had ordered for a feast. The baker insisted that there had been no such sword when the bread was cooked, roightly pointing out that the dough would have failed to properly rise and form around such an obstruction.

The Sultan, to whom I read the letter, believed that his cousin was on the edge of madness and feingning the discoveries. Lady Ries insisted that she was being targeted for assassination. Perhaps we will never know, because she vanished not long after the letter was sent. Four more swords like the ones she had discovered were found in her things, for a total of seven, but each was unlikely to have been put in place by her. One was baked into hundred-year-old walls, another was braided into a rope in a well, the third was inside a fattened cow slain for food, and the fourth was delicately woven into a silk cloth in the wardrobe of Lady Ries.

The Sultan has ordered my investigations to stop, for now, in light of these developments, so for now I close.

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The Sultan’s cousin, Lady Ries Ib Reshi, came to me once she knew I was writing of her island sword. I, Ad Dakhla, scribe and chronicler to the court of the Sultan of the City of Bronze, do here set down what Lady Ries told me. She had the occasion to visit one of her cousin’s mines not long after, the place high in the mountain where many of the ores needed for bronzes are found.

In the course of a tour, near the mine’s lowest depthe, she tripped and nearly fell on an item. An hour’s digging, and they found the source: a simple sword that was surrounded by bedrock, as it it had been formed there. Lady Ries showed me the weapon, and it indeed matched the one she had found on that island, both in form as well as impossibility. I was at a loss to explain it, as was she.

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I, Ad Dakhla, scribe and chronicler to the court of the Sultan of the City of Bronze, do here set down the story of a rather ordinary blade with an extraordinary tale. Many years ago, one of the Sultan’s cousins was shipwrecked upon the Silver Sea, though she was fortunate enough to reach the safety of a lifeboat rather than the icy waters claiming her. An island, now known to be one of the Slumbering Twelve, was her refuge for over a year until another ship saw her signal fire and made a rescue. But in that time, she discovered a sword buried up to its hilt in relatively fresh magma that could not have seeped up more than a few months before her arrival. There was no sign that humans had ever set foot on the island, and yet there it was: an ordinary blade where it ought not to have been. It took a month to chip it out, and she gave it to the Sultan as a curiosity upon her return. But the mystery of how it came to be there runs deep, far deeper than she knew.

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I, Ad Dakhla, scribe and chronicler to the court of the Sultan of the City of Bronze, do here set down a story of a sword that makes its wielder invincible. This blade has been known by many names and has appeared in many tales in the hands of many heroes, but the effect always seems to be the same: they are immune to any wounds while they hold it.

I had considered, in the course of my research, that these tale might all refer to the same blade, but it has appeared in so many tales, and in such inconsistent detail, that it is impossible to be sure. The Sultan is of the opinion that it is a single item, cast down from fabled Vloles upon the Dreaming Moon when mortals are in need of shaking up; that the blade only appears in times of great uncertainty does indeed argue in favor of this theory.

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We all know of many ailments that can take a life, but there are but a few which can fatally undermine a person’s strength while leaving them outwardly untouched. I, Ad Dakhla, scribe and chronicler to the court of the Sultan of the City of Bronze, do here set down what I have learned about one such ailment, caused by a magicked sword in the Sultan’s possession.

It imparts a keen sense of swordsmanship to any who holds it, and even I, no warrior nor the son of a warrior, was able to easily deflect mock blows from the Sultan’s guard. Yet even as I did I felt weak as a kitten, and the slight nick I recieved from the blade bled for hours like a hemophiliac’s wound. I had only held the sword for a few minutes, and it had already rendered me in such delicate health that I took a week to recover.

But in those few minutes, I believe I could easily have bested nearly any opponent in battle, even if any slight wound they had made upon my person would have ended me soon after.

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I, Ad Dakhla, scribe and chronicler to the court of the Sultan of the City of Bronze, do here set down the story of a sword which has appeared in several archives and stories – Greedbane. Said to be a most impressive weapon with obvious gold, silver, and jewels, it is nevertheless a deadly trap for any who bear it, for it saps their endurance and encumbers their body as a heavy burden might, bowing them under invisible weight and fatigue.

It is said that this blade is most often discovered in the clutch of a moldering skeleton, so potent is its ability. That some would rather die than give up such a prize suggests another enchantment as well, but without the actual weapon to examine I must rely only on heresay and legend.

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We are all familiar with the great geese that ply the coast of the Silver Sea, as aggressive as they are beautiful, and totally immune to the purgative effects of those waters. I, Ad Dakhla, scribe and chronicler to the court of the Sultan of the City of Bronze, do here set down a record of a nameless blade that had been cursed to attract those vicious birds to the location of its bearer, and to cause them to attack ceaselessly.

A volunteer from the Sultan’s guard demonstrated it this very afternoon, and it is hopeful that he will make a full recovery. It is a beautiful short sword, with a goose motif in its decorations as one might imagine, but I cannot comprehend why anyone would forge such a miserable object. The Sultan is of the opinion that it is a noble heirloom of goose-kind, one whose return that they desperately seek.

I myself believe that it is a prank in very poor taste by an artificier, perhaps the same one that cursed a magnificent sword to feel like a fetid river eel.

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I, Ad Dakhla, scribe and chronicler to the court of the Sultan of the City of Bronze, do here set down the story of the Goatherd’s Knife. It is said that a great blade, finely wrought and silvered, slipped from its handle and was found by a humble goatherd.

With a need to defend herself, she affixed the blade to the horn of a favored goat that had recently passed, to serve as a handle. She then carried the blade, carefully oiled and maintained, for ninety years until her death. Those years, it is said, have imbued the weapon with a supernatural ability to summon and herd goats, with the side effect of imparting a certain stubbornness as well.

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