Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

The blood of men has in it iron enough, for all who have seen it bled have seen it rust. But 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 of the Bloodblade, which was forged from the iron in the blood of a thousand slain.

Stories and legends paint the culprit of a great despot, perhaps a ruler of the City of Aauin before the Dead River had turned to salt. The Bloodblade had no special properties; it was mere cold iron. But the forging of the blade, which involved the despot bleeding his enemies to death one by one before handing the blood over to be rendered into pig iron, was said to have taken years and had quite an effect on the populace.

When the blade was done, the despot wore it by his side for a year and a day before his rule was ended. It is said that an assassin came upon him in his chambers, and the Bloodblade refused to be drawn. In the aftermath of the despot’s murder, it was found to be rusted into its scabbard. Was that a last vengeance from those whose blood had boiled into the blade, or simply the result of impurities in the process and a lack of care? The answer, it seems, lies at the bottom of the Dead River.

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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 tale of the Sword of Bronze, one of the city’s great heirlooms and jewels. Unlike most of the blades I have written on, it has been my pleasure to inspect the Sword of Brass with the Sultan’s permission, and I can report it to be a fine spatula of pre-Køs manufacture.

Bronze swords were, of course, common before the invention of steel, though few have survived. But the Sword of Bronze has, and it is all the more unique for another property it demonstrates: whether by some alloying unknown to those who yet live or a supernatural process, the polished surface of the sword is always a mirror shine and is never marked or dulled. I could not cause so much as a fingerprint to appear upon it, and neither chalk nor charcoal could make headway.

I was unable to confirm this fact, but the Sultan informs me that the one and only thing that can stain the Sword of Bronze is blood.

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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 what I know of the Silver Sword. Far from the horrors of its supposed golden cousin, the Silver Sword was said to have been simply a sword of pure silver, but somehow wright to be hard as steel and to keep a keen edge without alloying. It was said to cause wounds that would not heal to the evil and the inhuman, although what exactly falls into those categories is, in the sources I have consulted, a matter of much dispute.

What is clear is that the sword came into the hands of an inquisitor in Korton, in the ages before Køs, who planned to use it to root out heretics and evildoers by inflicting slight wounds upon them and watching to see if they healed. This endeavor was abandoned, and the sword removed from the record of history, when the inquisitor cut his own hand upon the blade, only to find that the wound would not heal.

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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 what I could find go the most coveted blade of all, and that which the Sultan is most keenly interested in. It is called the Midas Blade by some, after a half-forgotten fairy tale, but the Sultan always knew it as the Blade of Rule, for it is said to turn whatever it pierces into the purest gold in an instant.

Naturally, this instantly kills all living things so stabbed, but it also represents a source of untold riches. Chronicles and tales mention the blade, yes, but most repeat the same basic facts, often distorted. The clearest account seems to come from the annals of Le Gongzhi, who recorded that the blade came into the hands of a scholar with a remit to study it. Rather than being blinded by greed, as others might, the scholar tested the blade’s ability to stab things into gold. Would the sea, if stabbed, turn to gold? What of the land?

With funding from a wealthy patron, the scholar set off to a remote region to test his theories. It is said in Le’s account that some time later a great golden orb, exactly 1000 units wide, was seen sinking into a mire under its own weight. A subsequent expedition found only a great hole, but it seems that in conducting his experiments the scholar had stabbed the air around him, which had obligingly turned to gold and borne him downward in an ornate tomb that even the greatest emperor could scarcely have dreamt of.

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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 Scalding Blade or Steamsword. It is said that the metal of the blade would, upon immersion in water and the speaking of a certain command word, heat up to the point that it could cause water to steam and scald and boil. In response to my letter, the Archivist of Korton wrote that there is a tome in their collection detailing the blade’s many owners, all of whom used its scalding ability as a tool of war and assassination.

One man was boiled alive in his bath, the text asserts, while another was plied with water and then stabbed, causing a minor steam explosion. These owners, needless to say, met violent ends themselves. It is the final owner written of in the book that is of interest, though. It is said they were not a warrior but a village elder, and that they designed an enclosure for the blade such that it could heat the water of a small village. In so doing, contagion was removed by boiling, and the townsfolk there enjoyed hot running water until records cease.

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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 Filigreed, also called the Stiletto of Plenty or the Hospitable Blade. Any who owns the blade as the sun rises, having received it fairly and without trickery, is said to be rewarded with a sumptuous repast. Its story is tied up with that of its last owner, Xe Viang, who was gifted it by a favored uncle on his deathbed. Upon finding its legend to be true, and enjoying delicious food every morn, Viang is said to have become greedy and begun selling the meal, contenting herself with simpler fare of milk-sweetened rice. She found willing enough buyers, but the meal was only ever enough for one.

So Viang had a scholar from Korton draw up a contract granting ownership of the dagger jointly to every member of her clan, with the hope that a meal would appear before each of them every morning that could then be traded upon. The following dawn, something did appear of each of the blade’s new owners, but it was a hollow mockery of the prior feasts, dewormed, moldy, and inedible. That same morning, it is said, the blade wormed its way out of Viang’s grasp and into the waters of the great Seasonal River, carried downstream to be found by a more honest bearer.

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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 at the latter’s request a catalog of the fantastic weapons which have passed through the city in the hands of pilgrims. I start with the Ever-Waking Blade, also called the Sword of Nightmares. It is said that to strike another with the blade, even its flat or its scabbard, will deprive the one so struck of several hours of rest and instead convey them to the striker. In this way, one could in theory go without rest indefinitely.

But it is said that for every hour of rest gained in this way, another must be spent later in life, perhaps at death, and this late rest will be marked with horrifying nightmares such as make mortal men quake. One swordsman, related to me as Samuel of Norton, was said to have possessed the blade and lived as a mercenary with it. But, stricken with fever at the end of his life, he supposedly howled for days as nightmares from the dream beyond, the deepest dream, tormented him. After he died, a look of horror frozen upon his face, the blade is said to have passed to one Louis Osborn, and passes from our knowledge.

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“Good…GRAVY,” Dunder hissed. “Ms. Wright, that might be the best, most effective firebolt spell I’ve ever seen! Scratch that, that I’ve ever heard! It was so hot that the flame was invisible until impact! How the devil did you do that?”

“Old family trick,” Isis said.

“T-teach me how to do that, please,” Zachary muttered as his turn came. Isis pretended not to hear him as she moved to the back of the line.

Gorfin, the brownie who had been placing the balloons, appeared alongside her after placing the last one for Mr. Zachary. “Filled her with hydrogen, just like you said,” he whispered. “Almost worth it just to see old Dunder jump, but Ari said there’d be something in it for me.”

Isis pulled out a gold coin–one of her very last-and gave it to him. “Hopefully I only have to do this once,” she said.

“And how did you do it, lass?” Gorfin said. “Was real enough to set your sleeve on fire, at least.”

With a quick look around–everyone was watching Zachary flail about with tiny sparks, trying and failing to hit the balloon–Isis pulled back her sleeve. Rather than her dead yew wand, she had a small pistol in her hand, still smoking from the muzzle. The five other rounds of incendiary tracer .32 ACP that she’d loaded were still visible, their blue noses nestled in the cylinders.

“You’d think they’d have noticed,” Gorfin said. “These rich kids strike me as the kind who go duck hunting.”

“People see what they want to see,” said Isis with a shrug and a smile.

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“Come on, now,” Mr. Dunder said. “It’s the basis for all offensive spells. If you can’t master this, you can’t master any of them.”

Isis seemed to shrink into her robe.

“When I said she wasn’t very hot,” someone whispered behind her, “I didn’t think I was this right.”

Another: “Can she…can she not do it? I’ve been casting fireballs since kindergarten.”

“Okay then,” Dunder said. “Step aside, Ms. Wright. See me after class.”

“Mr. Dunder!” Isis barked. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did,” he sighed. “But yes, what is it?”

“I would rather you not see the wand motion I do for this. Can I cast the spell from my sleeve?”

“I…what?” Dunder said. “I mean, technically, yes, but why would you want to-”

A bright, sharp crack followed, and the balloon was vaporized in a puff of violent flame even as the students instinctively ducked and covered their ears. The reaction was so intense that one of Isis’s sleeves caught on fire, and she hurriedly patted it down before turning around and beaming, her academic robe still smoldering in the sunlight.

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“The deal was that you fudge the records to get me in, and help me in my search,” Isis replied. “I haven’t seen much help, now have I?”

“Ha!” Ari laughed. “Listen to you, negotiating like you’re Cyrus Ember himself with a wandworks to run. Haven’t helped you? You’re here, aren’t you? Hasn’t my girl in the records office fudged it up right and proper? Didn’t my friend in the principal’s office play along with your little crow earlier? And aren’t I here, now, not turning you over to that same Mr. Ember for infiltrating his precious exclusive little school with malice aforethought?”

Isis bit her lip. “I guess you’re right,” she muttered. “But I could use more help.”

“Aye, couldn’t we all?” said Ari. “But if Ember or Maxine or any one of them suspects I’m aiding you, I’ll be out of a job and perhaps banished from the material plane. You’re already asking a lot, and it’s gonna cost you to get more.”

Isis pulled out the gold coin and gave it to Air. “Here,” she said. “This should tide you over until you get your real payment.”

The brownie bit the coin, nodded, and tucked it into a fold of his vest. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“But when the actual gold comes, you owe me an extra favor. As you said, extra pay for extra work.”

“Did I, now?” said Ari. “Well, we’ll see about that when the payment actually gets here.”

“But we’re good for now?” said Isis.

“Yeah,” Ari said, after a pause. “We’re good for now. You’re lucky the idea of pulling a fast one on those stuffed-shirt slavedrivers is so hilarious.”

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