The flask was forged of bronze, probably made by wood elves. Verdigris obfuscated the deranged face chiseled into the flask's side—some ancient god of the vine. She didn't care who it was. She cared only that in all the years she'd owned it, it had never failed to produce its potent drink. Once a bottomless flask to assuage her infinite shame, it was now a reservoir to fill the hole of Angul's absence.
After some food, she'd pull out the flask and continue the cycle, until death claimed her.
* * * * *
A crowd milled in front of the entrance of the Green Warrior Inn and Tavern. Her thirst had grown desperate as she'd walked, and she scowled when she considered there might be some kind of delay in quenching it.
A crash, and an unkempt but hearty dwarf came hurtling through the front door. He screamed some consonant-laden phrase as he regained his feet and charged back into the inn.
More yells, the sound of breaking crockery and splintering wood; she recognized the telltale signs. This early? The crowd must have carried over from a particularly hard-drinking night, but...
She sidled up to a swaying man at the edge of the gathering who stank of fish and grease. She doubted she smelled any better considering how she had spent the night. "Who's fighting?"
The man, his skin a pallid yellow, slurred, "Crazy man come in this mornin' afore dawn. Talkin' to his blade the whole time. Arguing, like. Then he went after a couple women of the evening, like he wus' gon' cut them . . ."
A crash blotted out part of the man's stumbling story.
". . . so everyone tried stop 'im. He's in there, waving that blue sword around—"
"Angul?" she exclaimed. Kiril shoved the drunk aside. He fell, complaining loudly. She paid no mind as she pierced the mob and charged through the tavern's gaping entrance. Xet clamped painfully down on her shoulder, holding on through the bustle.
She saw Gage. And there . . . was Angul! Gage held the flaming sword in a scalded hand. The man whirled around like a marionette whose strings were snagged, brandishing the burning blade with jerky motions. The mob from outside spilled into the tavern, but only the most hardened and most drunk encircled Gage.
How had Gage managed to pick up her sword—why hadn't Angul fried him? By the look of Gage's naked hand, the blade had at least tried. And what lunacy was Gage up to now?
A bald man with a menacing tattoo branded on his scalp yelled, "We're tired of your performance, freak! Get out of here!" He hurled a wooden tankard. The sword twitched, but decided against deflecting the attack. The tankard struck Gage on his right shoulder. He grunted and yelled, obviously at the sword, "Defend me, or our deal is through!"
A moment later, he screeched as a flaming blue ember dripped from the blade, licking Gage's hand clutched on the hilt. But he didn't give up his grip. He probably couldn't. Kiril recognized Angul's methods—punishment was its first recourse against a balky wielder. Which had never before been anyone but her, from the moment Angul was first forged.
Kiril broke through the ring of people, said, "Gage!"
Her old acquaintance whirled. "Kiril! Thank the Queen of Air! Make it let go!"
"Make 'him,' " she corrected. She hated the blade, hated him . . . but hate couldn't blunt her dependence.
Kiril held out a hand. Gage presented the sword, hilt forward, trepidation on his face. Relief washed all else away when Gage easily relinquished his grip to her.
When her hands touched the hilt's leather wrappings, she began to cry and curse. "I missed you," she whispered. Angul's angry flames flickered out, and a sense of utter well-being descended over the elf swordswoman. She didn't fight it.
Gage stood rubbing his hands together, one gloved, the other bare, looking at woman and sword reunited. His brow creased with the weight of his conundrum.
* * * * *
In a private room at a different inn across town, Kiril and Gage shared a plate of olives and cheese. Xet perched near the door, annoying wait staff and customers in the outer chamber with its incessant tinkling. Or so Kiril assumed, though no one complained.
"And here's the strange thing," said Gage, continuing the story of finding her stolen blade and stealing it back.
"Yeah?"
"Sathra didn't crave the blade herself. She was in the employ of someone else who wanted it. Someone named 'Nangulis.' "
In mid-swallow, Kiril choked.
Shaking off her coughing fit, she demanded, "Who?" Her tone was incredulous and hoarse. "Did you say . . . ?"
"Nangulis. Do you know him?" Gage watched her coolly, appraising her response. Kiril was too astounded to notice.
"Yes. I do. I did—he's dead. It can't be Nangulis."
Now Gage was surprised. He shook his head and replied, "I'm . . . Sathra was certain it was someone named Nangulis. Could you be wrong?"
Shaking with barely restrained emotion, Kiril replied, "Impossible." She unstrapped her scabbard and put Angul, still in his sheath, on the table between them.
"I know it couldn't be who you name because all that remains of Nangulis is Angul."
Gage stared at her, uncomprehending. "I don't understand."
Kiril barely heard him—she replied, faintly, "Half of him, anyway. Half his soul, forged into this unbending, bastard blade."
Gage's eyes grew wide. "His soul?"
Kiril nodded. "It's what gives the blade such power—he is a living soul, trapped in steel forever."
"So, you knew Nangulis, before . . ."
"Nangulis and I were close. We would have been joined in marriage had our duty allowed. Those dreams are long dead. All I have left of him is Angul." She put her hand on the sheath, her eyes tight and shining with moisture.
"Which is why I can never give up this damned blade. He's not Nangulis, but he's the closest thing I'll ever find of my love. You've returned something I would have died without."
The thief looked startled, and somehow guilty. He began to speak, paused, began again. "Well, thank the Queen of Air I was able to bring back your most cherished possession."
Kiril nodded, but grimaced.
"You don't really seem that happy about it. Is it—"
"The story is not so tidy, sadly," interrupted Kiril. "I treasure Angul, but at the same time, the sword is killing my conscience; killed it, actually, soon after I came to wield him."
Gage started to speak, but stopped again, his head cocked. He fumbled out a few words then started over. "You're going to have to explain. I haven't the faintest conception what you're talking about."
Kiril sighed and rubbed her eyes. "Gage . . ."
"I'm listening."
"You deserve to hear about him, if you care to. I'll tell you how I came to wield Angul, what I once was . . . and the sins I've committed in the name of an unbending ideal." The moisture in her eyes broke into twin tracks down her cheeks.
"I'd like to hear about it," Gage responded, his voice soft. He moved his gloved hand from the table, out of view.
"Before Angul, before I wandered, fought, and drank so much, I was a different person. I was a dutiful servant of an ancient order—the Cerulean Sign. Heard of it?"
Gage shook his head.
"Would have surprised me if you had." Kiril scrubbed away the wetness on her cheeks. "The Cerulean Sign is a rune of power created when things were not as they are today. Before men, or even elves walked the world, when the continents were divided differently than now, entities strange and powerful fought. When the future was a toss-up between sanity and abomination."