Mark Del Franco - Undone Deeds

Briallen went to the kitchen sink and rinsed her mug. She stared out the window above the sink. “I never intended anything bad to happen.”

“How do I use this sword?” I asked.

She kept her back to me. “You’ll have to figure that out yourself.”

I picked up the blade and shoved it back in my boot. “You know what? I was angry at that old man upstairs for ignoring me after my accident. Now, I’m kinda glad he did. Thanks for nothing, Briallen.”

I left the house pretty steamed. Briallen had dumped the sword on me. I didn’t ask for it, and now that I had an ominous warning from a dead dwarf who saw the future, she wanted to let the Wheel of the World decide what I should know.

Despite Meryl’s advice to take a break, I couldn’t. It was literally impossible when I was carrying around a dark mass and a faith stone in my head. It wasn’t like I could turn them off and think about them some other time. They were always there—unavoidable, unignorable, and uninvited.

Brokke said that the appearance of the stone, the spear, and the sword were signs of a coming cataclysm. He hinted that one more element needed to appear but hadn’t. It had, but he didn’t know about it. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that another stone ward I had hidden—a stone bowl that produced more essence than it absorbed—was part of the package. Somehow, these things had gravitated to me. I needed to understand them.

Back in the Weird, I picked my way over fallen debris on Calvin Place like a cat walking on a wet floor. Public works trucks couldn’t make it through the narrow lane without scraping the walls of the adjacent buildings, and the people who owned the buildings cared little whether the hazardous stretch inconvenienced anyone. It was an old road, one block long, from a time when horse-pulled carts serviced Boston businesses. Only one occupied storefront had held on through years of change. The dilapidated sign across the length of the building was missing letters, and soot obscured the remaining ones. It didn’t matter in terms of finding the place. Everyone in the Weird knew BELGOR’S NOTIONS, POTIONS AND THEURGIC DEVICES.

The bell over the door rang with one dull clank. Heat wrapped itself around me, too much heat, the kind an ancient boiler the size of a trailer truck pumped into old building radiators. Why it was still on so late into spring, only the gods and absentee landlords knew. The dampness accentuated the smell of the store: moist dust, old incense, and the burnt-cinnamon tang of Belgor’s body odor. A murmur of voices drifted from the rear, where the counter and cash register were.

I lingered in an aisle, listening. Sensing pings touched me as the people in back checked to see who had entered. My essence didn’t intimidate or concern them, and they continued their conversational chatter, locals bumping into each other and shooting the shit to delay venturing back to work or whatever passed for work. At the end of the aisle, two brownies and a tall forest elf lounged near the soda case. Belgor sat next to the counter, his bulk threatening to make his stool disappear. He spared me a cursory glance, affecting disinterest, while he listened to the conversation.

I picked up a copy of the Weird Times , the neighborhood rag, and leaned against the wall to read about a rise in assaults along Old Northern Avenue. The police had no comment. An editorial implied that the crimes weren’t being investigated by the Boston P.D. or the Guild. Nothing new there. When priorities were made at either organization, things like the Weird fell to the bottom of the list.

The brownies griped about the ID lines at the police checkpoints at the Old Northern Avenue bridge into the city. They seemed to be some kind of service staffers for downtown hotels and faced the daily annoyance of starting out for work an hour early to account for security delays.

Belgor nodded and hummed as he listened, filing the trivia in his mental archive of all things Weird like a bloated spider sitting on a vast web of information, to be used for barter and gain. Sometimes he made money, and sometimes he saved his considerable skin. He always survived.

The customers bought lottery tickets and wandered out. Belgor’s eyes shifted within fat-folded lids, his long, pointed ears flexing down. We tolerated each other, our association based on needs we wished we could satisfy elsewhere.

“You should clear your sidewalk, Belgor. Someone might get hurt,” I said.

He folded thick arms over his ample stomach. “I do not have a sidewalk, Mr. Grey.”

He was right, technically. Calvin Place was too narrow to have sidewalks. I dropped the newspaper on the counter. “Kind of interesting.”

His eyes scanned the headlines. “Fighting has always been a way of life here.”

I turned the newspaper back to face me, pretending to read the article. “True. And death,” I said.

Belgor pumped his fleshy lips. “You more than anyone knows that.”

I wasn’t sure if that was a dig or not. “I have a question for you, Belgor. Actually, it’s your expertise I need to consult.”

Belgor rolled his wide expanse of shoulders. “I am a simple store merchant, Mr. Grey.”

“Can we cut the bullshit for once, Belgor? I need an answer on something, and if you know something, I’ll be out of here faster than this conversation is going.”

His ears flexed down and back. “And here I thought this was a social call from a dear old friend. What can I do for you?”

I leaned down and withdrew the dagger from my right boot and placed it on the counter. “What can you tell me about this?”

Belgor’s face smoothed in surprise, and his ears shot up. “Where did you get it?”

“That’s not important. I want to hear what you have to say without any context,” I said.

As he reached for the dagger, his hand trembled. A few runes etched in the blade lit with a cool blue light, and Belgor withdrew his hand. “A moment,” he said.

He maneuvered his large mass sideways behind the corner and ducked behind the curtain that led to his back room. He returned wearing an antique pair of jeweler’s glasses, a wired contraption that hooked around his ears. Thin metal arms jutted from the bridge and ended with polished lenses that hovered several inches from his eyes. He used a thick cloth embedded with glass to pick up the dagger. “It’s an old blade out of Faerie. The markings indicate it has passed through several hands.”

“Enchanted swords were a dime a dozen in Faerie,” I said.

“Not like this. There are ancient magics on this blade from more than one source. I do not recognize some of these runes,” Belgor said.

“Does it have a name?” I asked. Swords—important ones anyway—often had names in the deep past. They commemorated great battles or where they were fought, famous people who owned them or died. The dagger was hard to read. While runes covered parts of the blade and pommel, they seemed related to spells. I hadn’t been able to tease a name out.

Belgor hummed, tilting his head up and down to adjust his vision through the lenses. “I see many references to chaos and….” He frowned. “It is hard to say. The phrasing is old, like Old Elvish or even Gaelic. Break? Notch? Perhaps, a gap between two forces.”

“Gap?” I said. That’s the word Brokke had used when he spoke of the darkness within me. He called it the Gap that arose in the moment between the end and the beginning of the Wheel of the World.

Belgor shifted the blade and sighted down its length. “Perhaps. How did this come into your possession?”

“It was a gift, a loan of sorts,” I said. When Briallen had given it to me, I had sensed its age and value, and thought it was too much to accept. I took it on the condition I could give it back to her when I was done with it. I wasn’t sure I regretted that decision now, but it might not have been one of my best. I had no idea at the time that I was binding myself to the blade with a geasa—a form of taboo that would have ruinous consequences if I broke it.