Doom of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  “The priest here says he’s come to help you with some special project,” the guard said to the smith, each eyeing the other darkly.

  “You know … the special project, for Sharakan,” Saryon added, licking his dry lips. The sound of hammering from the back ceased. The catalyst saw Joram looking at him, his black eyes gleaming as red as the coals in the pit. “The project the young man Joran is working on …” Saryon’s voice gave out, his well of lies run dry.

  A smile twitched on the smith’s lips, but he only shrugged and said, “Aye, that project.” He made a gesture with a blackened hand. “Go on back, Father. Not you!” he ordered in a stern voice, glaring at the guard. The guard’s face flushed, but the smith lifted his gigantic hammer, holding it easily in one huge fist. With a muttered curse, the guard backed off. Turning on his heel, he headed up the street toward the house on the hill.

  “Better hurry, Father,” the smith said coolly. “There’s going to be trouble and you don’t want to be caught in the middle, I’ll wager.”

  The smith struck a horseshoe he was holding in his tongs a ringing blow with his hammer. Saryon, glancing at it, saw that the horseshoe was stone cold, already shaped and finished, in fact. The crowd of young men had reappeared, converging in front of the cavern entrance. Their numbers appeared to be growing.

  “Yes, thank you,” the catalyst said. “I — I’ll be quick.”

  Hardly able to hear himself think over the hammering, Saryon made his way through the clutter of the forge. Memories of last night assailed him. His gaze went involuntarily to the place on the floor where the warlocks bleeding body had rested —

  “Almin’s blood! What are you doing here?” Joram swore through clenched teeth. A red-hot, glowing spear-point lay on the anvil before him. He started to lift it with the tongs, to plunge it into a bucket of water. But Saryon stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  “I must talk to you, Joram!” he yelled over the sound of the smith’s hammer blows. “We are in danger!”

  “What? Have they discovered the body?”

  “No. Another danger. A more deadly one. I — You know that I was sent by … Bishop Vanya to … bring you back. I told you that, when I first came.”

  “Yes,” returned Joram, his heavy black brows coming together to form a thick black line across his face. “You told me — after Simkin had told me, but you told me.”

  Saryon flushed. “I know you don’t trust me, but … listen! Bishop Vanya has contacted me again. Don’t ask how, the means are magical.” The catalyst’s hand went to a pocket in his robes where he had secreted the darkstone. Taking hold of it, he clasped it reassuringly. “He demands that Blachloch and I bring you to the Font, you and the Darksword.”

  “Vanya knows about the Darksword?” Joram hissed. “You told —”

  “Not I!” Saryon gasped. “Blachloch! The wizard is — was — the Bishops agent — Duuk-tsarith. I don’t have time to explain everything now, Joram. The Bishop will soon find out that Blachloch is dead and that you killed him, using the darkstone. He will send the Duuk-tsarith here to apprehend you. He must, he fears the power of the Darksword —”

  “He wants the power of the Darksword,” Joram amended grimly.

  Saryon blinked; that was something he had not considered. “Perhaps,” he said, swallowing, his throat raw from the need to shout to be heard. “But we must leave, Joram! Every moment that passes, our danger grows!”

  “Our danger!” Joram smiled the half-smile that was nearer a twisted, bitter grimace. “You are in no danger, Catalyst! Why don’t you just hand me over to your Bishop?” He turned his head away from the catalyst’s intense gaze, thrusting the cooling spear-point back into the coals. “You’re afraid of me, after all. You’re afraid of the darkstone. It was my hand that killed Blachloch. You’re innocent of that.” Bringing the spear-point back out with his tongs, Joram rested it upon the anvil. For long moments, he stared at it, unseeing. “We’ll be going into the Outland,” he said, his voice so soft that Saryon had to lean close to hear above the pounding behind him. “You know the danger, the risks we’ll face. Especially since neither of us is powerful in magic. Why? Why do you want to go with me?”

  Joram returned to his work, keeping his face averted.

  Why indeed? Saryon asked himself, staring at the bent head; the strong shoulders, naked in the heat of the forge; the crisp, black hair that had fought loose of its braid and hung down in shining tendrils around the cold, stern young face. There was something in the voice…. Thick with fatigue, it was thick with fear. And something else — hope?

  Joram is afraid, Saryon realized. He plans to leave the village and he’s been trying to get up the courage to go into those strange, savage lands by himself.

  Who do I want to go with you, Joram? A burning lump formed in the catalysts throat, as though he had swallowed one of the hot coals. I could tell you that I held you once in my arms. I could tell you that you rested your small head upon my shoulder, that I rocked you to sleep. I could tell you that you are the Prince of Merilon, heir to the throne, and that I can prove it!

  But no, I cannot tell you that now. I don’t think I can ever tell you. With this dangerous knowledge and the bitter anger inside you, Joram, you would bring tragedy down upon all of us — your parents, the innocent people of Merilon …

  Saryon shuddered. No, he repeated. At least I will not be guilty of that sin! I will carry the secret to my death. Yet what other reason can I give to this young man? I want to go with you, Joram, because I care about you, what happens to you? How he would sneer at this …

  “I am going with you,” answered Saryon finally, “because I seek to regain my own faith. The Church once stood, for me, as strong as the mountain fastness of the Font. Now I see it crumbling, falling in deceit and greed. I told you that I could not go back to it. I meant that.”

  Joram turned from his work to face the catalyst. The dark eyes were cool and dispassionate, but Saryon saw a brief flicker of disappointment, a tiny flame of longing to hear something else that was quickly and coldly quenched. The look startled the catalyst, and he wished he’d said the words that had been in his heart. But the moment passed.

  “Very well, Catalyst,” Joram said coolly. “I think it’s a good idea you come with me anyway. I don’t trust you out of my sight. You know too much about the darkstone. Now go back to the cell. Leave me alone. I’ve got to get this finished.”

  Saryon sighed. Yes, he’d said the right thing. But how empty it felt. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out the small piece of darkstone. “One thing more. Can you set this in a mounting for me?” the catalyst asked Joram. “And fasten it to a chain so that I can wear it?”

  Surprised, Joram took the stone, looking from it to Saryon. The dark eyes were suddenly suspicious. “Why?”

  “I believe it will enable me to escape the Bishop’s attempt to contact me. It will absorb the magic.”

  Shrugging, Joram took it. “I’ll bring it to you when I return this afternoon.”

  “It must be soon!” Saryon said nervously. “Before this evening —”

  “Do not worry, Catalyst,” Joram interrupted. “By this evening, we will be long gone from this place. By the way,” he added casually, once again turning to his work, “did you find Mosiah?”

  “Yes, he is waiting at the prison, with Simkin.”

  “So, he didn’t leave….” Joram murmured to himself.

  “What?”

  “We’ll take him with us. And Simkin. Go tell them and start making ready.”

  “No! Not Simkin!” Saryon protested. “Mosiah, perhaps, but not —”

  “We’ll need magic-users like Simkin and Mosiah, Catalyst,” Joram interrupted coldly. “With you to give them Life, and my power with the Darksword, we might live through this yet.” He glanced up, dark eyes cold. “I hope that doesn’t disappoint you.”

  Without a word, Saryon turned from Joram and walked back to the front of the forge, carefully avoiding as he did so the
place on the floor where the warlock had died. Was that blood there? He fancied he could see a pool of it beneath a bucket, and quickly looked away.

  He would not be sorry to leave this place. Though he had come to like the people and understand their way of life, he could never overcome in his soul the repugnance he felt for the Dark Arts of Technology, the repugnance that had been bred in him over a lifetime. He knew of the perils of the Outland — or assumed he did — and thought naively that life among nature would be preferable to a life where man engineered nature.

  Where will we go? He didn’t know. Sharakan, perhaps — although they might be walking into the midst of a war. It didn’t matter. Anywhere would do — as long as it wasn’t Merilon.

  Yes, he would be glad to go, willing to face the perils of the Outland. But blessed Almin, Saryon thought glumly as he walked back to the prison house.

  Why Simkin?

  5

  Lying in a Manger

  “I was there. I saw the whole thing, and sink me,” said Simkin in hushed, awful tones, “if our Dark and Gloomy Friend didn’t plunge his shining sword straight into the warlock’s writhing body.”

  “Good for Joram,” Mosiah said grimly.

  “Well, actually not ‘shining sword,’” Simkin amended, producing an ornate, silver-framed looking glass from the air with a gesture of his hand. Holding it up, he examined his face, meticulously smoothing his soft brown beard with his fingers and deftly twirling the ends of his mustache. “Actually, that swords the ugliest thing I’ve seen, not counting the Marchioness of Black-borough’s fourth child. Of course, the Marchioness herself is no prize. Everyone who knows her knows that the nose she wears at night is not the same nose that she starts out with in the morning.”

  “What –”

  “It’s never the same nose twice, you see. She’s not very skilled in magic. It’s been rumored that she’s Dead, but that could never be proved, and then her husband is such a frightfully good friend of the Emperors. And if she would just take a bit of time, who knows? She might get the nose right.

  “Simkin, I —”

  “Still, I don’t understand why she persists in having children, particularly ugly children. ‘There ought to be a law against it,’ I suggested to the Empress, who quite agreed with me.”

  “What does the sword look like?” Mosiah managed to insert the sentence as Simkin paused for breath.

  “Sword?” Simkin looked at him vaguely. “Oh, yes. Joram’s sword, the ‘Darksword,’ as he calls it. Quite aptly, too, I might add. What does it look like?” The young man pondered, first sending the looking glass away with a snap of his fingers. “Let me think. By the way, do you like my ensemble? I prefer it to the black. I call it Blood and Gore in honor of the dear departed.”

  Mosiah glanced at the blood-red breeches, purple coat, and red satin vest in disgust and nodded.

  Adjusting the lace at his wrist — lace that was splotched with red spots, for “that splatter effect” —- Simkin sat down upon the cot in the prison house, crossing his well-shaped legs to show off his purple hose to their best advantage.

  “The sword,” he continued, “looks like a man.”

  “No!” Mosiah scoffed.

  “Yes, Almin’s truth,” Simkin averred, offended. “A man of iron. A skinny man of iron, mind you, but a man nonetheless. Like so …” Rising to his feet, Simkin stood stiffly upright, his ankles together, his arms thrown straight out to either side. “My neck is the handle,” he said, stretching his scrawny throat to its utmost. “It has a knob o. top for a head.”

  “You’re the one with a knob for a head!” Mosiah snorted.

  “Take a look at it, if you don’t believe me,” Simkin said, collapsing suddenly upon the cot. He yawned. “It’s under the mattress, wrapped like a babe in swaddling clothes.”

  Mosiah’s gaze went to the bed, his hands twitched. “No, I couldn’t,” he said after a moment.

  “Suit yourself.” Simkin shrugged. “I wonder if they’ve discovered the body yet. And do you think this is too gaudy for the funeral?”

  “What powers did you say the Darksword had?” Mosiah asked, his eyes fixed in fascination upon the bed. Slowly he rose to his feet, crossed the room, and came to stand beside the cot, though he did not venture to touch the mattress. “What did it do to Blachloch?”

  “Let me recall,” Simkin said languidly, lying down on the cot and putting his arms underneath his head. Staring at his shoes, he frowned and experimentally changed their color from red to purple. “You must realize it was a bit difficult for me to see, situated as I was, hanging from the wall by one wretched nail. I thought about becoming a bucket, they have such better vision than tongs, you know. When I’m tongs, one eye generally gets located on each side. It gives a wide range, but I can’t see a thing in the middle. Buckets, on the other hand —”

  “Oh, just get on with it!” Mosiah snapped impatiently.

  Simkin sniffed and changed his shoes back to red again. “Our Hated and Ruthless Leader was casting a Green Venom spell upon our friend — Ever see that spell in action, by the way?” Simkin asked casually. “Does nasty things to your nervous system. Paralyzes, causes excruciating pain —”

  “Poor Joram,” said Mosiah softly.

  “Yes, poor Joram,” Simkin repeated slowly. “He was about done for, Mosiah.” The bantering voice was suddenly serious. “I really thought it was all over. Then I noticed the strangest thing. The green venomous light that the spell casts over one’s body glowed around Joram everywhere except his hands, where he was holding the Darksword. And, slowly, the glow began to fade from his arms, and was fading from the rest of his body, as well, when our jolly old friend, the catalyst, stepped in and sucked the Life from the warlock. Good thing, too. Most timely. Even though the Darksword was having some sort of reversing effect on Blachloch’s spell, it obviously wasn’t going to act fast enough to save Joram from being turned into a quivering mass of green pudding.”

  “So it somehow nullifies the magic,” Mosiah said wonderingly. He stared at the bed in longing, irresolute. Glancing out the barred window, he shivered in the chill air. Though it was midafternoon, it had grown no warmer. The weak sun had disappeared completely beneath sullen, gray clouds. It looked and felt as if the clouds had dropped down and were lying on top of the town, slowly smothering the life from it. The streets were empty. There were no guards, no townspeople. Even the noise of the forge had ceased.

  Making up his mind, the young man walked swiftly to the cot. Kneeling beside it, he inserted his hands beneath the mattress. Gently, almost reverently, he pulled out the bundle of rags.

  Leaning back upon his heels, Mosiah unwrapped the sword and stared at it. The young man’s face — the open, honest face of a Field Magus — twisted in repugnance.

  “What did I tell you?” Simkin said, rolling over on the cot and propping himself up on one elbow so that he could see. “Beastly looking piece of work, isn’t it? I personally wouldn’t be caught dead carrying it, though I don’t suppose that bothers Joram. Get it,” he persisted playfully when Mosiah did not laugh. “Caught Dead?”

  Mosiah ignored him. Both fascinated and repulsed, he stared at the sword, unable to withdraw his gaze. It was, in truth, a crude and ugly weapon. Once, long ago, the Sorcerers had made swords of shining beauty and graceful design, with flashing steel blades and gold and silver hilts. Magical swords, they were endowed as well with various properties laid on them by rune and spell. But all swords had been banished in Thimhallan following the Iron Wars. Weapons of evil, they were called by the catalysts, demonic creations of the Dark Art of Technology. The making of steel swords passed out of knowledge. The only swords Joram had seen were pictured in the books he found. And although the young man had some skill in metal work, he was not skilled enough, nor did he have the time or the patience, to craft a weapon such as men of ancient days had carried with pride.

  The Darksword that Mosiah held in his hands was made of darkstone, an ore that is blac
k and unlovely. Given life in the fires of the forge, and granted magical Life by the reluctant catalyst Saryon, the Darksword was nothing more than a shaft of metal beaten and pounded and clumsily sharpened by Joram’s inexperienced hand. He had no knowledge of how to craft hilt and blade and then join the two together. The sword was made out of one piece of metal and — as Simkin said — it did resemble a human being. The hilt was separated from the blade by a crosspiece that looked like two arms outstretched. Joram had added the bulbous-shaped head at the hilt in an attempt to weight it, causing it to look very much like the body of man turned to stone. Mosiah was about to slide the ugly and unnerving object back beneath the mattress when the door slammed open.

  “Put that down!” came a harsh voice.

  Startled, Mosiah nearly dropped the weapon.

  “Joram!” he said guiltily, turning around. “I was just looking —”

  “I said put it down,” Joram said gruffly, kicking the door shut behind him. Crossing the cell in a bound, he snatched the sword from Mosiah’s unresisting hands. “Don’t ever touch it again,” he said, glaring at his friend.

  “Don’t worry,” muttered Mosiah, standing up and wiping his hands on his leather breeches as if to wipe off the touch of the metal, “I won’t. Ever!” he added feelingly. Giving Joram a dark glance, Mosiah turned from him and went to stare moodily out the window.

  The silence of the streets flowed into the cell, settling over them all like an unseen fog. Joram thrust the weapon into a leather sling he had fashioned in a crude imitation of the sword sheaths he had seen in the books. Casting a sideways glance at Mosiah, Joram started to say something, then checked it. He pulled a bag from beneath his bed and began to fill it with his few clothes and what little food there was in the cell. Mosiah heard him but did not look around. Even Simkin was quiet. Contemplating his shoes, he was in the act of changing one to red and the other to purple when there came a soft knock and the door opened.