Doom of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  Saryon stepped inside. No one spoke. The catalyst looked from the flushed, angry face of Joram to the pale face of Mosiah, sighed, and carefully shut the door behind him.

  “They’ve found the body,” he reported in low tones.

  “Smashing!” cried Simkin, sitting up and swinging his multicolored feet over the side of the bed. “I must go watch —”

  “No,” said Joram abruptly. “Stay here. We’ve got plans to make. We have to get out! Tonight!”

  “The devil you say!” Simkin wailed in dismay. “And miss the funeral? After I took such pains —”

  “I’m afraid so,” Joram said dryly. “Here, Catalyst.” He handed Saryon a crude chain from which dangled a piece of dark rock. “Your ‘good luck’ charm.”

  Saryon accepted the chain with a grave expression. He held it for a moment, staring down at it, his face growing increasingly pale.

  “Father?” asked Mosiah. “What’s wrong?”

  “Too much,” the catalyst replied softly, and, with the same solemn look upon his face, he hung the darkstone around his neck, being careful to tuck the rock beneath the collar of his robes. “Blachloch’s men have sealed off the town. No one is to go in or out.”

  Joram swore a bitter oath.

  “Dash it all!” Simkin burst out. “The very devil! It’ll be such a wonderful funeral, too. Highlight of the year around here. And the best part,” he continued gloomily, “is that the townspeople will undoubtedly take the opportunity to whack a few of Blachloch’s henchmen. I was quite looking forward to a nice round of lout-whacking.”

  “We have to get out of here!” Joram said grimly. Tying his cloak around his neck, he arranged the folds so that the fabric covered the sword, hiding it from sight.

  “But why should we leave?” Mosiah protested. “From what Simkin’s told me, everyone will believe Blachloch was killed by centaurs. Even his henchmen. And they won’t be hanging around long to ask questions. Simkin’s right. I’ve seen how the townspeople are looking at that scum. That’s why Blachloch’s men have sealed off the town. They’re scared! And with good cause! We’ll fight them! Drive them out, and then there won’t be anything to fear from anyone —”

  “Yes, there will,” Saryon said, his hand lingering on the amulet. “I have been contacted by Bishop Vanya.”

  “I bet he gets to go to the funeral,” sulked Simkin.

  “Shut up, fool,” Mosiah growled. “What do you mean, ‘contacted’, Father? How could he?”

  Speaking hurriedly, with frequent glances out the window, Saryon told the young men of his conversation with the Bishop, leaving out only what he knew about Joram’s true identity.

  “We must be gone by nightfall,” Saryon concluded. “When Bishop Vanya cannot reach either me or Blachloch, he will know something dire has happened. By nightfall, the Duuk-tsarith could be here.”

  “See? Everyone who’s anyone will be at that funeral,” said Simkin moodily.

  “The Duuk-tsarith, here!” Mosiah paled. “We must warn Andon —”

  “I have just come from Andon,” Saryon interrupted with a sigh. “I tried to make him understand, but I’m not certain I succeeded. Frankly, he’s not worried half as much about the Duuk-tsarith as he is over the people getting into a fight with Blachloch’s men. I don’t think the Duuk-tsarith will bother the Sorcerers if they do come,” Saryon added, seeing Mosiah’s concern. “We can assume now that the Order was in constant touch with Blachloch. Had they wanted to destroy the village, they could have done so at a moments notice. They will be searching for Joram and the darkstone. When they discover he is gone, they will follow his trail. They will follow us….”

  “But these people are my friends, like my family,” Mosiah persisted. “I can’t leave them!” He stared worriedly out the window.

  “They’re my friends, too,” Joram said abruptly. “Its not like we’re running out. The best thing we can do for them is to leave.”

  “Believe me, there’s nothing we could do if we stayed, except perhaps bring greater harm to them,” Saryon said gently, resting his hand on Mosiah’s shoulder. “Bishop Vanya told me once that he wanted to avoid attacking the Sorcerers, if possible. It would be a bitter battle and, no matter how quiet the Church kept it, word would get out and throw the people into a panic. That was why Blachloch was here — to lead the Sorcerers to their own destruction along with Sharakan. Vanya still hopes to carry out his plan. There’s not much else he can do.”

  “But surely Andon won’t let them now that he knows —”

  “It’s not our problem anymore!” Joram interrupted tersely. “It doesn’t matter to us. At least, not to me.” He cinched the bundle together tightly and slung it over his back. “You and Simkin can stay here if you want.”

  “And let you and the bald-headed wonder go traipsing off into the wilds alone?” said Simkin indignantly. “I couldn’t sleep nights, thinking of it.” With a wave of his hand, he shifted his attire. His red clothes changed to an ugly greenish brown. A long gray traveling cloak settled over his shoulders, hip-high leather boots crawled slowly up his legs. A cocked hat with a long, drooping pheasant feather appeared on his head. “Back to Muck and Mud,” he said gloomily.

  “You’re not going with us!” Mosiah said.

  “Us?” Joram repeated. “I didn’t know we were going anywhere?”

  “You know I’ll go,” Mosiah retorted. “I’m glad,” Joram said quietly.

  Mosiah flushed in pleasure at the unexpected warmth in his friend’s voice, but his pleasure didn’t last long.

  “Of course, I’m going,” Simkin struck in loftily. “Who else do you have to guide you? I’ve come and gone safely through the Outland for years. How about you? Do you know the way?”

  “Perhaps not,” Mosiah said, eyeing Simkin darkly. “But I’d a damn sight rather be lost in the Outland than guided to wherever it is you’ve got in mind. I don’t want to end up the husband of the Faerie Queen!” he added, with a glance at the catalyst.

  Saryon appeared so alarmed at this reminder of a near disastrous adventure he’d had with Simkin as guide, that Joram cut in. “Simkin goes,” he said firmly. “Perhaps we could make it through the Outland without him, but he’s the only one who can get us in to where we want to go.”

  The catalyst regarded Joram with concern, having a sudden chilled feeling he knew the young man’s destination. But before he could say a word, Joram continued, “Besides, Simkin’s magic can help us get past Blachloch’s men.”

  “That’s nothing to worry about!” Simkin scoffed. “There’s always the Corridors, after all.”

  “No!” Saryon cried, his voice hoarse with fear. “Would you walk into the arms of the Duuk-tsarith?”

  “Well, then, I could change us all into rabbits,” Simkin offered after a moment’s profound thought. “Get away in a hop, skip, and —”

  “Father?” called a quavering voice from outside the prison window. “Father Saryon? Are you in there?”

  “Andon!” cried the catalyst, flinging open the door. “Name of the Almin, what’s the matter?”

  The old Sorcerer appeared ready to drop on the spot. His hands trembled, the usually mild eyes were wild, his clothes disordered. “Joram, bring a chair,” Saryon ordered, but Andon shook his head.

  “No time!” He was gasping for breath, and they realized he had been running. “You must come, Father.” The old man clutched at Saryon. “You must talk them out of it! After all these years! They must not fight!”

  “Andon,” said Saryon firmly, “please, be calm. You will only make yourself ill. That’s it. Breathe deeply. Now, tell me what’s going on!”

  “The smith!” Andon said, his thin chest rising and falling more slowly. “He’s planning to attack Blachloch’s men!” The old man wrung his hands. “He and his band of young hotheads may already be on their way to the warlock’s house! I am thankful to see” — the old man looked at Joram and Mosiah bleakly — “that you are not among them.”

  �
�I don’t think there’s anything I can do, my friend,” Saryon started to reply sadly, but Joram caught hold of the catalyst’s arm.

  “We’ll come with you, Andon,” he said, giving Saryon a meaningful glance. “You will think of something, I am certain, Catalyst,” he continued, nudging Saryon. “The perfect time for one of your sermons.” Moving closer, he whispered fiercely, “This is our chance!”

  Saryon shook his head. “I don’t see —”

  “In the confusion, we’ll escape!” Joram hissed, exasperated. He glanced quickly at Mosiah and Simkin, both of whom appeared to comprehend his plan at once. At that moment, screams and shouts could be heard, coming from the direction of the forge. Somewhere a child wailed. Window shutters slammed shut, doors were being bolted.

  “It’s started!” Andon cried in a panic. Hastening out the door, he broke into a tottering run. Joram and Mosiah dashed after him. There was nothing for the catalyst to do but gather up his robes and follow, running as fast as he could to catch up.

  “Ah, ha,” reflected Simkin, flitting along merrily behind. “Maybe I’ll attend a funeral after all.”

  6

  Ambushed!

  “Here’s the catalyst! I told you the old man would fetch him!”

  Saryon heard the words and caught an indistinct impression of movement out of the corner of his eye. He heard Mosiah cry out, then Simkin shriek, “Let loose of me, you great, hairy beast!” Then everything was a confusion of panic, futile struggle, and grunting voices.

  “Do as you’re told and you won’t get hurt.”

  A hand caught hold of Saryon’s wrist, wrenching his arm behind his back. Pain seared like flame from his elbow to his shoulder, and Saryon gasped. But he was astonished to find himself more angry than afraid. Perhaps it was because he sensed the fear of his captors. He could hear it in the harsh, heavy breathing and the husky voices. He could smell it, a rank odor mingled with sweat and the fumes of the false courage Blachloch’s men had been gulping down from a wineskin.

  The attack was swift and sudden. The warlocks henchmen may not have been smart in many respects, but they were skilled and knowledgeable at their trade. Having been sent to fetch the catalyst, they had seen Andon enter the prison and guessed that the old man would inadvertently deliver Saryon into their hands. Ducking back into an alley, the former henchmen of the late warlock had waited for the group to pass by, and the fight was over practically before it had begun.

  Pinned in the grip of one brawny thug, Joram could not reach his sword. Mosiah lay facedown in the street, blood streaming from a cut on his head, a booted foot planted firmly on the back of his neck. The guards flung Andon to one side; the old man lay like a discarded doll in the street, blinking dazedly up at the sky. One man held Saryon, twisting the catalyst’s arm painfully behind his back. As for Simkin, he had completely disappeared. The guard who had jumped the gayly clad figure now stood staring at his empty hands in disbelief.

  One of the thugs, obviously the leader, glanced around the field of battle to make certain the quarry had been run to the ground. Then, satisfied, he came to stand before Saryon. “Catalyst, grant me Life!” he demanded, making some attempt to imitate the cool, intimidating manner of the late Blachloch.

  But these were common criminals, not disciplined Duuk-tsarith. Saryon saw the leader’s eyes shift nervously from him to the empty street, glancing in the direction of the forge. Sounds of shouts and cries indicated something was going on up there. The Sorcerers were going to war. Saryon shook his head, and the thug lost control.

  “Damn it, Catalyst, now!” he shouted, his voice cracking. “Break his arm!” he ordered the man who held Saryon.

  “Almin’s blood, Catalyst, don’t be a fool!” Joram said. “Do as he says. Grant him Life.”

  The man holding Saryon gave his arm another expert twist. Biting his lips to keep from crying out in pain, the catalyst glanced at Joram in astonishment, only to see the young man’s dark eyes flick quickly and meaningfully to Mosiah.

  “Yes, Father,” Mosiah mumbled, his cheek pressed down into the mud and filth of the street by the foot of the guard. Though it was impossible that he could have seen Joram, he had picked up on the subtle emphasis in the voice. “Do as they say. Grant Life!”

  “Very well,” said the catalyst, bowing his head in apparent defeat. The look of relief on the leader’s face was almost pathetic.

  Trying desperately to concentrate through the pain, Saryon began to repeat the prayer that drew the magic from the world and focused it within his body. Fortunately it was a prayer he had learned as a child, so he did not have to think about it. There was no time to determine the amount of Life he could safely extend to the young man, even if his disordered faculties had been able to make the mathematical calculations. He would have to open the conduit completely, let Life flow unstinted into Mosiah. This would drain the catalyst of energy, but they had no choice. They had one chance, and one chance only. If this fails, the catalyst thought with a coolness that amazed him, it won’t matter anyway. Blachloch’s men will kill us out of rage and panic.

  In response to his prayer, the magic flowed into the catalyst. There had been a time when this holy feeling of oneness with the world gave Saryon an almost sublime feeling of pleasure. Blachloch had ended that. In granting Life to the warlock — Life that Blachloch had subverted to death — Saryon had come to hate the tingling of the blood, the thrill that went through every nerve. Now he was too tense, too eager to strike back at these murderers, to notice. But he was, once again, enjoying the experience of possessing the magic within him, even though he must soon release it. Suffused with Life, Saryon opened a conduit to Mosiah.

  The magic leaped from the catalyst to the young man in a flash of blue light, an occurrence that happens only when the catalyst gives of himself completely to his wizard. The magic crackled in the air. The thug holding Saryon started, slightly loosening his grip. But in that moment, the leader realized he’d been betrayed. The blade of a knife flashed in the late afternoon sun.

  Involuntarily raising his arm in a feeble attempt to fend off the attack, Saryon heard a ferocious growl. The thug holding Saryon shouted a warning, and the leader whirled around, his knife raised. He faced Mosiah, but the apparently harmless young man had changed. Fur covered his body, his teeth were fangs, his hands paws, his nails claws. The leaping werewolf crashed into the man, driving him to the ground. The knife flew from his nerveless hand as scream after scream rent the air, then ended suddenly in a horrible gurgling sound.

  Turning from its victim, the werewolf’s fiery red eyes stared straight at Saryon and the catalyst could not help falling backward, feeling his soul shrivel in primal terror. Blood and saliva dripped from the creatures jaws; a rumbling growl shook its massive chest. But the eyes were not on Saryon, they were on the guard crouching behind the catalyst, pitifully attempting to use the catalyst’s body as a shield. Hands shoved Saryon from behind, propelling him forward into the teeth of the animal. But the werewolf leaped nimbly to one side. The catalyst fell heavily on his hands and knees. The werewolf sprang past him, and Saryon heard the thug’s high-pitched wail of terror and a savage growl of triumph.

  Dazed and hurting, drained of all energy, Saryon watched the battle raging around him in a dreamlike state, unable to react. He saw Joram kick a dagger from the hand of the men who had been holding him, and round upon the thug with a clumsy swing. The flailing fist missed its mark and the thug landed a blow to the young man’s jaw. Joram stumbled backward, fumbling for his sword. The guard pressed his advantage, jumping on him, when a broom appeared out of nowhere and began to pummel the guard viciously.

  “Take that, you lout!” the broom shrieked grimly, coming at the astounded man from every conceivable angle, striking him on the head and whacking him across the backside. Thrusting itself in between the thug’s legs, it tripped him, sending him sprawling. Lying in the street, the thug covered his head with his hands, but the broom kept at him, crying “lout!” wi
th every blow.

  The catalyst had the vague impression that their attackers were fleeing. He tried to stand, but there came a roaring in his ears; he felt sick and faint. Hands that were strong yet surprisingly gentle helped him to his feet. Though the words were cold as always, he felt more than heard an underlying warmth of concern that startled him.

  “Are you all right?”

  Weak and dizzy, the catalyst looked into Joram’s face. What he expected to see — from the tone — he wasn’t certain. Flesh and blood, perhaps. Instead he saw stone.

  “Are you all right, Catalyst?” the young man repeated coldly. “Can you walk, or must we carry you?”

  Saryon sighed. “No, I can walk,” he said, pushing himself away from the young man with quiet dignity.

  “Good,” Joram remarked. “Go see to the old man.”

  He gestured at Andon, who was on his feet staring around him in sorrow. Three of the thugs lay in the street; the others had run off, leaving their fallen comrades behind. Two of the guards were dead, their bodies mauled, their necks broken by the snapping jaws of the werewolf. Saryon was surprised that he felt no regret, only a grim kind of satisfaction that shocked him. A third man lay some distance away, alive and groaning, his face and head covered with red welts. Broomstraws stuck out of his clothing like scrawny feathers. Simkin stood over him.

  “Lout,” he muttered, administering a swift kick.

  The henchman moaned, and covered his head with his arms. Sniffing, Simkin pulled the orange silk from the air and mopped his brow. “Dreadful melee,” he remarked. “I’m perspiring.”

  “You!” Mosiah — back to his own form — sat on a doorstop, panting in the manner of the werewolf he had been. The cut on his head bled freely, his face was covered with dirt and grime and sweat, his clothes were torn. Leaning back wearily against the door, he tried to catch his breath. “I’ve never … experienced any magic … like that before!” he admitted, sucking in air. Shutting his eyes, he put his hand to his head. “I’m so … dizzy …”