Dragonwing

by Margaret Weis

  “Ah …” remarked Simkin reflectively. “Now this will be a pleasure. Farewell, lout,” he said, patting the guard on the cheek with his hand. “Igh …” Making a face, he wiped his hand on the orange cloth and swept majestically out the door.

  “Say the word …” muttered the guard, glaring through the doorway after the young man, who was sauntering through camp like a walking rainbow.

  Blachloch did not even deign to reply. He was, once more, working in the ledger.

  “Why do you put up with that fool?” snarled the guard.

  “The same might be asked of you,” Blachloch answered in his expressionless voice. “And I might make the same reply. Because he is a useful fool and because someday I will drown him.”

  Doom of the Darksword, Volume II

  Joram has many enemies, but his one true friend throughout the series is the catalyst Saryon. Only Saryon is capable of the ultimate sacrifice.

  Joram stood alone upon the sand.

  With a loud cry, muffled by his hood, the Executioner called for Life. Head bowed, each catalyst concentrated all his energy upon the warlock, drawing magic from the world. Opening their conduits, they sent Life flowing into the wizard’s body. So powerful were the focused energies of all the catalysts that the magic was visible—blue flame swirled about the bodies and clasped hands of the priests. Flaring like blue lightning, it leaped from them into the body of the Executioner.

  Suffused with power, the man pointed both hands at Joram. When he spoke next, the spell would be cast, the Turning would begin.

  The Executioner drew a breath. The gray hood quivered. He uttered the first syllable of the first word and, at that moment, Saryon hurled himself forward, the catalyst’s body interposing itself between the Executioner and Joram. The blue light, darting from the warlock’s hand, struck Saryon. Gasping in pain, he tried to take a step, but he could not move.

  His feet and ankles were white, solid stone.

  “My son!” Saryon cried, his gaze never shifting from Joram, “the sword!” With his last strength, even as the terrible, cold numbness was spreading up into his knees, Saryon flung the weapon from him.

  The Darksword fell at Joram’s feet. Anger and grief propelled him to action. Reaching down, he drew the sword from its scabbard in one swift stroke and turned to meet his enemies.

  Garald’s teaching came to him. Joram swung the sword in front of him, meaning at first only to keep the Duuk-tsarith at bay until he could fall back and assess his position. But he had not counted upon the sword’s own power.

  The Darksword came forth into air that was charged with magic as Life flowed from the catalysts into the Executioner. Thirsting for that Life, the Darksword began to suck the magic into itself. The arc of blue light jumped, flaming, from the Executioner to the sword. The catalysts cried out in fear, many trying to close the conduits. But it was too late. The Darksword gained in power every second and it kept the conduits open forcibly, draining the Life from everything and everyone around it.

  Running forward to stop Joram, spells crackling at their fingertips, the warlocks saw a radiant blue light flare from within deep darkness. A ball of pure energy hit them with the force of an exploding star and the black-robed bodies disintegrated in a blinding flash.

  The Darksword hummed triumphantly in Joram’s hands. Blue light twined from its blade around the young man’s body like a fiery vine. Dazed by the shattering explosion and the sudden disappearance of his enemies, Joram stared at the sword in disbelief and uncertainty. Then the knowledge of the tremendous power he held swept over the young man. With this, he could conquer the world! With this, he was invincible!

  Shouting in exultation, Joram whirled around to face the Executioner—and saw Saryon.

  The spell had been cast. The power of the Darksword could neither alter it, change it, nor stop it.

  Saryon’s feet, limbs, and lower body were white stone, solid, unmoving. The bitter-cold numbness was rising; Joram could see it freeze the catalyst’s flesh as he watched, advancing upward from the groin to the waist.

  “No!” Joram cried in a hollow voice, lowering the sword.

  Springing forward, Joram grasped Saryon’s arms. With a wrenching effort, the catalyst raised his hands in supplication.

  “Run!” Saryon managed to utter the single word before his diaphragm froze, choking off his voice. “Run” pleaded the man’s eyes through a shadow of pain.

  Rage filled Joram. Floundering through the sand, he came to stand before the Executioner. The Darksword burned blue, continuing to suck Life from the world, and the Executioner had fallen to one knee. The casting of the spell had cost him much of his energy and the Darksword was draining even more. But he managed to lift his hooded head, staring at Joram with cool detachment.

  “Reverse the spell!” Joram demanded, raising the sword, “or by the Almin I swear I will strike your head from your body!”

  “Do what you like!” the warlock said weakly. “The spell, once cast, cannot be called back. Not even the power of that weapon of darkness can change that!”

  Triumph of the Darksword, Volume III

  In the third volume, the prophecies seem to have come true. War has come to the kingdom of Merilon and Joram has somehow gone from destroyer to savior.

  EMPEROR OF MERILON

  Night attempted to lull Merilon to sleep, but its soothing hand was thrust away by those preparing for war. Joram took command of the city, naming Prince Garald his military leader. He and the Prince immediately began to mobilize the population.

  Joram met with his people in the Grove. Gathering around the ancient tomb of the wizard who had brought them to this world, many of the citizens of Merilon wondered if that almost forgotten spirit stirred restlessly in his centuries-old sleep. Was his dream about to end and yet another enchanted kingdom fall to ruin?

  “This is a fight to the death,” Joram told the people grimly. “The enemy intends to wipe out our entire race, to destroy us utterly. We have seen proof of this in the wanton attack upon innocent civilians on the Field of Glory. They have shown no mercy. We will show none.” He paused. The silence that flowed through the crowd grew deeper, until they might have been drowned in it. Looking at them from where he stood on the platform above the tomb, Joram said slowly, emphasizing each word, “Every one of them must die.”

  Though the outside world was dark and slumbering, the city of Merilon burned with light. It might have been day beneath the dome—a terrible, fear-laced day whose sun was the fiery glow of the forge. The Pron-alban had hastily conjured up a workplace for the blacksmith. He and his sons and apprentices like Mosiah worked to repair weapons damaged in the previous battle or create new ones. Though many in Merilon looked with horror upon the Sorcerers, practicing their Dark Art of Technology, the citizens swallowed their fears and did what they could to assist.

  The Theldara tended the injured, buried the dead, and hastily began working on enlarging both the Houses of Healing and the Burial Catacombs. The druids knew that, by the rising of the moon tomorrow night, they would need many more beds … and graves.

  Joram watched over everything. Everywhere he went, people greeted him with cheers. He was their savior. Taking the romantic half-truths Garald had woven around the true story of Joram’s lineage, the people further embroidered it and decorated it until it was practically unrecognizable. Joram tried to protest, but the Prince silenced him.

  “The people need a hero right now—a handsome king to lead them into battle with his bright and shining sword! Even Bishop Vanya doesn’t dare denounce you. What would you give them?” Garald asked scornfully. “A Dead man with a weapon of the Dark Arts who is going to bring about the end of the world? Win this battle. Drive the enemy from the land. Prove the Prophecy wrong! Then go before the people and tell them the truth, if you must.”

  Joram agreed reluctantly. Surely Garald knew what was right. I can afford honor, the Prince had once told him. You cannot.

  DARKSWORD ADVENTURES
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  Many role-playing gamers know the value of a good sourcebook, but Darksword Adventures offers something for the just plain enthusiast as well. In these pages is nearly everything a reader could want to know about the world of the Darksword.

  Welcome to the magical realm of Thimhallan.

  We know many of you already. You are “gamers” who have visited other worlds of sword and sorcery with us before, and we’re pleased that you have decided to join us again.

  There are, however, many of you interested in Thimhallan who have never participated in role-playing games. Perhaps you thought they were too difficult or complicated to learn. Perhaps you were intimidated by massive, expensive volumes of rules filled with incomprehensible numbers and strange abbreviations.

  We want you to join us in the fun and excitement we experience visiting Thimhallan in our imaginations. Therefore we are pleased to present a complete role playing game and source book in an affordable, entertaining format. Everything you need to play is included in this one volume—game rules, statistics, character and monster descriptions, suggested scenarios—presented in the form of interesting and revealing reports on Thimhallan compiled by the Duuk-tsarith to be given to Major James Boris. We have devised a very simple system for role-playing that you can learn easily.

  There may be those of you who are not interested in role-playing but would simply like to have more information about the world and its people. You will find all that in this volume, without being distracted by a lot of rules. Included are a History of the World, a description of Thimhallan written by a young man who survived many wild adventures in the various parts of the realm, descriptions of the wondrous creatures that inhabit Thimhallan, information on the major and minor characters, and more.

  Whether you journey by yourself or in the company of friends, we hope you enjoy your visit to the magical realm of Thimhallan. May your trip be an adventurous one!

  Tracy Raye Hickman

  Margaret Weis

  THE ROSE OF THE PROPHET

  The outrageously funny trilogy (with dark secrets) about the twenty gods who ruled the universe—until one of them upset the balance of power. Now everyone is scrambling for control, not the least of which are the humans and their djinn.

  The Will of the Wanderer, Volume I

  The god Quar had hoped to upset the balance completely before any of the others had realized they’d been stripped of their powers, but someone always notices

  The scent of roses hung heavily in the air. A nightingale trilled unseen in the fragrant shadows. Cool water fell from the marble hands of a delicate maiden, spilling into a large conch shell at her feet. The multicolored tiles, laid out in fantastic mosaics, sparkled like jewels in the twilight. But Quar took pleasure in none of this beauty. The God sat upon the tiled rim of a fountain’s basin, absently tearing apart a gardenia, moodily tossing the waxy, white petals into the rippling water.

  The luck of Sul, that’s what it was. The luck of Sul, which was no luck at all. The luck of Sul had taken those damned and blasted priests of Promenthas’s into the way of a few dozen of Quar’s faithful. At least he assumed they had been his faithful. The God had not realized his followers had grown quite that fanatical. Now Promenthas was angry and not only angry, suspicious as well. Quar was not prepared for this. He had intended to deal with Promenthas, of course, but further—much further—down the long and twisting road of his scheming.

  And there was Akhran to consider. He would act swiftly to take advantage of the incident. The Wandering God was undoubtedly persuading Promenthas to some sort of action. Not that Promenthas could do much. His followers had all died on the swords of the righteous. Hadn’t they? Quar made a mental note to check. But now that Promenthas was alerted, he would be watchful, wary. Quar would have to move faster than he’d anticipated.

  Akhran the Meddler. He was the scorpion in Quar’s bed sheets, the qarakurt in Quar’s boot. Just days ago Quar had received a report that two tribes of Akhran’s followers had banded together in the Pagrah desert. Relatively few in number compared to Quar’s mighty armies, these nomads were more of a nuisance than a direct threat. But Quar had no time for nuisances right now.

  The one factor on which Quar had counted in his design to overthrow Akhran was the constant feuding and strife among the Wandering God’s followers. The old axiom: divide and conquer. Who would have imagined that this Wandering God, who seemingly cared for nothing except his horse, would have been observant enough to detect Quar’s plotting and move swiftly to forestall it?

  “It was my fault. I concentrated on the other Gods of Sardish Jardan. I saw them as the threat. Now Mimrim of the Ravenchai, feeling herself weakening, hides on her cloud-covered mountain. Uevin of the Bas takes refuge behind his politics and siege machines, never realizing that his foundation is being undermined and soon he will fall through the cracks. But you, Horse God. I underestimated you. In looking west and south, I turned my back upon the east. It will not happen again.”

  The vase, once broken, cannot be mended with tears, Quar reminded himself severely. You have realized your mistake, now you must act to remedy it. There is only one way Akhran could have united his feuding tribes—through the intervention of his immortals. There were reports of Akhran’s ’efreets whipping up fearsome desert storms. Apparently the unleashing of the mighty power of the djinn was enough to frighten those thick-headed nomads—

  Quar paused, absently crushing the last blossoms of the ravaged gardenia in his hand.

  The djinn. Why, that was his answer.

  The Paladin of the Night, Volume II

  Once the gods bring their war to earth, it’s only a matter of time before prisoners are taken. Among these is a young prince with no future, but even he has choices.

  We do not beat the whipped dog.… Are you going to lie down on your master’s grave and die?

  Crouched in his dark cell, Achmed repeated the Amir’s words to himself. It was true. Everything the Amir said was true!

  “How long have I been in prison? Two weeks? Two months?” Despairing, Achmed shook his head. “Is it morning or night?” He had no idea. “Have I been fed today, or was that yesterday’s meal I remember eating? I no longer hear the screams. I no longer smell the stench!”

  Achmed clutched at his head, cowering in fear. He recalled hearing of a punishment that deprived a man of his five senses. First the hands were cut off, to take away the sense of touch. Then the eyes were gouged out, the tongue ripped from the mouth, the nose cut off, the ears torn from the head. This place was his executioner! The death he was dying was more ghastly than any torture. Misery screamed at him, but he had lost the ears to hear it. He had long ago ceased being bothered by the prison smell, and now he knew it was because the foul stench was his own. In horror, he realized he was growing to relish the guards’ beatings. The pain made him feel alive….

  Panic-stricken, Achmed leaped to his feet and hurled himself at the wooden door, beating it with his fists and pleading to be let out. The only response was a shouted curse from another cell, the debtor having been rudely awakened from a nap. No guards came. They were used to such disturbances. Sliding down the doorway, Achmed slumped to the floor. In his half-crazed state, he fell into a stupor.

  He saw himself lying on a shallow, unmarked grave, hastily dug in the sand. A terrible wind came up, blowing the sand away, threatening to expose the body. A wave of revulsion and fear swept over Achmed. He couldn’t bear to see the corpse, decaying, rotting. Desperately, he shoveled the sand back over the body, scooping it up in handfuls and tossing it onto the grave. But every time he lifted a handful, the wind caught it and blew it back into his face, stinging his eyes, choking him. He kept working frantically, but the wind was relentless. Slowly, the face of the corpse emerged—a man’s face, the withered flesh covered by a woman’s silken veil….

  The scraping sound of the wooden bar being lifted from the door jolted Achmed out of his dream. The shuffling footsteps of prisoners being herded
outside and the distant cries of women and children told the young man that it was visiting time.

  Slowly Achmed rose to his feet, his decision made.

  The Prophet of Akhran, Volume III

  When the final battle comes, it is up to the most unlikely of people to set things in motion—a woman, who prefers to dress in men’s clothing … and a man who must wear a women’s.

  The following dawn the sun’s first rays skimmed across the desert, crept through the holes in Majiid’s tent, bringing silence with them. The arguing ceased. Zohra and Mathew glanced at each other. Her eyes were shadowed and red-rimmed from lack of sleep and the concentration she had devoted to her work. Mathew knew his must look the same or perhaps worse.

  The silence of the morning was suddenly broken by the sound of feet crunching over sand. They heard the guards outside scramble to their feet, the sound of footsteps draw nearer. Both Mathew and Zohra were ready, each had been ready for over an hour now, ever since first light. Zohra was clad in the women’s clothes Mathew had brought her. They were not the fine silk she was accustomed to wearing, only a. simple chador of white cotton that had been worn by the second wife in a poor man’s household. Its simplicity became her, enhancing the newfound gravity of bearing. A plain white mantle covered her head and face, shoulders and hands. Held tightly in her hands, hidden by the folds of her veil, were several pieces of carefully rolled-up goatskin.

  Mathew was dressed in the black robes he had acquired in Castle Zhakrin. Since he was able to come and go freely, he had left the tent in the middle of the night and searched the camp in the moonlit darkness until he found the camels they had ridden. Their baggage had been removed from the beasts, thrown down, and left to lie in the sand as though cursed. Mathew could have wished the robes—retrieved by Auda from their campsite on the shores of the Kurdin Sea—cleaner and less worse for wear, but he hoped that even stained and wrinkled they must still look impressive to these people who had never seen sorcerer’s garb before.