Forging the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  “It—it is just hard for me to accept—” Saryon stammered, flushing.

  “I understand. You are not alone. Many who come to us feel the same way. Mosiah, for example, still finds it difficult, I think, to live among us and accept our ways.”

  “But, about Joram,” Saryon said hesitantly, wondering if his interest seemed too suspicious. “Were you right? Is he to be feared?” The catalyst felt chilled, and waited anxiously for the response. But when it came, it wasn’t what he had expected.

  “I don’t know,” Andon said softly. “He has lived among us a year, and I feel I know less about him than I do you, whom I have known only a few days. Fear him? Yes, I fear him, but not for the reason you might think. And I’m not the only one.” Andon’s gaze went, once again, to the brick building on the hill.

  “An Enforcer? Afraid of a seventeen-year-old boy?” Saryon looked skeptical.

  “Oh, he wouldn’t admit it, maybe not even to himself. But he does or, if not, he should.”

  “Why?” asked Saryon. “Is the young man so formidable? Has he such a violent nature?”

  “No, none of that. There were extenuating circumstances to the murder, you know. Joram had just seen his mother killed. He doesn’t have a wild or violent nature. If anything, he is too controlled. Cold and hard as stone. And alone … so very alone.”

  “Then—”

  “I think …” Andon frowned, trying to give word to his thoughts. “It is because—Have you ever walked into a crowd of people, Father, and noticed one person almost immediately? Not for anything he might do or say, but just for his presence alone? Joram is such a one. Perhaps because he took a life, he has been marked by the Almin. There is an intensity about him, a sense of destiny. A sense of dark destiny.” The old man shrugged, his face grave. “I can’t explain it, but you can judge for yourself. You will soon meet this young man, if you want. That’s where we’re headed. Joram, you see, works in the iron forge.”

  7

  The Forge

  According to the catechism, To deal in the Dark Art of the Ninth Mystery is to deal in Death.”

  According to the catechism, “The Souls of those who deal in Death shall be cast in the fiery pit and shall dwell there forever in agony eternal and unending.”

  Thus do they act out their own doom, Saryon thought as he stared into the fire-lit, red-tinged darkness of the forge.

  Andon had entered the cavern ahead of him, saying something to the men who worked there, gesturing behind him at the catalyst. Now, aware that Saryon had not followed him, the old man turned around. Saryon saw his lips moving, though the noise of the forge was such that he could hear nothing. Andon gestured. “Step in. Step in.”

  Yellow and orange, the heat of the fire beat upon the old man’s face, the red heart of the forge burned in his eyes, the wheel he wore at his breast blazed with a flaming light. Consumed with horror, seeing the Sorcerer of his fevered dreams spring up before him, Saryon drew back from the gaping entryway. Andon might truly have been the Fallen One, rising up to drag the catalyst to the flames.

  At the sight of Saryon’s fear, an expression of puzzled hurt creased Andon’s face. But it was followed almost immediately by understanding.

  “I am sorry, Father.” Saryon saw Andon’s lips form the words. “I should have realized how this would affect you.” The old man came toward him. “Let us return home.”

  But Saryon could not move. Transfixed, he stared at the scene. The iron forge was located in a cave in the side of a mountain. A natural chimney carried away the noxious fumes and heat from vast quantities of glowing red charcoal banked in the center of a vast, round stone ledge. Crouched over it like a wheezing monster, a large baglike contraption breathed air on the coals, giving them fiery life.

  “What … what are they doing?” Saryon asked, wanting to leave, yet drawn to it by a terrible fascination.

  “They are heating the iron ore until it becomes a molten mass,” Andon shouted over the banging and hissing and wheezing, “that contains refuse of the ore and the charcoal as well.”

  As Saryon watched, one of the young men working in the forge walked over to the ledge and, using what appeared to be a hideous extension of his arm made out of metal, lifted a lump of the red-hot iron from its bed among the coals. Setting it down on another ledge—this not of stone but of iron itself—he took a tool and began pounding the hot iron.

  “There he is—that is Joram,” said Andon.

  “What is he doing?” Saryon felt his lips shape the words, he couldn’t hear himself speak.

  “He is hammering the iron into the form he wants,” Andon continued. “He does it this way or else he could pour the hot iron into a mold and let it cool first, then work it.”

  Destroying the Life within the stone. Shaping the iron with a tool. Perverting its god-given qualities. Killing the magic. Dealing in death. The thoughts pounded in Saryon’s head with each strike of the hammer.

  He started to turn away, but at that moment, the young man working in the black shadows of the forge lifted his head and looked out at him.

  It is written that the Almin knows the hearts of men but does not rule them. Thus man is free to choose his own destiny, but thus also can the Almin foresee how each man will act to fulfill that destiny. By making themselves one with the mind of the Almin, the Diviners were able to predict the future. It is also said that two souls destined to touch each other for good or for evil will know this in the instant of their meeting.

  At that moment, two souls met. Two souls knew.

  As the hammer’s ringing blows cracked the black slag covering the smoldering red iron, Joram’s dark-eyed stare sent a shivering blow through Saryon. Shaken to the very core of his being, the catalyst turned away from the forge and its fire-lit shadows.

  Andon was hovering near him. “Father, you’re not well. I’m sorry. I should have realized how shocking …”

  But the old man’s voice was lost in the pounding of the hammer blows and in the steady, intense gaze of those brown eyes. For Saryon knew those eyes, he knew that face.

  Stumbling through the streets of the settlement, having the dim impression that Andon was with him but unable to see or hear the old man, Saryon saw only the clear cold eyes that not even the reflected fire of molten iron could heat. He saw the heavy black brows tracing a line of bitterness across the sweat-covered forehead. He saw the grim, unsmiling mouth, the high planed cheekbones, the shining black hair tinged a burning red.

  I know that face! he said to himself. But how? Not in that aspect. Sorrow, not bitterness, came to his mind. A sorrow that never quite left the face, not even in gaiety. Perhaps he had seen the face seventeen years ago, in the Font. Perhaps he had known this boy’s accursed father. Only the vaguest recollection of hearing about the renegade catalyst’s trial came to Saryon. The scandal had been talked of for weeks, but he had been too involved in his own torment to be interested in another man’s. Perhaps he had taken note of him unconsciously, without realizing it. That must be the explanation. It had to be and yet, yet ….

  Visions of the face drifted into his mind. He could see it smiling, laughing yet always tainted, always haunted by a shadow of sorrow ….

  He recognized it! He knew it! He could almost put a name to it ….

  But it vanished before he could grasp it, drifting from his mind like smoke upon the wind.

  8

  The Warlock

  Picking his way through the mud street of the Technologists’ village, Simkin looked very much like a bright-plumaged bird wandering through a dreary brick jungle. Many of the people working about the area regarded him with looks of wary wonder, much as they might have regarded a rare bird appearing suddenly in their midst. Several scowled and shook their heads, muttering unflattering comments, while here and there a few called out cheerful greetings to the gaudily dressed young man as he walked through the streets, careful to keep his cape out of the mud. Simkin responded to both imprecations and greetings the same—wi
th a casual wave of his lace-covered hand or the doff of a pink feathered cap that he had just added, as an afterthought, to top off his wardrobe.

  The village children, however, were delighted to see him again. To them, he was a welcome distraction, easy prey. Dancing about him, they tried to touch his strange clothes, made fun of his silk-covered legs, or dared each other to sling mud at him. The boldest among them—a hefty child of eleven who had the reputation as the town tough—was urged to go for a solid hit between the shoulder blades. Creeping up behind the young man, the child was prepared to throw when Simkin turned around. He did not speak to the child, he simply stared at him. Shrinking away, the child hurriedly withdrew, and promptly beat up the next smaller child he encountered.

  Sniffing in disdain, Simkin drew his cape protectively around him and was continuing on his way when a group of women accosted him. Coarsely dressed, uneducated, their hands reddened and callused from hard labor, they were, nevertheless, the leading ladies of the town; one being the wife of the blacksmith, another the wife of the mine foreman, the third the wife of the candlestick maker. Crowding around Simkin, they eagerly and somewhat pathetically demanded to know the news of a court they had never seen except through the young man’s eyes. A court they were as far removed from as the moon from the sun.

  To their delight, Simkin readily complied. “The Empress said to me, ‘What do you call that shade of green, Simkin, my treasure?’ To which I replied, ‘I don’t call it at all, Your Majesty. It simply comes when I whistle!’ Ha, ha, what? Drat, what did you say, my dear? I can’t hear a thing above the infernal banging!” He cast a scathing glance toward the forge. “Health? The Empress? Abysmal, simply abysmal. But she insists upon holding court every night. No, I’m not lying. In frightfully poor taste, if you ask me. ‘You don’t suppose she has anything catching?’ I said to old Duke Mardoc. Poor man. I didn’t mean to upset him. Grabbed his catalyst, he did, and disappeared in the wink of an eye. Wouldn’t have supposed the old boy had it in him. What did you say? Yes, this is the absolute latest in fashion. Chafes my legs, though …. And now I must be getting along. I am running errands for our Noble Leader. Have you seen the catalyst?”

  Yes, the ladies had seen him. He and Andon had been visting the forge. The two had returned to Andon’s home, however, the catalyst having been taken suddenly ill.

  “I don’t doubt it,” Simkin murmured into his beard. Doffing his cap and bowing deeply to the ladies, he proceeded on his way, eventually arriving at one of the larger and older homes in the settlement. Knocking at the door, he twirled his cap in his hands and waited patiently, whistling a dance air.

  “Enter, Simkin, and welcome,” said an old woman pleasantly as she opened the door.

  “Thank you, Marta,” Simkin said, pausing to kiss the wrinkled cheek as he passed. “The Empress sends her best wishes and thanks for your inquiry about her health.”

  “Get along with you!” Marta scolded, waving her hand to dispel the strong wave of gardenia fragrance that enveloped her as Simkin walked past. “Empress indeed! You’re either a liar or a fool, young man.”

  “Ah, Marta,” said Simkin, leaning near her to whisper in confidence. “The Emperor himself posed that very question, ‘Simkin,’ he said, ‘are you a liar or a fool?’”

  “And what was your answer?” Marta asked, her lips twitching, though she tried to sound severe.

  “I said, ‘If I say I am neither, Your Majesty, then I am one. If I say I am one, then I am the other.’ Do you follow me so far, Marta?”

  “And if you say you’re both?” Marta tilted her head, putting her hands beneath the apron of her dress.

  “Precisely what His Majesty inquired. My reply: “Then I am either, aren’t I?’” Simkin bowed. “Think about it, Marta. It kept His Majesty occupied for at least an hour.”

  “So, you’ve been to court again, have you, Simkin?” asked Andon, coming over to greet the young man. “Which one?”

  “Merilon. Zith-el. It doesn’t matter,” returned Simkin with a gaping yawn. “Let me assure you, sir, they’re all alike, ’specially this time of year. Preparing for Harvest Revels and all that. Quite boring. ’Pon my honor, I’d be more than happy to stay and chat. Especially”—he sniffed hungrily—“since dinner smells positively heavenly as the centaur said of the catalyst he was stewing, but—What was I saying? Oh, catalyst—Yes, that’s the very reason I’ve come. Is he about?”

  “He is resting,” said Andon gravely.

  “Not taken ill, I suppose?” Simkin asked nonchalantly, his gaze wandering about the room and just happening to fix on the figure stretched out upon a cot in a shadowy corner.

  “No. We walked rather farther this morning than he was up to, I am afraid.”

  “A pity. Old Blachloch’s sent for him,” said Simkin coolly, twirling his cap in his hand.

  Andon’s face darkened. “If it could wait—”

  “‘Fraid not,” Simkin replied with another yawn. “Urgent and all that. You know Blachloch.”

  Moving to stand near her husband, a worried look on her face, Marta put her hand on his arm. Andon patted it. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I know him. Still, I—”

  The figure on the bed roused itself. “Do not worry, Andon,” said Saryon, getting to his feet. “I am feeling much more myself. I think it must have been the fumes or the smoke, it made me feel light-headed—”

  “Father! You’ve no idea,” cried Simkin in a choked voice, leaping forward and throwing his arms around the startled catalyst, “how perfectly wonderful it is to see you up and about. I was so worried! So frightfully worried—”

  “There, there,” Saryon said, flushing in embarrassment and trying to disengage the young man, who was sobbing on his shoulder.

  “I’m all right,” Simkin said bravely, stepping backward. “Sorry. Forgot myself. Well …” He rubbed his hands together, smiling. “All ready? If you’re tired, we could take a cart …”

  “A what?”

  “Cart,” said Simkin patiently. “You know. Moves over the ground. Drawn by a horse. Thing with wheels—”

  “Uh, no. I’d really prefer walking,” Saryon said hastily.

  “Well, up to you.” Simkin shrugged. “Now, must be off.” Herding the catalyst along in front of him, the young man practically pushed him out the door. “Good-bye, Marta, Andon. Hopefully we’ll be back in time for dinner. If not, don’t wait up.”

  Before he quite knew what was happening, Saryon found himself standing in the street, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He’d napped almost all afternoon, he realized, seeing the sun starting to set behind the trees that lined the riverbank. But he didn’t feel any better, and he wished he hadn’t fallen asleep. Now his head ached; he felt incapable of thinking clearly.

  Of all times to see Blachloch—the man everyone from Andon to the devil-may-care Simkin seemed to hold in quiet terror. I wonder what Joram thinks of him? Saryon wondered. Then he shook his head angrily. What a stupid thought. As if it mattered. Hopefully, the walk will wake me, he told himself, falling into step with Simkin, who was prodding him along.

  “What can you tell me about this Blachloch?” Saryon asked Simkin in a low voice as they moved among the lengthening shadows cast by the buildings in the slowly gathering gloom of twilight.

  “Nothing I haven’t already. Nothing you won’t find out soon enough,” Simkin replied nonchalantly.

  “I hear you spend a good deal of time with him,” Saryon commented, glancing at Simkin sharply. But the young man returned the glance with a cool and sardonic smile.

  “They’ll be saying the same of you shortly,” he remarked.

  Shivering, Saryon drew his robes around him. The thoughts of what this warlock, this Enforcer turned outlaw, might ask him to do alarmed him. Why had he never considered this before?

  Because I never expected to live long enough to get here before, Saryon answered himself bitterly. Now I am here, and I have no idea what to do! Maybe, he said to himself hopefully, it won�
��t be any more than giving these people sufficient Life so that they can go about their work easier. The thought of the new mathematical calculations he’d made occurred to him. Surely that would be all they could expect of him …

  “Tell me,” Saryon said to Simkin abruptly, glad to change the subject and take his mind off one worry by investigating another, “how do you manage to work that … that magic you do? …”

  “Oh, you’ve been admiring my hat?” Simkin inquired with a pleased air, twirling the cap’s feather. “Actually, the difficult part comes not with conjuring up the article but in deciding upon just the right shade of pink. Too much, and it makes my eyes look swollen—so the Duchess of Fenwick told me, and I rather fancy she’s right—”

  “I don’t mean the hat,” Saryon snapped irritably. “I meant the … the tree. Turning yourself into a tree! It’s quite Impossible,” he added. “Mathematically speaking. I’ve been over and over the formula …”

  “Oh, I don’t know a thing about math,” Simkin said with a shrug. “I just know it works. I’ve been able to do it since I was a small tyke. Mosiah says it must be like lizards changing their skin color to match rocks and jolly things like that. I’ll tell you how it came about, if you like. We’ve got a ways to go, I’m afraid.” His gaze went to the tall building. Standing black against the reddish light of the setting sun, it cast a stark, dark shadow over the entire settlement.

  “I was abandoned as a babe in Merilon,” Simkin was saying in a subdued voice. “Dumped in a doorway. Left on my own. I never knew my parents. I probably wasn’t supposed to have happened, if you know what I mean.” Shrugging, he gave a short, forced laugh. “I was taken in by an old woman. Not out of charity, I assure you. By the age of five I was working, picking through refuse for anything valuable that she could sell. She beat me regularly, for good measure, and finally, I ran away. I grew up in the streets of Lower City, the part you don’t see from the Crystal Spires. Do you have any idea what the Duuk-tsarith do with abandoned children?”