Forging the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  At last the boats were finished, and there came a night without a moon. The wind blew stronger and fiercer, buffeting Blachloch’s men as they mounted their horses. Riding swiftly, their black cloaks billowing in the gusts like the sails of a ghostly armada, the bandits swept down upon the village of Dunam, intending to strike them in the evening when, worn out from their long labors in the fields, the magi were settling down to rest.

  On the outskirts of the village, Blachloch reined in his horse, calling a halt. Open land stretched out before them, fields already harvested, lying fallow. Stacked at the far end were the disks used by the Ariels to transport the fruits of the harvest to the landowner’s granaries. Seeing these, the men grinned at each other. They were in time.

  The wind blew chill from the ocean waters to the north, carrying with it, even at that distance, a faint, salty tang. Facing into the biting wind, the horses shook their heads, setting the harnesses to jingling, and causing a few of the more skittish to shift nervously in place. Their riders, no more comfortable than their mounts, muffled up to the eyebrows in thick cloaks still damp from the soaking ride, sat stolidly in a line awaiting the orders that would send them into action.

  Sitting apart from them, alone, hunched in his green cloak, Saryon shivered from fear and the cold, the credo of his upbringing ringing in his ears, its irony twisting in his bowels.

  Obedire est vivere. Vivere est obedire.

  “Catalyst, to my side.”

  The words were not heard so much as they penetrated Saryon’s mind. Gripping the reins in his shaking hand, the catalyst rode forward.

  “To obey is to live …”

  Where was the Almin? Where was his God at this desperate time? Back in the Font, probably, attending Evening Prayers. Certainly He was not in this wild and windswept night, riding with bandits.

  “To live is to obey ….”

  Riding forward, Saryon was dimly aware of a face turned to look at him. His hood dragged back, the young man was barely visible in the bright starlight. But the catalyst recognized Mosiah, looking troubled and distraught. The dark shrouded figure beside him would undoubtedly be Joram. Saryon caught a glimpse of the young man’s eyes behind a tangle of matted hair, staring at him with cool, appraising speculation. Muffled laughter came from behind the two along with a bright flash of color—Simkin.

  Seemingly of its own volition, Saryon’s horse carried him past the young men, past the rows of waiting, grim-faced Sorcerers and their nervous mounts up to the front of the line. Here Blachloch sat upon his steed—a thick-bodied charger.

  The moment had come. Half-turning in the saddle, the warlock looked at Saryon. Blachloch did not speak, his face remained impassive, expressionless, but the catalyst felt courage drain from him as surely as if the warlock had slit his throat. Saryon bowed his head and, at that, Blachloch smiled for the first time.

  “I am glad we understand each other, Father. You have been trained in the art of warfare?”

  “It was a long time ago,” Saryon said in a low voice.

  “Yes, I can imagine. Do not worry. This will soon be over, I think.” Turning around, Blachloch spoke a few words to one of his guards, apparently going over last-minute instructions. Saryon did not listen, he could not hear for the wind and the blood pounding in his head.

  The warlock rode forward; a gesture brought the catalyst to ride beside him.

  “The important thing to remember, Catalyst,” Blachloch murmured, “is to keep to my left and stand slightly behind me. Thus I can shield you if need be. I want to see you out of the corner of my eye, however, so make certain to keep within my visual range. And, Father”—Blachloch smiled again, a smile that sent a shudder through the catalyst—“I know that you have the ability to drain Life as well as give it. A dangerous maneuver, but one not unheard of if the catalyst feels like avenging himself upon his wizard. Do not try it with me.”

  There was no threat, the words were spoken in an expressionless, even tone. But the last tiny flicker of hope within the catalyst died. Not that it had ever burned very brightly. Draining the Life from Blachloch would leave Saryon at the mercy of the Sorcerers, for such an action drains the catalyst as well. And, as Blachloch said, it was extremely dangerous. A powerful wizard could shut off the conduit, then deal swift retribution to his attacker. Still, it had been a chance, and now it was gone.

  Had Bishop Vanya considered this? Had he known Saryon was going to be forced into committing these vile crimes? Surely Vanya had never intended it to go this far! Even if he had lied to him, there must be some reason, some purpose …

  “Hail, strangers in the night,” came a voice.

  Saryon started so that he nearly fell from his saddle. Blachloch reined in his horse and the catalyst hastily did likewise, positioning himself, as the warlock had instructed, to Blachloch’s left and slightly behind.

  Glancing around, the catalyst saw that while he had been lost in his dark thoughts, they had ridden into the village. Light shone from the windows of the shaped stone homes where the Field Magi lived. It was a large settlement, Saryon noticed, larger than Walren. Hope rose again. Surely Blachloch with his small band of thirty or so would never dream of attacking a village that must have at least a hundred magi.

  The door of one of the dwellings had opened and a man stood there, outlined in firelight that glowed softly behind him. He was tall and muscular, Saryon could see. Undoubtedly the overseer, it was he who had called out the greeting.

  “Catalyst,” the man shouted. “We have visitors.”

  The door to the stone dwelling next to his opened and another man stepped out—a catalyst by his green robes. As he hurried to take his place beside the overseer, Saryon saw the catalyst’s face reflected in the light. He was young, probably no more than a Deacon. This must be his first assignment.

  The overseer peered into the night, trying to see who rode into his village at this hour. He was wary, cautious. Blachloch had not spoken nor had he replied to the hail as was customary.

  We must look like nothing more than black windows cut into the night, Saryon realized. Then he felt a cold hand touch his wrist and he blenched, his stomach quaking.

  “Grant me Life, Catalyst.”

  The words were not spoken, they reverberated through Saryon’s head. Closing his eyes, he blotted out the lights of the hovels, the puzzled, suspicious face of the overseer, and the tense face of the young catalyst. I could lie, he thought desperately. I could say I am too weak, too frightened to sense the magic …

  The cold hand tightened its grip painfully. With a shudder, feeling the magic rise from the ground, from the night, from the wind, and flow through him, Saryon opened the conduit.

  The magic surged from him to Blachloch.

  “I said ‘Hail, stranger.’” The overseer’s voice grew gruff. “Are you lost? Where do you ride from and where are you bound?”

  “I ride from the Outland,” Blachloch said, “and this is my destination.”

  “The Outland?” The overseer folded his arms across his chest. “Then you can turn around and ride back to that god-cursed territory. We want none of your kind around here. Go on, get out of here. Catalyst—”

  But the young Deacon was quick-thinking, opening a conduit to the overseer before he asked.

  By this time the sound of talking had roused other villagers living nearby. Some looked out of windows, several of the men came to their doors, and a few stepped into the roadway.

  Sitting calmly on his steed, Blachloch might have been waiting for this audience, for he smiled again, as if in gratification.

  “I said, Begone!” the overseer began, taking a step forward.

  Blachloch removed his hand from Saryon’s arm, breaking the conduit so swiftly that the catalyst gasped as some of the magical power surged back through him.

  Pointing his hand at the overseer, Blachloch whispered one word. The overseer began to glow with an eerie aura that surrounded his body, giving off a faint greenish glow—the magus wa
s of the Mystery of Earth. The aura grew brighter and stronger, and by its light, Saryon saw the overseer’s face contort in astonishment, then fear, as he realized what was happening to him. The light was his own magic, his own Life. When the glow died, the man’s body slumped to the ground.

  Saryon’s throat constricted, he could not breathe. All his life he had heard of the terrible power of Nullmagic, but he had never seen it used. The overseer was not dead, but he might as well have been. He lay on his doorstoop, more helpless than a newborn child. Until the spell was reversed or until such time as he might train his body to live without the magic, he would be able to do nothing but stare about him in impotent fury, his arms and legs twitching feebly.

  Several of the magi were running toward their overseer, shouting in alarm. Kneeling beside the fallen man, the young Deacon raised his head to look at Blachloch. Saryon saw the catalyst’s eyes widen in fear, his lips open in a plea, a protest, a prayer …

  Blachloch moved his hand again, spoke again. This time there was no light, no sound. The spell was swift and efficient. Compressed air slammed into the young catalyst like an ocean wave, surging over him, smashing his body up against the stone wall of the overseer’s house.

  The shouts of alarm became anger and outrage. Sickened and horrified, Saryon swayed in the saddle, the lights of the village swam about him, the shadows leaped and danced in his dazed vision. He saw Blachloch raise his hand, saw it burn with flame and heard the answering sounds of horses’ hooves thudding behind him. The band was riding to the attack. He had the vague impression that some of the Field Magi appeared ready to fight Blachloch with their own magic, weakened though it might be after a day in the fields, when the warlock lifted his fiery hand and pointed.

  A dwelling place burst into an inferno of flame. Sounds of screaming came from within, a woman and several children rushed outside, their clothes ablaze. The Field Magi stopped, hesitating, fear and confusion replacing the anger on their faces. A few came nearer, a few turned, stumbling, to help the victims of the fire. But there were two who kept coming toward Blachloch and Saryon, one already raising his hands, calling upon the forces of the earth to aid him. His eyes were on Saryon, who could not move.

  He found himself hoping bitterly that the man would smite him down where he sat. But Blachloch, without undue haste, moved his hand slightly pointing to another shack. It, too, burst into flame.

  “I can destroy this entire village in minutes,” he said in his expressionless voice to the approaching magi. “Cast your spell. If you know anything of the Duuk-tsarith you know that I can protect both myself and my catalyst from it. And where will you get the energy to cast another? Your catalyst is dead. Mine lives.” Extending his hand to Saryon, he said, “Catalyst, grant me Life.”

  Obedire est vivere.

  Saryon still could not move. In a dreamlike horror, he looked from the magi to the body of the young Deacon lying in the doorway beside the helpless overseer.

  Blachloch did not turn, he did not look at Saryon. He merely repeated.

  “Catalyst, grant me Life.”

  Again, there was no threat made, not even in the tone. Yet Saryon knew he would be made to pay for his lapse in duty. Blachloch never gave an order twice.

  Obedire est vivere.

  And he had no doubt the price would be high.

  “No,” said Saryon softly and steadily, “I will not do it.”

  “Well, well,” Joram murmured, “the old man has more guts than I’d imagined.”

  “What?” Mosiah, his face pale and strained, was staring at the burning homes of the Field Magi with wide eyes. Dazedly he turned to Joram. “What did you say?”

  “Look.” Joram pointed to where the warlock sat astride his horse not far from them, the two young men having ridden in the vanguard. “The catalyst. He’s refused Blachloch’s command for more Life.”

  “He’ll kill him!” Mosiah whispered in horror.

  “No, Blachloch’s smarter than that. He won’t kill his only catalyst. Still, I’ll bet the man will soon wish he was dead.”

  Mosiah put his hand to his head. “This is dreadful, Joram,” he said thickly. “I had no idea—I didn’t know it would be like this … I’m leaving!” He started to turn his horse.

  “Get hold of yourself!” Joram snapped, grasping his friends arm and jerking him back sharply. “You can’t run! The villagers might attack us …”

  “I hope they do!” Mosiah shouted furiously. “I hope they kill you all. Let go of me, Joram!”

  “Where will you go? Think!” Joram held onto him with the firm grip of the iron forge.

  “I can get into the woods!” Mosiah hissed, trying to twist free. “I’ll hide there until you’re gone. Then I’ll come back here, do what I can for these people—”

  “They’ll turn you over to the Enforcers,” snarled Joram through clenched teeth, maintaining his grip on his friend with difficulty. Their horses, alarmed by the fire and the smoke, the yelling and the young men’s struggles, were milling round and round, churning up the ground with their hooves. “Listen to reason—Wait—” He glanced up. “Look, your catalyst …”

  Mosiah turned, his gaze following Joram’s in time to see two of Blachloch’s henchmen drag Saryon from his horse and hurl him to the ground. Staggering, Saryon tried to stand, but two other men, at a gesture from the warlock, leaped from their horses, grabbed hold of the catalyst, and held him, arms pinned behind his back. Seeing his commands being obeyed, Blachloch cast a last glance at the catalyst, saying something to him Joram could not hear. Then the warlock galloped off, yelling more commands to his men and gesturing toward a large building where the crops were stored. As he passed, other huts burst into flame, lighting the night like a dreadful sun fallen to earth.

  All around Joram and Mosiah, the bandits rode to do their commander’s bidding, some heading for the granary, others keeping watch on the Field Magi, some of whom were fleeing in terror, others were trying in vain to save their homes from the magical fires. But Joram’s and Mosiah’s attention was on the men holding Saryon.

  By the light of the burning dwellings, Joram saw a hand clench, then he heard the sound of a fist thudding into flesh. The catalyst doubled over with a groan, but the guard who held him hauled him upright. The attacker’s next blow smashed into Saryon’s head. His face suddenly dark with blood, the catalyst’s choked cry was cut off as the guard drove his fist once again into the priest’s stomach.

  “My god!” whispered Mosiah. Feeling his friend’s body stiffen, Joram turned to him in alarm. Mosiah’s face had gone ashen, sweat stood on his forehead, and he was staring at the catalyst with white-rimmed eyes. Looking back, Joram saw the catalyst slumped in his captor’s grasp, moaning, flinching as more blows landed on the unresisting body with ruthless efficiency.

  “No! Don’t—Are you mad?” Joram shouted, hanging onto Mosiah. “They’ll do worse to you if you interfere …”

  But he might have been talking to the air. Giving his friend a bitter, angry look, Mosiah kicked his horse violently in the ribs and dashed forward, nearly dragging Joram out of his saddle in his wild plunge.

  “Damn!” Joram swore, searching around for help to try to catch Mosiah.

  “I say,” came a lilting voice in his ear, “grand conflagration this. I’m quite enjoying myself. What about toodling over to the granary and watching them load sacks—Almin’s blood, what’s the matter, dear boy?”

  “Shut up and come on!” Joram shouted, gesturing. “Look!”

  “More jollity,” said Simkin with enthusiasm, riding after Joram. “I’d completely missed that. What are they doing to our poor catalytic friend?”

  “He refused one of Blachloch’s commands,” Joram said grimly, urging his excited horse to a gallop. “And look, there’s Mosiah! Going to get himself mixed up into this.”

  “I feel I should point out that from the looks of things, Mosiah is already mixed up in this,” panted Simkin, jouncing along behind as he tried to keep u
p. “Now, I enjoy beating up a catalyst as much as the next man, but Blachloch’s boys seem to be having quite a good time and I don’t think they’d appreciate us horning in on their sport—Almin’s blood and brains! What is our friend doing?”

  Leaping off his horse, Mosiah had hurled himself bodily at the man who was beating Saryon, knocking the henchmen to the ground. As the two went down in a struggling heap, the other guard, who had been holding Saryon while his companion inflicted the blows, flung the catalyst to one side. Conjuring up a huge branch in his hand, the guard started to smash it down on the young man’s head.

  “Mosiah!” Joram called, sliding off his horse and dashing madly toward them. But he knew, with an aching in his heart that startled him, that he must be too late. The blow was falling that would split the young man’s skull. Then Joram stopped, staring in astonishment as a brick appeared out of nowhere, materializing in the air right above the guards head.

  “I say, take that!” shouted the brick. Dropping down, it rapped the guard smartly on the head, then tumbled into the grass. The guard took a staggering step, swayed drunkenly, and keeled over, landing on top of the brick.

  Jumping forward, Joram grabbed hold of Mosiah, who had his hands around the guard’s throat.

  “Let him go!” Joram grunted, wrenching his friend from his victim. The man rolled over, gasping for air. Struggling to escape Joram’s hold, Mosiah lashed out with a booted foot and kicked the guard in the head. The guard lay still.

  “He’s finished! Leave him alone!” Joram ordered Mosiah, shaking him. “Listen! We’ve got to get out of here!”

  Glancing up at his friend, his eyes burning with bloodlust, Mosiah shook his head dazedly. “Saryon,” he gasped, wiping blood from a cut lip.

  “Oh, for the love of—” Joram began in disgust. “There he is, but I think he’s past helping.” He gestured to the catalyst’s inert body, which was lying crumpled on the grass. “Get him on a horse then, if you insist. Damn it, where the devil’s Simkin …”