Forging the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

Mosiah turned away. “Come on,” he said to Simkin. “We’ve been here long enough. The guard will get suspicious.”

  “Yes, we must be running along,” Simkin said, following. “I think I feel a definite stuffiness in my nose. I—Ah-choo! There, what did I tell you! The catalyst has given me his cold! I’m—Ah-choo! quite put out!” The orange bit of silk fluttered in the air. Applying it to his nose, Simkin sniffed gloomily. “And such a strenuous evening ahead of me, too. Blachloch cheats, you know.”

  “No, he doesn’t. He’s too good. You cheat,” said Joram dryly.

  “Because he always wins! Even when I cheat, I never seem to manage that. I suppose I should keep my mind on the game. See you in a bit, dear boy. Must go pick the pretty flowers and mix up the potion.” Simkin winked. “Be ready. You’ll hear my voice …” Nodding toward the guard, who could be seen watching from the doorway of a house across the street, Simkin sauntered out of the prison.

  “What about you?” Joram asked, stopping Mosiah in the doorway.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Mosiah answered without looking at him. “Maybe I’ll leave by myself, before you all get caught.”

  “Well … good luck, then,” Joram said coldly.

  “Thanks.” Mosiah gave him a hurt, bitter glance. “Thanks very much. Good luck to you, too.”

  Slamming the door shut behind him, he left abruptly.

  Looking out the window, Saryon could see him walking away, his head bowed.

  “He cares a lot for you,” the catalyst said quietly turning from the window to Joram, who was mixing a bowl of gruel over the coals of the fire.

  The young man did not reply, he might not have even heard.

  Crossing their small, cold prison, Saryon lay down on the hard bed. How long had it been since he’d slept? Truly peaceful sleep? Would he ever be able to sleep again? Or would he always see that young Deacon, the look of fear as he saw death in the warlocks eyes?

  “Do you trust Simkin?” Saryon asked, staring up at the rotting beams of the ceiling.

  “As much as I trust you, Catalyst,” Joram replied.

  7

  The Storm

  “C’mon, old hag, be brisk there. Take any longer and supper’ll be breakfast!”

  The old woman to whom this was addressed made no reply, nor did she appear to move faster. Shuffling back and forth between table and fireplace, carrying vegetables in her apron, she tossed them into a pot hanging by a hook over the fire. Slumped in a chair by a table he had dragged over near the window, the guard watched these proceedings with a growl, his attention divided between the old woman, the pot bubbling over the fire—from which came a strong smell of onions—and the prison across the street.

  The very faintest light shone in the window of the prison, the light of a feeble fire. Occasionally the guard could see shadowy figures cross back and forth in front of the window. There was no one on the streets this night; no one came to visit the prisoners. The prisoners had made no move to leave, for which the guard was grateful. This was no night to be out. A cold slanting rain drove into the mud street like spears, arrowtips of sleet rattled against the windows of the houses, while the wind leading this onslaught shrieked and howled like a demon horde.

  “It’s stupid, keepin’ a man here this night,” muttered the guard. “Not even the Prince of Devils would be out in a storm the likes of this. A’nt that ready yet, you old bitty?” Half-turning in his chair, he raised his hand as if to cuff the woman. Being slightly deaf and dim of vision, she still paid no attention to him, and the guard was just getting to his feet when he was startled by the rattle of the door lock.

  “Open up in there!” came an eerie voice as shrill as the wind.

  The guard cast a swift glance across the street. The feeble light still burned in the prison, there were no shadows at all to be seen in the windows.

  “Hullo! Hullo!” cried the voice. This was followed by a battering and banging on the door that seemed likely to stave it in.

  The guard was not overburdened with imagination, but then neither was he overburdened with intelligence. Having summoned the Prince of Devils to mind, so to speak, the guard found, like many conjurers, that it was difficult to banish him. That this gentleman might have arrived to claim his soul seemed not unlikely, having been told by a mother he only dimly recalled that this was undoubtedly going to be his fate. Rising to his feet, he peered out the window in an attempt to see the visitor, but could make out nothing but an indistinct shadow.

  “Answer the door!” the guard shouted at the old woman, having some vague idea that the Prince might not be particular about whose soul he claimed. But the old woman’s attention was fixed solely upon the stew, for she heard neither shout nor door.

  “Is anybody home?” came the voice, and the rattling increased.

  At this, hope glimmered within the guard. Shrinking back from the window so that he couldn’t be seen, he judged it likely that the unwanted visitor would go away. To insure this, he made several signs to the old woman, indicating she was to go on about her work undisturbed.

  Unfortunately, this frantic hand-waving did what all the shouting in the village could not have done—it caught the old woman’s attention. Seeing the guard pointing at the door, she nodded and, with shuffling gait, walked over and opened it.

  A blast of chill wind, a flurry of rain, a stinging spray of sleet, and a huge furry figure all burst into the room simultaneously. Only one of these nocturnal visitors was permitted to stay however. Turning around, the furry figure put his shoulder against the door and, with the old woman’s help, slammed it shut upon the icy intruders.

  “Almin’s death,” swore a sepulchral voice, slightly muffled by frost-rimed fur, “I might have perished out there on that doorstoop! And here I’ve come for you ’specially.”

  At this confirmation of his fears, though he had expected something more fiery with tails and horns, the guard could only stammer incoherently until the figure removed its hat and hurled it upon the floor with another oath.

  This was matched by an oath from the guard. “Simkin,” he muttered, sinking back down in his chair in weak-kneed relief.

  “So this is the thanks I get, after nearly perishing of the cold to bring you a bit of cheer,” said Simkin with a sniff, tossing an aleskin upon the table in front of the guard.

  “What’s that?” the man demanded suspiciously.

  “A little something from dear old Blachloch,” said the young man, with a casual wave of his hand as he went to stand near the fire. “Sharing in the captured spoils, commendation for job well done, a toast drunk to rape, pillage, and plunder, and all that sort of thing.”

  The guard’s face lit up. “Well, that’s fine, that is,” he said, eyeing the aleskin greedily and rubbing his hands. A sudden thought occurred to him. His eyes narrowing, he turned around. “Here, now,” he said surlily, glancing at Simkin who was, it seemed, taking an uncommon interest in the stew. “You can’t stay. I’m on guard duty and I’m not to be bothered.”

  “Believe me, dear chap, I wouldn’t stay here for all the pet monkeys in Zith-el.” Simkin sniffed and, grabbing the bit of orange silk from the air, put it to his nose. “I assure you, the smell of onion and unbathed lout hold no attraction for me. I am an errand boy, that is all, and I will remain here long enough to warm myself or until I pass out from the odor, whichever comes first. As for your guard duty”—he cast a disdainful glance out the window—“it’s a complete waste of time, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t, but you’re right there,” said the guard, sitting back comfortably, not at all disconcerted by Simkin’s insults once assured the young man would not be sharing his repast. “I c’n understand puttin’ up with the catalyst, makin’ sure he toes the mark. But a clunk over t’head and a dip in t’river would settle that black-haired bastard of a kid. Why Blachloch puts up with ’im is beyond me.”

  “Why indeed,” murmured Simkin in bored tones, his eyes on the guard, who was pulling the cork on the aleski
n. “Well, back into the night, as they say. You take care, Grammie,” the young man whispered. “Get to bed early, and when you do, be certain to put out the light.”

  Simkin emphasized this last with a wink and a nod toward the guard, who was sniffing at the ale and licking his lips. Looking at him with eyes suddenly shrewd and penetrating, the old woman smiled and bobbed her white cap, then shuffled back to dish up the stew, her ears deaf to all but whispers, it would seem.

  Cheered by the sight of the guard putting the neck of the aleskin to his lips, Simkin hurried out the door into, the teeth of the storm and dashed across the street. Blinded by darkness, rain, sleet, and his huge fur hat, he promptly collided with someone.

  “Simkin! Watch where you’re going!” snarled a voice in irritated relief.

  “I say, Mosiah! So you didn’t venture into the wilderness, after all. No, not the door, the lout’s still watching. Come over here in the shadows. Wait …”

  “For what? I’m freezing! Didn’t you—”

  “Ah, there’s the signal.” The light in the guard’s house blinked out, leaving it dark except for the reflected gleam of the fire. Darting out from behind the corner of the prison, Simkin tapped upon the door, which opened at his knock.

  Darting inside, Simkin dragged Mosiah with him, and Joram slammed the door shut behind them. “A fine night you’ve picked for this,” Simkin said through clicking teeth.

  “I know,” remarked Joram coolly from the depths of the shadows in the chill room. “With the fog and the rain, the light from the forge won’t be seen.”

  “It won’t matter if it is,” muttered Mosiah, standing hunch-shouldered and shivering near the door. “I talked to the smith. He’s let the word out among Blachloch’s men that some of his people might be working tonight—make up for the time lost because of the raid. Don’t worry,” Mosiah returned in answer to Joram’s frown, “I didn’t tell him anything and he didn’t ask. His sons were with us when the village burned. They’ve taken the vow. You—Well, never mind.” Mosiah stopped.

  “You what?” said Joram.

  “Nothing,” Mosiah mumbled. You can trust him had been on Mosiah’s lips, but, looking at Joram’s dark, cold expression, he shook his head.

  The half-smile lit the brown eyes like the light from the dying embers. Joram knew what his friend had intended to say and why he hadn’t said it.

  “What about the guard?”

  “The lout is out on his snout,” reported Simkin, highly pleased with his rhyme that he had been composing all evening. “I—Oh, good evening, Father. I didn’t see you, lurking about the shadows. Getting in practice? I say, you don’t look at all well. Cold still bothering you? I got over mine, fortunately. Blachloch and a cold in the head would simply be too much to deal with ….”

  Saryon said nothing. He hadn’t even heard Simkin. He couldn’t hear anything above the sound of the wind, prowling about the prison like a beast of prey yearning for the blood it smelled inside.

  Once, long ago, Saryon had heard the wind talk. Only then it had whispered, “The Prince is Dead …. The Prince is Dead ….” and its tone had been sad and sorrowful. Now it shrieked and yammered, “Dead, Dead, Dead!” in a kind of mad triumph, delighting to torment him in his downfall. Saryon …

  The wind spoke to him, calling him by name, summoning him—

  “Saryon!”

  Blinking, he started.

  “I—I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I was … just … Is it time?”

  “Yes.” Joram’s voice was cool and toneless. The wind seemed more alive. “Simkin’s gone. We should delay no longer.”

  “Here, Father, you’ll need more wraps than that,” said Mosiah, struggling out of his own wet cloak.

  “He’ll warm up quick enough in the forge,” muttered Joram, irritated at the delay.

  Paying no attention to Joram, Mosiah overrode Saryon’s confused protests and helped the catalyst put the young mans cloak on over his shabby robes.

  “Are you finally ready?” Joram asked and, without waiting for a reply, cautiously opened the door and peered into the street. Not surprisingly, its only occupants were the rain, the sleet, and the wind. Grabbing a cloak Mosiah handed to him at the last moment—or he might have gone out into the bitter weather without any protection—Joram carelessly tossed it around his shoulders and stepped out into the storm whose fierceness seemed reflected on the young man’s face.

  Moving more slowly, Saryon followed.

  “May the Almin go with you,” came Mosiah’s soft whisper.

  Saryon shook his head.

  As though waiting for him to emerge, the wind pounced on the catalyst with a snarl. Chill talons of rain ripped through his cloak and robes with ease; teethlike sleet bit into his flesh. But the wind wasn’t intent on devouring him, it seemed. Dogging his heels, it panted behind him, driving him forward, its breath cold upon the back of his neck. Saryon had the vague impression that if he tried to veer from this dark path he walked, the wind would leap to intercept him and block him, nipping at his bare ankles, its slashing fangs a threat and a reminder.

  Death, Death, Death …

  “Confound it, Father, watch where you’re going!” Joram’s voice cracked impatiently, but his strong arm steadied Saryon, who, in his misery and bleak despair, had nearly walked into a gully filled with icy water.

  “It’s not much further,” said Joram. Glancing at the young man through the driving rain, Saryon saw that Joram’s teeth were clenched, not against the chill of the storm but against the excitement that raged within him. And, as though conjured up by the young man’s voice, the cavern of the forge suddenly rose up out of the darkness, its red-glowing embers staring at the catalyst like the eyes of the creature that had been pursuing him.

  Joram dragged aside the heavy, wooden door to let them in. Saryon started to step inside, the warmth and peace of the fire-lit darkness beckoning him. Then he hesitated. He could turn and run. Go back to his Church. Obedire est vivere. Vivere est obedire. Yes! It was so simple! He would obey. Hadn’t catalyst done that for centuries, obey without question?

  But the wind only laughed at him, mocking him, and Saryon realized that the storm had been building all his life, rising from that first whisper to this shriek of triumph. Lifting the skirts of his robes, the wind tugged at him from the sides and pushed him from behind until, with a final, wild shriek, it shoved him over the small rock ledge and sent him staggering into the red-tinged blackness.

  Behind him, Joram dragged the heavy door shut again, then hurried to his work. Standing in the forge, relaxing in the warmth, Saryon stared around in the fascination he could no longer deny. Strange tools gleamed in the reflected glow of the coals that burned brighter as Joram, operating the bellows, gave them life. The children born of this fiery union cluttered the floor—horseshoes, bits, broken nails, half-finished knives, iron pots. Absorbed in his work, Joram paid no attention to the catalyst. Sitting down, careful to keep out of the young man’s way, Saryon listened to the harsh breath of the bellows and realized suddenly that he could no longer hear the wind.

  The storm raged still, its fury increasing, perhaps, in its triumph at its victory over the catalyst. The wind roared through the streets, tore limbs from trees, tiles from roofs. Rain knocked threateningly at every door, sleet tapped against the windows. Those inside the large brick dwelling upon the hill overlooking the Technologists’ settlement were able to ignore the storm, however. Absorbed in the intricacies of their games—and there was more than one game being played—they paid scant attention to the vagaries of nature without, being far more concerned with those within.

  “Queen of Cups, high trump card. That takes your Knight, Simkin, and the next two tricks are mine, I believe.” Blachloch laid a card upon the table and, sitting back, stared at Simkin expectantly. “How are our prisoners getting along?” the warlock asked casually.

  Looking at the card before him in some consternation, Simkin regarded his hand thoughtfully. “Plotting a
gainst you, O Winning One,” he said with a shrug.

  “Ah”—Blachloch smiled slightly, rubbing the tip of his finger along his blond mustache—“I guessed as much. What are they plotting?”

  “Doing you in, that sort of thing,” Simkin replied. Looking up at Blachloch with a sweet smile, he laid a card down upon the warlock’s queen. “I’ll sacrifice this to protect my Knight.”

  Blachloch’s expressionless face tightened. The lips compressed, drawing the mustache into a straight, thin line. “The Fool! That card has been played!”

  “Oh, no, dear boy,” said Simkin with a yawn. “You must be mistaken—”

  “I am never mistaken,” Blachloch retorted coldly. “I have followed the fall of the cards with the utmost attention. The Fool has been played, I tell you. Drumlor sacrificed it to protect his King …” The warlock looked at his henchman for confirmation.

  “Y-yes,” stammered Drumlor. “I—I … That is—”

  Having been invited to play simply so there would be three, Drumlor had neither love for nor interest in the game. Like many of the other guards, Blachloch had taught him to play in order that the warlock would have someone with which to game. These nights were nerve-racking experiences to poor Drumlor, who barely remembered the last card he had played, much less a card ten tricks earlier.

  “Really, Blachloch, the only Fool this imbecile remembers is the one he saw this morning when he looked into the mirror. I say, if you’re going to get into a snit, go back through the tricks! It doesn’t matter anyway”—Simkin tossed his cards on the table—“you have defeated me. You always do.”

  “It isn’t the winning,” Blachloch remarked, turning over Simkin’s cards and sorting through them, “it is the game itself—the calculating, the strategy, the ability to outwit your opponent. You should know that, Simkin. You and I play the game for the sake of the game, do we not, my friend?”

  “I assure you, dear fellow,” said Simkin languidly, leaning back in his chair, “the game is the only reason I continue to exist on this wretched patch of grass and gravel we call a world. Without it, life would be so boring one might as well curl up into a ball and drop oneself into the river.”