Mosiah sat upon a small, grass-covered knoll, his shoulders hunched against the thick, oppressive fog that wrapped itself around him like a chill, clammy hand. He had no idea what time of day it was or how long he had been sitting here. It might have been a half-day since his unit had been ordered to take up its position. It might have been a half-month. He had lost all sense of time in this cloud-shrouded world and he appeared close to losing his other senses as well.
He could see nothing through the impenetrable mist, not even the shapes of the others of his unit. The fact that the enemy could not see him was, he supposed, some sort of comfort. But it did not make up for the growing uneasiness he was experiencing—something deep inside whispering that the rest of humanity had long ago departed, leaving him behind, the only person left in this world.
He knew that wasn’t true. He could hear sounds, for one thing. Although distorted by the fog, the noises took on an eerie, unnerving quality almost worse than silence. Were those cold and hollow voices the voices of humans or ghosts? Were those footsteps? Was it the enemy, creeping up on him from behind?
“Who goes there?” Mosiah questioned the fog in a quavering voice.
There was no answer. Winding his words in its web, the mist dragged them away.
Was that a hand on his shoulder. …?
Drawing his dagger, Mosiah leaped to his feet, whirled around, and skillfully stabbed a tree.
“Numskull!” he muttered. Sheathing his dagger, he shoved the clawed branch that had brushed across his neck out of his way. He glanced around hurriedly, hoping no one had seen him, then let out his breath in relief and sat back down on the hummock, nursing a cut on his hand; the branch having been able to gain some revenge upon its assailant by digging several small twigs into his flesh.
Had the battle started? Mosiah thought it likely, having convinced himself that he had been sitting here for several hours at least. Perhaps it was over? Maybe his unit had been called up and he hadn’t heard? The thought of this was so alarming that he picked up the heavy, metal crossbow and walked a few steps, peering into the fog, hoping to find somebody who knew what was going on.
Then he stopped, irresolute.
His orders had been specific. Remain silent and unmoving until the fog lifts. Prince Garald had emphasized the importance of obeying this command to the letter.
“It is you Sorcerers who hold the key to our victory,” he told them in the dark hours before the dawn when they had assembled near the Corridor preparatory to being transported to the Field of Glory. “Why? Because you do not rely upon magic! When our warlocks have drained Xavier’s warlocks of Life, when the enemy’s catalysts are so exhausted that they can no longer draw the magic from the world, you will come forth and the enemy will be at your mercy. Xavier will be placed in check, he will be forced to surrender the Field to us.”
Sighing, telling himself that he hadn’t been here five weeks but more probably five hours, Mosiah turned back to resume his seat on the grassy knoll, only to find that the grassy knoll had disappeared. Standing absolutely still, he tried to retrace his steps in his mind. He had risen from the knoll and turned to his left, he was certain. He had taken only four or five steps. Therefore, if he turned back to his right, he should locate his position easily.
Twenty steps later, he had not found it. Worse than that, he was thoroughly confused, having turned right, left, and every other conceivable direction in the fog.
“Now you’ve done it!” spoke a peeved voice right in his ear. “You’ve gotten us completely lost.”
Mosiah leaped straight into the air, his heart climbing in terror up his chest and into his throat. Dagger in his shaking hand, he whipped around to confront nothing.
“You’re not going to attack a tree again, are you?” queried the voice sternly. “I’ve never been so humiliated …”
“Simkin?” Mosiah hissed furiously, searching this way and that, trying to calm his heart, forcing it to return to some semblance of beating normally. “Where are you?”
“Here,” said the voice in aggrieved tones It came from somewhere near Mosiah’s ear. “And a more boring few hours I’ve never spent in my entire life, not even the time the former Emperor recounted his life’s story, from the womb up or out as the case may be.”
Unslinging the quiver of arrows that he wore on his back, Mosiah flung it on the ground.
“Ouch!” cried the voice. “I say, that was completely uncalled for! You’ve ruffled my feathers!”
“How about scaring me half to death?” Mosiah said in a seething whisper.
“Well, I will, if you insist,” remarked the arrow in puzzled tones, “though why you want me to scare you again is—”
“No, you fool!” cried Mosiah, kicking at the quiver in his rage. “I meant you already did scare me half to death.” He clutched at his chest, feeling his heart pounding. “I think I hurt something,” he muttered, sinking down—weak-kneed—on a nearby tree stump.
“Frightfully sorry,” said an arrow, slowly working its way out of the quiver. Mosiah, watching it grimly, saw that it was bright green with orange feathers—a remarkable contrast from the plain, metal arrows he carried. “You could help me, you know,” remarked the arrow, twisting and turning in its efforts to drag itself onto the grass.
Not only did Mosiah make no effort to assist the arrow, he told it in no uncertain terms what it might do with itself.
“A simple no would have sufficed,” the arrow commented, sniffing. With one last wriggle, it wormed its way out of the quiver and in a blur of green and orange, Simkin—large as life—stood stiffly before Mosiah, arms at his sides, feet pressed together. “I’m stiff as the late Empress and I’ve lost all feeling in my toes,” he complained gloomily. “I say, do you like my ensemble? I call it Lincoln Green. There was this jolly group of bandits whose leader took to frolicking about the woods in silk hose and pointy hats with feathers. He was caught doing funny things to the deer. Complaints were made to the local sheriff and as a result—”
“What are you doing here?” Mosiah grumbled, looking about in the fog, trying to see or hear something. He thought he could detect confused sounds coming from his left, but he wasn’t certain, “You know Garald said he didn’t want to see so much as the hem of that orange silk scarf of yours on the battlefield.”
“Garald is a dear boy and I love him to distraction,” remarked Simkin, stretching luxuriously, “but you must admit that there are times when he’s a pompous ass—”
“Shhh!” whispered Mosiah, scandalized. “Keep your voice down!”
“I hate to tell you this, old bean,” said Simkin cheerfully, “but we’re undoubtedly miles from the Field right now. Don’t look so glum. Whole thing’s a complete bore anyway. Bunch of aging warlocks, casting spells at each other, when they can remember the words that is. Catalysts snoozing in the sun. Oh, sometimes you get a young hothead who livens things up a bit by tossing a centaur or two into the fray. Rather a fun thing to see the old fellows hiking up their robes and beating a swift retreat into the shrubbery. But I assure you, it’s dreadfully dull. No one’s getting killed or anything.”
“Well, no one’s supposed to!” Mosiah muttered, wondering uneasily if Simkin was right and he had wandered off the Field.
“I know. But I was rather hoping a centaur would get loose or a giant run amuck. But, no such luck. I found myself growing quite bored. To make matters worse, I was sharing the carriage of the Baron Von Licktenstein, who generally provides the most marvelous cold luncheons. He had a large hamper of food with him from which the most delectable smells were rising. But it was still an hour or so until noon, the Baron was a crashing bore, insisting on describing all the plays to me. I told him I was growing faint with hunger, but he missed my delicate hints that a snack would help me revive my flagging spirits. I finally decided to find you, dear boy. Had something important I wanted to tell you anyway.”
“Not nearly noon. What time is it now?” Mosiah asked, wishing Simkin ha
dn’t mentioned food.
“About one-ish or two-ish, I should say. By the way, deucedly clever of me, sneaking in amongst your arrows like that, wouldn’t you agree—”
Mosiah interrupted again. “What do you mean, you have something important to tell me?”
Simkin raised an eyebrow. “Yes, indeed,” he said with that strange, half-mocking yet wholly serious smile that never failed to send shivers through Mosiah. “I ran into an old acquaintance of yours in Merilon.”
“Mine?” Mosiah glared at Simkin suspiciously. “Who?”
“Your friend, the witch. Head of the Duuk-tsarith.”
“My god!” Mosiah paled, shuddering.
“Almin’s beard, dear boy!” Simkin said, watching him in amusement. “Don’t carry on so. You look quite guilty and you haven’t done anything—that I know of, at least.”
“You don’t know what it was like!” Mosiah swallowed. “I dream sometimes that I still see her face, leering down at me …” Mosiah stared at Simkin, suddenly realizing what he’d said. “What were you doing in Merilon last night?”
“I’ve been there the past week,” said Simkin with a yawn. Glancing with distaste at the stump on which Mosiah was sitting, he conjured up a couch with a wave of his hand and lay down on it, hands behind his head. “The parties there have been quite marvelous.”
“But Merilon is the enemy!”
“My dear boy, I have no enemies,” Simkin remarked. “But you’ve completely unlinked my chain of thought. It was important, too.” He frowned, stroking his beard. The thick fog rolled over and around him, partially blotting him from view, until all Mosiah could see was the bright orange hat Simkin wore with his green outfit and the tips of his orange shoes. “Ah, yes. The witch asked me, quite casually, if I had seen Joram lately.”
“Joram!” Mosiah repeated, aghast. Standing up nervously, he moved nearer Simkin and laid his hand on the couch in the forest, relieved to touch something solid and real. “But … that doesn’t make sense! Maybe you heard wrong, or she didn’t mean …”
“Precisely what I said. I was quite floored. Literally. Tumbled down, plop, right out of the air. ‘Bit of fluff in my ear,’ I said to the witch. ‘Didn’t hear well. Thought you asked if I’d seen Joram.’”
“‘I did,’ she replied. Straightforward, these Duuk-tsarith. No beating about the old bush.
“‘Joram?’ I repeated. ‘Chap with the remarkable sword who … er … passed on about a year ago?’
“‘The same,’ says the witch.
“‘Are we speaking ghostly manifestation, here’? I inquired further in what I fear was a trembling voice. ‘Rattling bones, clanking chains, things going bump in the night, Joram seen stalking the halls in his nightshirt’?
“She did not answer, but stared at me like this.” Simkin imitated the piercing dagger gaze of the witch so well that Mosiah shuddered again and nodded hurriedly.
“I understand,” he muttered. “Go on.”
“Then she said, ‘I will be in touch,’ which—with them—means exactly that. I swear,” continued Simkin solemnly with a shiver of his own that was not entirely affected, “that I have felt icy fingers lingering near my ear….”
“Don’t say things like that!” Beads of sweat dotted Mosiah’s lip. “Especially not now.” He glanced about. “I hate this wretched fog! Did you hear something?” He paused, listening. A strange sound—a low humming noise—was coming from out of the mist. “What’s going on? Why don’t we do something?”
“Well, you understand, of course, what all this means?”
“No,” Mosiah snapped, cocking his head, trying to figure out the direction of the odd sound. “But I suppose you’re going to tell me….”
“It means, dear boy,” said Simkin loftily, “that Xavier doesn’t have the Darksword. Not only that, but either he or the Duuk-tsarith or both believe Joram has returned. And with Joram—the Prophecy.”
Mosiah said nothing. He couldn’t hear anything anymore and assumed it must have been his imagination. Staring out into the fog, he shook his head. “Xavier’s right, you know,” he said finally, reluctantly, in a low voice. “Joram is back. I knew it in my heart when I stepped on that beach and saw Saryon lying there. Joram’s the only one who could have broken that spell …” He paused, then said heavily. “We have to convince Garald—”
“Hush! The fog’s lifting!” cried Simkin, raising his head and starting to his feet.
The note of a single trumpet sounded. A sharp, crisp wind sprang up, blowing the fog to wispy shreds that curled about the ground, then fled completely. The noonday sun shone full upon them.
Blinking in the bright light, feeling it warm his blood, Mosiah hurriedly grabbed his crossbow and slung the quiver of arrows over his shoulder.
“There’s my unit!” He pointed to a band of men forming into ranks under the leadership of one of the blacksmiths sons. “Not twenty feet away! I didn’t lose them! I’m over here!” Mosiah began to shout, waving his arm, when he heard the weird humming sound again, much nearer and louder. Turning, he glanced around behind him.
Mosiah gasped in horror. Fear impaled him on its sharp-honed point, driving deep, draining him. He could not move, he could not think. He could only stare.
“Simkin!” Mosiah cried out wretchedly, praying for the touch of living flesh, needing it to reassure him of his own reality in the midst of the blinding terror that was closing over him, thicker and more chill than the fog. “Simkin!” he moaned, frozen in fear. “Don’t leave me! Where are you?”
There was no answer.
11
The Invisible Foe
Prince Garald could not understand what was happening. He stared down at his Gameboard in bewilderment, unable to comprehend.
On his northern flank, gamepieces were under attack. They were fighting desperately, fighting for their lives.
They were dying….
And there was nothing there! No enemy within sight!
“What is this?” Garald cried hoarsely. Grasping the edge of the Board with his hands, he gripped it tightly, as though he might somehow squeeze the answer from the unspeaking stone. “What is going on?” he demanded of his commanders, who stared back at him blankly.
“Cardinal?” Garald glared at his minister. But the catalyst’s face was ashen, his lips moving in prayer. Looking at his Prince, he could only shake his head.
“I do not know,” he managed to murmur.
“Xavier!” Garald snarled in fury, his fingers digging into the stone. “He is responsible! The Darksword! Yet—”
“No, Your Grace,” Radisovik answered, pointing at the Board with a trembling hand. “Look? Whatever is attacking us is attacking Xavier, too.”
Garald turned his gaze back to the Gameboard. His eyes widened, his voice choked.
Emperor Xavier’s gamepieces were apparently battling the same unseen foe, for they had broken off their attack of Garald’s gamepieces and were now fighting for their lives as well.
Gamepieces! Garald groaned Those were real men and women dying out there, their living bodies represented by the tiny images that populated the magical Board. Watching in helpless confusion, the Prince saw the ranks of the War Masters on the northern part of the Board begin to crumble and break apart. The small figures were turning and fleeing, some of the red-robed warlocks dropping to the ground as though struck from behind by an unseen force, their bodies fading away on the Board as the life left them. Other warlocks and witches were apparently attempting to stand and fight the enemy that Garald could not see, but these tiny figures, too, soon disappeared, leaving no trace behind.
As for the catalysts—they were not being struck down, their bodies did not fall lifeless to the Board. The catalysts were simply and suddenly vanishing.
“What is happening? What is going on?” Garald raved. Wrenching his hands from the Board, he clenched them into fists. “The Ariels from that sector? Where are they?” he cried suddenly, scanning the skies. “Why don’t the
y report?”
Cardinal Radisovik raised his eyes, too, and clutched at the Prince.
“Your Grace? The spectators,” the Cardinal said urgently “They don’t know what is happening. You must remain calm, or you will start a panic.”
Prince Garald looked at the glittering carriages circling or parked in the skies above him, their wealthy occupants enjoying their midday meals. Faintly, mingled with the murmur of voices and laughter, he could hear the tinkling sounds of clinking champagne glasses.
“Thank you, Radisovik,” the Prince said, drawing a deep breath. Straightening, he clasped his hands firmly behind his back and tried to assume a nonchalant attitude. “Move in closer around the Board,” he ordered his commanders crisply. “Block it from their view. We’ve got to get them out of here!” he added in a low voice as the nobles gathered close, crowding around the Board, their faces pale. “But under what pretense—”
“Perhaps a storm, Garald,” suggested Radisovik, the catalyst’s fear evident in his use of the Prince’s given name in public. “The Sif-Hanar—”
“Excellent idea!” Garald motioned to one of the Ariels, who was standing by. “Fly to the Sif-Hanar,” the Prince ordered the winged man. “Tell them I want storms to sweep across this entire Board! Rain, thunder, hail, lightning. That might help stop whatever is attacking us from the north as well,” the Prince added, glancing back at the Board, his brow furrowed with concern. “Send additional messengers to warn the spectators”—Garald gestured upward—“both here and in other parts of the Field, that storms are imminent.”
The Ariel bowed, spread his wings, and soared into the air, motioning others of his kind to follow him. Gazing after them, Garald saw several suddenly swerve out of their course, flying over to a dark object that appeared between two carriages.
“It’s an Ariel,” Garald reported in carefully emotionless tones. “They are bringing him in. I think he’s been injured.”
Two Ariels—one flying on either side of their comrade, holding him gently by the arms—returned to the Prince while the others continued on to carry out their orders. The Ariels flew slowly, bearing their burden between them. Waiting impatiently below, trying to remain calm, Garald was acutely aware of the sudden silence falling among the crowd of spectators, then the slow murmur of voices as they caught sight of what was transpiring. As the Ariels neared, Garald saw the man they carried and he caught his breath in horror, hearing similar reactions from those gathered around him.
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