Triumph of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  The name stuck.

  The comment—and the nickname—didn’t bother James Boris one bit. He wore it proudly, in fact, as he wore his many medals. This lack of imagination was, he considered, one factor that had enabled his swift rise through the ranks. Major Boris was a by-the-book commander. His roots were deeply mired in the firm ground of rules and regulations, a comforting and reassuring thought to those he led. There was never any need to wonder where James Boris stood on any issue. If it was covered in the rules and regulations, then Major Boris stood squarely on top of it and nothing—not even the legendary tank—would move him. If it wasn’t covered in rules and regulations …

  Well, that point was moot. James Boris had never encountered anything that wasn’t.

  Until now.

  This particular aspect of Major Boris’s personality—the fact that he had no imagination—had been one of the major factors involved in selecting him for the expeditionary force to Thimhallan. Top government officials had descriptions of this bizarre world, descriptions provided by two men: one known to casino audiences as Sorcerer and another known only to certain secret government agencies as Joram. The top officials, many of whom could scarcely believe what they heard, decided that it would take a man of nerve and cold, hard logic to survive in Thimhallan without losing his senses.

  It was easy to see how they reached this decision and it undoubtedly had some merit. Unfortunately, the decision proved disastrously wrong. Although any person sent from the safe, secure world of technology into the strange and terrifying world of magic must have been shaken to his core, a commander with imagination might have been flexible enough to cope with the mind-boggling situations. Major Boris, on the other hand, felt that—for the first time in his life—his solid, sturdy stump had been blasted clean out of the ground. Now he lay helpless, his roots exposed, a pathetic sight.

  “You want to know what I recommend, Major?” muttered Captain Collin. “I recommend we get the hell out of here!”

  The Captain, a man of forty-five and a veteran of one of the most grueling tank campaigns ever fought on the Outer Fringes, took out a cigarette with a trembling hand, dropped it, took out another, accidentally snapped it in two, and finally stuffed the case back in his pocket.

  Major Boris looked gloomily at his other captains and received emphatic nods from the rest, except for one, who wasn’t paying attention, but sat huddled in a chair, shivering.

  “You’re suggesting we retreat—” James Boris growled.

  “I’m suggesting we get out of here before we’re all dead or looney as—” Captain Collin bit his words off with a vicious snap, letting a glance at the shivering captain sitting beside him complete his sentence.

  Major Boris sat behind a standard-issue metal desk, facing his company commanders who sat before him in standard-issue metal folding chairs, meeting inside Major Boris’s standard-issue field headquarters, a dome of plastic made in the latest geodesic design. A series of other domes—some larger (supply domes, mess domes) and many smaller, living-quarter domes—dotted the landscape for miles about. The domes could be dismantled in a matter of minutes, the entire battalion could be aboard ship and out of this nightmare world in a matter of hours.

  Resting his hands firmly on the metal top of the desk, the Major felt reassured by its coolness, its stolid, unyielding … what? James Boris groped for a word. Metalness? Stolid, unyielding metalness? He didn’t suppose metalness was a word, but it said what he meant. He could be out of here by 0300 hours, back in a world of metal.

  His hands clenched on the desk top. He looked around it carefully, taking in everything from a green teapot with a bright orange lid that he couldn’t recall having ordered—tea was the last thing James Boris wanted to drink right now—to the papers stacked neatly in a pile next to his standard-issue field computer. Nervously, unaware of what he was doing, the Major began to drum his knuckles softly on the metal, his gaze switching to a small transparent plastic window set into the side of the plastic dome.

  It was night, dark as hyperspace, with no moon or stars visible. James Boris wondered, his gloom deepening, if this was real night or one of those terrifying, magic nights that had been dropped over him and his men like some huge, smothering blanket. A quick glance at his watch reassured him of the time, however: 2400. They’d been here only forty-eight hours.

  Forty-eight hours. That was the length of time the brass had figured it would take to intimidate the population of this world. A populace that, according to reports, was living somewhere just south of the Middle Ages. Forty-eight hours and Major Boris was to have sent back word that the situation was well under control, his forces were occupying the major capitals, negotiations for peaceful coexistence could begin.

  Forty-eight hours. Half his men dead, over half his tanks destroyed or out of commission. Of those men surviving, probably a third were in little better shape than the shivering captain. Major Boris made a weary, mental note to turn the man over to the medics and declare him unfit for command.

  Forty-eight hours. They were safe enough here, he supposed, hidden in the mountains, but he kept having the eerie feeling he was being watched, unseen eyes observing him.

  Staring out the window, Major Boris heard his captains talking. They were going over the incidents of the last forty-eight hours, describing them for the hundredth time in tight, tense voices, as though daring anyone to dispute what they had seen. James Boris floated on top of their sea of words, seeing occasionally in his mind the fragment of a rule or a regulation drift by. Floundering, he sought to grasp it, to hang onto it. But it always sank, and he was left helpless, drowning.

  So lost in this dark sea was the Major that he never noticed the silent entrance of another man.

  Neither did any of the others. This was due, perhaps, to the fact that the man did not enter through the headquarters’ door, but simply materialized inside the dome. A tall, broad-shouldered, handsome man, he was dressed in an expensive cashmere suit, a silk tie at his throat. It was odd apparel for a battlefield and, if his dress was odd, his demeanor was odder. He might have been lounging at the bar, waiting for a table in a fine restaurant. Calmly, he straightened the cuffs of his white shirt, a jeweled cufflink sparkled at his wrist. Calmly,he regarded Major James Boris. A plastic laminated identity card adorned with his picture was tucked carefully into his suit pocket. Stamped across it in red was his name, Menju, and the single word: Advisor.

  Although the man made no sound to draw attention to himself, he did nothing to try to conceal his presence either. The captains sat with their backs to him Major Boris, wrapped in his own problems, was still staring at his desk. The newly arrived man listened to the captains’ reports with interest, occasionally stroking the identity card he wore with the tips of fingers remarkable for their length and delicacy of touch. When he toyed with this placard with the single word, Advisor, he smiled, as though he found it all highly amusing.

  “It was when we were attacking that stone fortress where we had, so we were told”—Captain Collins tone was bitter and ironic—“the creeps trapped. One of my tank crews had one of them, a woman, a woman, mind you”—the Captain’s tone grew dark—“in their sights when this green goo starts oozing through the hatch. Before they know what’s happening, this … this slime is eating into their skin! They start to glow, like, and within seconds they’re a quivering mass of green jelly.

  “Kid turned into a wolf right before my eyes! Leaped on Rankin, knocked him down, and tore his throat out before I could move. God help me! I’ll never forget Rankin’s scream What could I do? Run? Hell yes I ran! And the whole time I was running I could feel hot breath on my neck, hear that thing panting behind me. I can still hear it.”

  “We fired at this thing, but he must have been thirty feet tall. We coulda been tossin’ matches at it instead of lasers for all it cared. Lifted one foot and smash! That was the end of Mardec and Hayes. We couldn’t even get the bodies outa the wreckage…”

  “A ma
n in white robes, like some damn picture in a Sunday school book, jumps up and attacks my boys with a sword. Yeah, a sword. They get ready to cut him in two with their phaser guns and—wham! They fire and the sword—”

  “—deflects the light?”

  “Deflects, hell! It sucks up the damn light! I saw those weapons. Every one was completely drained, and they’d all been recharged right before battle. We shoulda been able to shoot those things for a month without recharging. Not only that, but the guy in the robes did the same thing to a tank, too.”

  “Naw—”

  “I saw, I swear! The crew reported their instrument readings going wild, and then everything went dead. But this sword and the guy in the robes stood in front of them, glowing with this weird blue light and the last thing the crew reported was this bright flash…. There was an explosion … and then this hole in the ground; the tank blown halfway to hell—”

  The shivering Captain suddenly spoke, “Halfway. Half-man, half-horse. Hair covers their faces, but I see their eyes, horrible eyes and hooves—sharp hooves….” The Captain leaped to his feet. “They’re trampling Jamesson! Stop them! Oh, my god! They’ve got him … tearing his arms off. He …he’s still alive! My god! His cries! Shoot him! Make him stop! Make him stop!” The Captain clamped his hands over his ears, sobbing.

  “Get him out of here,” Major Boris ordered, raising his head, his attention caught at last.

  The rest of the commanders ceased their argument and fell silent, carefully avoiding looking at their broken comrade. The Major opened his mouth to call for the sergeant, whose office was in another, smaller geodesic dome attached to the main one, and it was at this point that James Boris became aware of the presence in the room of the man with the word Advisor attached to his expensive suit.

  Major Boris went cold all over, shivering nearly as violently as the poor Captain. Noting their commanders fixed and rigid stare, seeing the hands clenched upon the desk suddenly go limp, the captains looked around behind them hastily. When they saw the man watching them, they all turned back—some slower than others, Captain Collin in particular—casting uneasy glances at their Major.

  They’re losing confidence in me, James Boris realized bitterly. How can I blame them? I’m losing confidence in myself, in everything around me! His gaze went reluctantly yet inexorably to the weeping Captain. I’ll be as mad as Walters next…. I’ve got to pull myself together.

  Forcing himself to sit upright, setting his thick jaw rigidly, and thrusting out his chin, Major Boris bellowed for the sergeant.

  The door opened, the Sergeant entered. “Sir?”

  “I gave orders no one was allowed inside What is this man doing here? Did you leave your post?”

  The Sergeant looked at the visitor and his eyes opened wide, his skin took on a sallow tinge. “No, sir! I didn’t let him in, Major, I swear! I—I haven’t left my desk all night, sir.”

  The man labeled Advisor smiled.

  James Boris tensed, longing to shove the white, even teeth of that smile down the silk-necktied throat. His hand twitched in anticipation, and he was forced to clench it tightly. The Major knew well enough how Menju had gained entry; he’d seen him perform this trick earlier, just a few hours previous. Only this was no trick, James Boris reminded himself. This was no grand illusion to leave children gasping and adults shaking their heads in wonder. This wasn’t done with mirrors. It was real, at least it was as real as anything in this unreal world.

  “Never mind, Sergeant,” Major Boris muttered, noticing that his captains were growing increasingly nervous. “Send for the medics.” He made a gesture toward the hysterical Walters. “Have him declared unfit for command. I’ll promote Lieutenant … Lieutenant …” James Boris flushed. He had always prided himself on remembering the names of the officers under his command, as well as most of the enlisted men, too. Now he couldn’t recall a lieutenant, a man who’d served under him for over a year. “Confound it, whoever’s next in line, have him report here to me in”—he glanced at his visitor—“half an hour,” he concluded coldly.

  “Yes, sir,” said the Sergeant, starting back out the door.

  “Sergeant!” yelled Major Boris.

  “Sir?” The Sergeant turned.

  “Get rid of that damn tea! I never drink the stuff. You know that. Why did you bring it?”

  The Sergeant looked at the teapot with surprise. “I didn’t bring it, sir,” were the words that were on his lips. A look at his grim-faced Major, however, and he simply removed the teapot, mumbling, “Sorry, sir,” as he picked it up by its handle and carried it into his outer office.

  “Thank you, gentlemen, for coming,” James Boris said wearily. It was Rules and Regulations talking, not him. If he had to consciously think about what to say, he couldn’t have spoken a word. “I will take your recommendations under advisement. Dismissed.”

  There was the sound of metal scraping against the plastic floor as the captains rose and began to file out. They did so in silence—a bad sign, James Boris knew.

  Flicking on the computer, he pretended to be absorbed in reading something on the screen, although in reality he hadn’t the vaguest idea what he was looking at. He didn’t want to talk to any of them anymore; he didn’t want to have to face them or look into their eyes. He felt more than saw the sideways glances they gave him and he knew that they were exchanging looks with one another. Questioning, wondering.

  What will he do? Will he send for the ships? Retreat? And what were his orders anyway? Already, of course, the rumors were starting; the Major was no longer in command of the battalion…. They were being led by Menju the Sorcerer, who had seized control when the battle turned sour.

  Major Boris could hear the voice of the sergeant shouting into the field phone, attempting to raise the medics. They’d been having trouble with the phones, something about this weird, energy-laden atmosphere the techs told him. One of the captains, probably Collin, had grabbed hold of poor Walters and was leading him out. When everyone was gone, the Sergeant—still on the phone—kicked the door firmly shut.

  “Well, what do you want?” Major Boris growled, his eyes on the computer screen, refusing to look at the visitor.

  Menju crossed over to stand before his desk. The magician’s eyes were large and gleamed with disarming charm. His skin was tan, his face clean-shaven. His hair was full and thick. Combed back stylishly from a peak in the center of his forehead, its silver gray color contrasted well with his richly tanned skin. State lighting set it off most effectively. Placing the tips of his fingers on the metal, he stared down the length of his handsome nose at the thick-necked and square-jawed Major.

  “Rumor has it that you are intending to withdraw,” the man said. His voice matched his appearance—a deep, rich baritone cultivated over years of performing before live audiences.

  “And what if I do? I am still in command here!”

  Major Boris shut off the computer with an irritated motion, realizing as he did so that he had been staring at a memo he had written several months ago regarding an infraction of the military dress code by female officers. He swore softly to himself. Turning to face Menju, he burned his hand on something hot, and the swearing became louder.

  “What the devil—Sergeant!” he roared furiously.

  There was no answer. Heaving himself out of the chair, James Boris strode angrily across the floor and threw open the door “Sergeant!” he thundered. “That damn teapot—”

  There was no one there. Lifting the field phone, he held it to his ear. The static and other strange noises it was making nearly deafened him. Apparently, communications were dead now, too. The Sergeant must have gone off in search of the medics. Major Boris started to swear again, but checked himself. Swallowing his hot words, he could feel them burn all the way down, at least that’s what it seemed. Pressing his hand against his hurting stomach, he stomped back inside his office, flung himself down in his chair—without a glance at his visitor—and glared at the green teapot with th
e bright orange lid.

  “Damn it all to hell and back again! I thought I told him to take that thing out of here!”

  “So you did,” said Menju, known on theater marquees in all the major systems as the Sorcerer. Sitting casually on the desk, he was now eyeing the teapot with extreme interest. “So you did,” he murmured. “No, don’t touch it.” Reaching out a quick, slender-fingered hand, he intercepted James Boris as he was about to grab hold of the teapot and do something with it—just what the Major wasn’t certain, but he’d been considering the window.

  Menju’s strong hand closed over Boris’s wrist.

  “Let us discuss this rash retreat you are planning,” the Sorcerer said pleasantly.

  “Rash—”

  “Yes, rash. Not only in terms of your future career in the military—I am not without influence as you well know—but in terms of your life and the lives of your men. No, don’t try it, Major.”

  James Boris, his face flushed with rage, made a quick move to free himself of the Sorcerer’s grip. The smile never left the magician’s face. A sound of crunching bone brought a gasp of pain from the Major.

  “You are strong, but now I am stronger.” Menju’s hand continued to tighten on James Boris’s wrist. Furious, the Major grabbed the magician’s arm and tried with all his legendary strength to pry the man’s hand loose. He might as well have tried to bend the steel laser gun of one of his tanks.

  “Forty-eight hours ago I could have snapped your chicken-leg bones in two!” James Boris grunted through clenched teeth, staring up at the Sorcerer in anger that was—he hoped—concealing his fear. “Is this more of your … your magic!” He spit the word.

  “Yes, Major James Boris. Just as this is more of my … magic!”

  Speaking a word in a strange language, Menju lifted the Major’s hand.

  James Boris screamed, snatching his hand—or what had been his hand—free of the Sorcerer’s grasp. Laughing, the magician let go, and Major Boris fell backward in his chair, staring in horror. His hand was gone. In its place was the clawed foot of a chicken.