Triumph of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  “Isn’t there anything we can do?” asked Saryon.

  “Nothing. I don’t know what’s kept him alive this long, unless it’s his magic,” Joram replied.

  I should pray. I should say something, Saryon thought confusedly, although the idea of sending Simkin heavenward on the wings of prayer was, somehow, ludicrous.

  Easing the shivering body to the ground, the catalyst placed his hand upon the young man’s forehead. Bowing his head, he murmured, “Per istam Sanctam Unctíonem indúlgeat tibí Dominius quidquid—”

  “I say, Bald One,” came a weak, peevish voice, “could you quidquid somewhere else? Damnably annoying!”

  “Why did you do this, Simkin?” Joram asked softly.

  “E’gad!” Simkin stared up at Joram with fevered eyes. “You’ve … gone all fuzzy.” He grimaced. “Beastly sort of game this. Don’t much … fancy it…at all. Where are you, dear boy! Everything … dark…. Frightened of… dark. Where? Where are you …?” He gasped, his hand twitched feebly.

  Clasping the bloodstained hand in his, Joram held it tightly. “I’m here,” he said. “And it’s dark because you’ve got that stupid helm over your head, the one that makes you look like a bucket.”

  Simkin smiled, relaxing. “I was … fond of being a … bucket. Damn good one … too. They … never suspected, in fact. That’s how I knew….”

  “Knew what?”

  The eyes became unfocused, wandering off to stare far away into the pale, cold sun.

  “‘Brave, new world…’ Take you! Not Simkin.” A glimmer of life, of spirit flickered in the eyes. Slowly, their gaze came back, focusing on Joram. “So I … became you! Would have been … grand trick. I would have won … the game.”A spasm of pain contorted his face. Gripping Joram’s hand with his last strength, Simkin pulled him near. “Still, it’s been a jolly time … hasn’t it?” he whispered. “Jolly time—as…. Duchess d’Longville said Final words before … her last husband hanged her.

  A smile fluttered on his lips, then became fixed and rigid. The voice died away, the hand went limp. Gently, Joram placed it over Simkin’s breast, tucking the bit of orange silk in the lifeless fingers.

  “—deliqústi. Amen.” Saryon murmured.

  Reaching out, he closed the empty eyes.

  9

  There Will Be Born …

  One Who Is Dead

  Joram, I don’t understand!” Saryon, bewildered, gazed at Simkin pityingly. “What happened to him?”

  “Did you hear sharp, cracking sounds right before he fell?”

  “Yes! It was dreadful—”

  “Exploding powder, like we read of in the texts of the ancient practicers of the Dark Arts. It fires lead projectiles.” Joram’s eyes scanned the area, squinting in the sunlight. “Did you see anyone? Where did the sound come from?”

  “From over there, I think,” Saryon said hesitantly, pointing toward the edge of the mountains summit. “It was … difficult to tell. And I saw nothing.” He paused, licking his dry lips. “Joram, whoever did this to Simkin was trying to kill you.”

  “Yes. And I think we both know who it is.”

  “The Sorcerer?”

  “Of course. He’s probably hiding among the rocks there on the edge of the cliff. Though why would he use a revolver? It’s not his style.” Joram’s brows came together, frowning thoughtfully. “Why indeed?” he muttered. “Unless it isn’t him.”

  “Who else?”

  “Someone who fears not only me as Emperor but the Prophecy as well. Someone cunning enough to make it appear to be the work of the enemy.”

  “Vanya?” Saryon paled.

  Swiftly, Joram glanced around, keeping his hood pulled over his face. “Don’t move,” he cautioned, placing his hand firmly over the catalyst’s wrist. “We’ve got to think this out and right now, while whoever’s out there is confused, wondering who I am.”

  “Perhaps the killer’s gone,” Saryon suggested. “If he thinks he succeeded.”

  “I doubt it. After all, he didn’t get what he came for.”

  Joram and the catalyst both glanced at the Darksword, lying near the base of the altar stone.

  “He’ll realize his mistake and try again,” Saryon said coolly. His fear was gone In its place was an unconcerned emptiness. As in the battle with the warlock, he was detached, an observer, watching himself perform his role in this tragic farce.

  “He won’t try for a while. He saw me fall, then saw someone else arrive with the sword. This is unexpected. His plan has gone awry. He must rethink it!” Joram yanked Saryon down, huddling over Simkin’s body “Keep low!”

  “Why doesn’t he just kill us anyway? Use that … weapon on us?”

  “He will—eventually. But he hasn’t a very good aim. He fired four shots, after all, to kill one man. He’ll run out of bullets—projectiles—soon and then he’ll have to reload, if he even brought any more than what the gun holds. He’s probably Duuk-tsarith. This gives us a chance.”

  “It’s the Executioner then,” Saryon guessed “He’s the only person Vanya would trust. But I don’t understand how you can be sure it’s a warlock?”

  “Because the Sorcerer wants me alive!” Joram hissed, gripping the catalyst’s wrist with painful intensity. “Simkin was hidden in the Sorcerer’s headquarters. He heard them say they were going to take me to the brave, new world—not Simkin! He had to believe they were planning to capture me alive, otherwise he would never have dreamed up this fool scheme! This morning he came to me and tricked me into entering a Corridor. He took me to some godforsaken place, bound my hands with that wretched orange silk of his, and then he became me!”

  “He planned to go back to the Sorcerer’s world disguised as you. But why didn’t Simkin take the Darksword?”

  “He couldn’t! It disrupts his magic. The Sorcerer wants me alive—to teach him about the sword and show him where he can find more darkstone. Vanya’s the one who wants me dead. He’s the one who’s sent the killer.”

  Moving slowly and cautiously, Joram picked up the Darksword.

  “What are you doing?” Saryon asked fearfully.

  “If it is a warlock, he’s hiding behind an invisibility spell. I’ve got to drain his magic, force him out where we can see him. If I don’t, he can come at us from any direction, get as close as he wants. Then it won’t matter how well he can shoot.”

  “But if you’re wrong!” Saryon caught hold of Joram. “If it isn’t a warlock. If it is the Sorcerer trying to kill you—”

  “Per istam Sanctam, Father,” Joram answered grimly. Twisting to his feet, he raised the Darksword.

  Thirsting for Life, the weapon instantly began to drink up the magic. Saryon felt himself weaken but only slightly; as a catalyst he possessed little magic to feed the sword’s hunger. His Life was enough, however, to send tiny flickers of blue light dancing up the crude, ugly blade.

  The sword’s power grew as it absorbed more and more of the magic. The blade began to burn brighter, taking on a hot, whitish blue glow. Suddenly a streak of light arced past Saryon, coming from somewhere behind him. Striking the sword, the light sizzled, a ball of blue flame shot from the hilt to the tip of the blade. Turning, amazed, Saryon saw that the light had come from the altar stone! The rock itself was beginning to glow a luminescent blue; the symbols of the Nine Mysteries gleamed white against it. Another arc of light shot from the stone, followed by another.

  Saryon looked to Joram, to see if he noticed, but the man had his back to the altar stone. Holding the sword before him, Joram turned this way and that, staring intently into the empty air around him, searching for his enemy.

  And then the air was empty no longer. It shimmered and darkened, and a man appeared, enveloped in long gray robes. He was walking down the pathway, moving toward them under the cover of his magical spell of invisibility, and he stood no more than ten feet from them. Seeing Joram’s eyes focus on him, he realized he had been discovered. The Executioner raised his hand.

  “Father
, look out!” Joram cried.

  Saryon had no time to move or even blink. The air cracked. Dropping the Darksword, Joram staggered backward, gasping in pain. A crimson stain darkened the white sleeve of his right arm.

  The warlock made a dive for the sword, but Joram was quicker. Catching hold of it, he leaped at the Executioner, but the warlock, with the coolness and quick thinking of that highly disciplined class, resorted to his magic. Using what Life remained to him, he soared into the air, flying with windlike speed to the jumble of boulders that stood near the edge of the mountain and vanishing among them.

  Grabbing hold of Saryon, Joram hurried the catalyst to the opposite side of the altar stone, forcing him to he flat upon the broken pavement.

  “Stay down!” he ordered.

  “You’re hurt!”

  “The man’s a better shot than I gave him credit for,” Joram said grimly. Dropping the sword, he clasped his hand over the wound. Dark red blood welled up through his fingers. “The bastard must have been up practicing all night! The bullet’s lodged in my arm!” Groaning, he swore softly. “I can’t move my hand.”

  “Let me look at it—” Saryon started to sit up.

  “Damn it, Father? Keep your head down?” Joram ordered furiously. “Hold still?” He glanced back around the rock, looking toward the direction in which their foe had disappeared “We’re safe enough for now, but we can’t stay here. He’ll circle around, using those boulders for cover, and try to pick us off from another angle.”

  Joram nodded toward the Temple. “We’d be safer in there.”

  “And Gwen’s inside!” Saryon said suddenly, realizing remorsefully that in the confusion and danger he had forgotten all about her.

  “Gwen!” Joram glared at the catalyst. “You brought my wife here? You let Simkin bring her?”

  “What would you have had me do, Joram?” Saryon asked. “He was you! He was you ten years ago! Bitter, arrogant, determined to have your own way.”

  “And you forgot that I have changed—”

  “Forgive me, Joram,” Saryon faltered, “but I have seen you changing back. I’ve seen the darkness growing on you every day.”

  Leaning back against the blue-glowing altar stone, Joram sighed. Sweat broke out on his forehead, his face paled, and his jaw muscles clenched. Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, he glanced at Saryon, the bitter half-smile on his lips. “You are right, Father. It wasn’t your fault. I brought it on myself. After all, Simkin was only imitating what he knew best. And I am changing … for the worst, perhaps.” His face darkened, the forge fire flickered to life within his eyes. “But it seems I must become what I was—to save this wretched world.”

  His voice died, and he sank back against the stone.

  “Joram!” Saryon shook him, fearing he had fainted. The catalyst felt eyes watching them. Any moment he expected to hear that terrible crack. “Joram!” he said urgently. “We can’t stay here! We must reach shelter!”

  Dazedly, Joram lifted his head and nodded wearily. “You’ll have to carry the sword, Father.”

  If we left it here, perhaps the Executioner would take it and go away, was Saryon’s first, unspoken thought. The words were on his lips, but he swallowed them. No, the sword is my responsibility. I gave it Life.

  Saryon picked up the weapon.

  Slowly, Joram rose to his feet, propping himself up against the stone. “I will go first and draw his fire. Don’t argue, Father. You’ll be burdened with the sword.” The dark and pain-filled eyes turned intently upon the catalyst. “If I fall, you must promise me you’ll go on, without stopping. No, listen, my old friend. If anything happens to me, it will be left up to you. You must destroy the Darksword.”

  “Destroy it? How?” Saryon asked involuntarily.

  “How should I know?” Joram flashed impatiently. Pain made him catch his breath. He closed his eyes, pressing back against the rock. “I don’t know,” he said more calmly through ashen lips. “Cast it from the mountain, melt it down.” He smiled the dark and twisted half-smile again. “It’s what you’ve wanted to do since I first made it anyway. If I fall, go on. Do you swear? By the Almin?”

  “I swear by the Almin,” Saryon mumbled. Making a show of gathering his robes about him so that he could run more easily, he did not have to look at Joram as he spoke the vow.

  “Good!” Joram sighed. “And now,” he said, drawing a deep breath, “we run. Keep low. Ready?”

  Joram looked questioningly at Saryon. The catalyst nodded once, reluctantly, and Joram broke into a staggering run.

  Despite his agreement to let Joram go first, Saryon was not far behind him. He had only a dim notion of what was meant by “drawing fire” and it felt more natural to stay near his friend.

  As for not stopping to help Joram if he fell?

  Well, that had been a promise sworn to the Almin. A hollow vow, as far as Saryon was concerned, keeping his eyes on the white-robed figure stumbling over the uneven ground ahead of him.

  The distance from the altar stone located in the center of the wheel to the Temple, which stood on the southern edge of the wheel’s rim, had seemed minute to the catalyst—until he knew his life depended on covering that distance as swiftly as possible. Suddenly the Temple and its sheltering walls appeared to have taken a gigantic leap backward.

  Saryon ran as fast as he could, but that wasn’t very fast. He had never fully recovered his strength following his illness. Encumbered by the heavy sword and the long robes flapping around his ankles, he took only a few steps before he heard his breath wheeze in his lungs. The pavement was broken, uneven, and made running that much more difficult. More than once, Saryon felt a paving stone twist beneath his feet, causing him to slow for fear of losing his balance and falling. All the while, he kept his eyes upon his friend.

  And then Joram did fall. Tripping over a slab of broken marble, he instinctively reached out his injured arm to catch himself. It collapsed beneath his weight and he tumbled to the ground, writhing in pain.

  Grasping Joram, ignoring his snarled commands to leave him be, Saryon dragged him to his feet with a strength the catalyst couldn’t believe was left in his old, tired body. Together they kept running, reaching the nine stairs.

  A high, whining sound like the buzz of an angry hornet passed so close to Saryon’s ear that he almost swore he could feel its wings. A fraction of a second later, a part of a Temple column exploded, sending fragments of rock flying everywhere. The catalyst, in his dazed and exhausted state didn’t comprehend what it was.

  Struggling up the stairs, the two dove thankfully into the cool, shadowy confines of the Temple walls. Joram fell to the floor like one dead. Rolling over on his back, he lay with his eyes closed, his breathing quick and shallow. His right sleeve was soaked with blood. Saryon, dropping the heavy sword, sank down next to him. Only then did it occur to the catalyst that the buzzing sound had been one of the deadly projectiles. Saryon was past caring. His blood pounded in his ears. He was so dizzy he could barely see.

  Gasping for breath, he glanced around the Temple confines.

  “Gwen?” Saryon called softly.

  There was no answer, but the catalyst soon found her. Barely visible in the shifting shadows, she was sitting calmly on a broken altar at the back of the Temple, watching them with—for her—unusual interest.

  Seeing that she was apparently unharmed and thinking Joram had fainted, Saryon bent over him to examine the wound. At his touch, Joram flinched.

  “I’m all right!” Shoving Saryon’s hand away, he managed to sit up.

  “I think the bleeding’s stopped,” Saryon said hesitantly.

  “The cloth’s stuck to the wound. Don’t touch it! Where’s Gwen? Is she all right?”

  Saryon started to reply, but another voice—a strange one—answered instead.

  “Your charming wife is safe, Joram. Looney as ever, but safe. And you are safe yourself, at least for the time being.

  “Really, Joram,” the strange voice continued, sp
eaking the language of Thimhallan, “I am impressed. Once again you have returned from the dead. Have you ever considered anything in the Messiah line?”

  10

  And In His Hand

  He Holds

  A tall man in black robes stepped out of the shadows of the Temple. He was handsome, Saryon saw, with gray hair and a prepossessing smile. That smile, however, was false, the work of a well-trained illusionist. Tense and strained, the lips and facial muscles were being hard pressed to hold it in place. And though the tone of the man’s voice was glib, an undercurrent of awe and fear marred the smooth surface.

  “I truly believed you were killed, my friend,” the man said, coming to stand beside Joram, staring down at him intently. “I can see the theater billing now: Back from the Dead by Popular Demand!”

  Joram did not even look at the man, much less bother to reply. The man smiled.

  “Come, come, old friend. You survived four bullet wounds, any one of which could have proved fatal. I would appreciate knowing how you performed that trick. Was it done with a bullet-proof vest? Or perhaps….”

  He glanced at Saryon as he spoke, and the catalyst was aware of being intently studied, identified, and stored away for future use all by one quick look of the intelligent eyes.

  “…perhaps it was you who brought our friend back to life, Father Saryon. Yes, I know you. Joram has told me a great deal about you and I imagine that he has, in turn, told you a great deal about me. I am Menju the Sorcerer—a rather dramatic appellation, I admit, but it looks well on a theater marquee. And if it was you who resurrected Joram, Father, I will buy you a tent and all the folding chairs your evangelistic heart desires!”

  “If you mean did I heal Joram, I am a catalyst, not a druid.” Saryon saw the chasm of his dream yawn dark and deadly before him. He must walk carefully, cautiously. “If what you told Joram is true, you lived in this world long enough to know that catalysts have very limited powers of healing and that even druids cannot raise people from the—”